The Bedminster Chronicles, Part III

A Recap.

When we last visited the world class, super premier, bigly fabulous Bedminster Country Club I was inquiring about staging a Bar Mitzvah for my fictitious nephew Ira Cohen, a 12 year old golf aficionado. After many back and forth emails, the Club Event Director Amanda, had told me that because of Covid, our big party could only be a small party with 75 guest Max.

Naturally this was going to be sticking point. Particularly with my equally fictitious wife Ruthie. And it gave me time to let the matter marinate a little. 

To make matters even more interesting, Amanda brought in her Club Membership Director, Dana, to pitch me on all the wonderful amenities that are included in the outrageous fee to belong to one "New Jersey's finest country club", an oxymoron in its own right. Apparently the facilities are only available to club members.

Dana was quite thorough in her introductory email.

Wow, a heated pool! World class poolside dining! Theme nights for the entire family! I had to remind myself this was just me goofing on them, otherwise I would have whipped out my checkbook and gone into hock. After all, that's a lot of amenities for just $200,000 a year.

Thankfully, I got hold of my senses and responded, appropriately in character.

 

That was three days ago. And alas, it appears I might have overplayed my hand. I have not heard back from Ms. Garner or Ms. Gazi.

Maybe it was the pinochle. Or maybe it was the mention of the Sifaka Lemur from Madagascar. Note to self: no more monkey jokes.

In any case, it's worth one more shot. So I dashed this off to Amanda, hoping to get the Bar Mitzvah back on track.

It's late Wednesday afternoon as I write this and still no response from the heart of the Garden State. Sometimes that's just the way things work out in the scambaiting business.

If the adventure continues, you, dear readers, will be the first to know, meaning the staff at Bedminster will continue to be the last to know.

If not, fear not. For I received an interesting offer from the Illuminati, again, and have a live one on the hook.

Stay tuned.

This is Agent Siegel

We all know how computers and algorithms work. 

You shop for latex bedsheets or the soothing sexy sounds of Kenny G, once, and suddenly your social media feed is nothing but alternative bedding come-ons and invitations to join a weird international swath of Kenny G Facebook Groups. 

So I suppose I should not be surprised when I started noticing recruitment ads from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. In my spare time between copywriting spurts, I often find myself burrowing down various internet rabbit holes. Many times on the goings on in Washington DC. 

Moreover, my interest in the FBI is not a new one. 

Now that I'm 44 years old and some would argue in the later stages of my advertising career, I have considered various, how shall we say, exit plans. And a stint in law enforcement actually caught my fancy.

Mind you, with a bad hip and knees damaged from years of 10K and marathon racing, I have no interest in running down skels through the back alleys of Culver City. Though I wouldn't mind getting one of those snazzy FBI windbreakers pictured above.

But I could actually see myself in a war room, working with other creative imaginative minds, to piece together information and scenarios that could unravel some of the bureau's long-standing Gordian knots.

I love the idea of staring at a cork board laced with photos and red string. 

I understand that can come off as being incredibly immodest, but I truly believe the skills many of us have honed in advertising can be redirected into other fields. These include the pairing of non-sequitur competing concepts, the distilling of massive amounts of data, the understanding of social landscape, the willingness to step out of one's comfort zone and of course, the massive consumption of coffee and sometimes mind altering drugs.

Truth be told, I'm already halfway qualified. 

I already have the girthy dad bod of an older FBI agent.

I can't tell you how many times people on the street have taken one look at my thick furry mustache and asked if I was a cop.

I have no problem shaving my head to meet FBI stringent hair regulations.

And within the last week, for reasons I cannot divulge, I passed a comprehensive personal, educational, criminal and professional background check. ( I guess the "sheep incident of 1993" slipped through the cracks.)

I wonder what kind of badge they'll give me.

Planet of the Ape Tails

I am tonsorially curious.

In years past I have sported the Mohawk. The No Hawk. And Sans Hawk. If only briefly. Just long enough to make my wife say...

"what are you doing? Get back in the bathroom and shave your head the right way."

And while nothing but stubble grows on my cranium now, I am still blessed with an amazing and rapid capacity to don a 1 o'clock shadow. My beard starts growing back even before I've rinsed the lather off my face. 

Moreover, for longer than I can remember I have what many call a thick "porn stache."

So you can imagine how I perked up when articles started floating around the internet about the latest tonsorial craze to sweep the nation's jawline: The MonkeyTail.

Naturally my wife and daughters were aghast to see the MonkeyTail and equally flabbergasted when I told them of my intention to join the MT Brigade.

In all my research on monkey tailing, I could not find any instruction manual for crafting the perfect simian appendage. I think when it comes to monkey tails every man and circus freak show woman is on their own.

I'm no surgeon with a razor, nor handy with many power tools. And I've got a house full of crooked nails and poorly installed screws to prove it. So my plan is simple. 

I'm just let the chin flag flow. I'll grow my beard, and my mustache, out as much as I can. Then, when it resembles a hairy N95 face mask, I will mow down the hairs under one side of my mustache and trim the beard on the corresponding side for that full, fluffy monkey tail effect.

But I won't end there.

You see, once I turned 44 years of age my facial hair went white. Very, very white. And while I believe there are some rare monkeys in Central Africa that lack pigmentation, I don't think it's going to give me the desired effect. Surprisingly few people have ever seen the Silverback gorilla.

In which case, I will have to do what I have never done and shop the useless vanity aisle at the local Target and pick up a box of Grecian Formula™ or Just For Men™.

Who knows, maybe some entrepreneurial company is unto all this new fad and will come up with Just for Monkeytails™.

Homesapien digits, crossed.

120/80

Can you feel that?

I know you can. That is the nation exhaling and our collective blood pressure dropping away from the Coronary Death Zone. This grateful relief came at 11:49AM on January 20, 2021. Truth is, it should have occurred 3 months earlier on November 7th, when the race for president was officially called for Joseph Biden.

Instead, our America First president put America last and made us sweat out 60 plus court cases, many of those adjudicated by shady Trump appointees. 

Multiple state recounts, all no doubt, paid for by US taxpayers.

Libelous accusations lobbed against Dominion, the maker of many voting machines, who is now countersuing the braindead trumpsters who repeated their Biblical lies on National TV.

And countless flatulent appearances by Rudy Giuliani, who treated the country to a comical shit show of everything a lawyer should NOT do. I still double over in laughter when I hear mention of the Four Seasons Total landscaping.

All topped by a Torch and Pitchfork Brigade of Red Hat wearing White Trash who thought their leader commanded them to storm the US capitol in a lame attempt to topple the government of the world's foremost superpower. 

Shockingly, if not for the bravery of some, they came within a bison horn's length of seizing our legislative branch and hanging Mike Pence. Then, one must assume, they would have retreated to Golden Corral for wings and the All You Can Eat Bacon, Mac and Cheese Buffet Bar.

The mind boggles. 

But as our new, and infinitely more qualified President said, "Democracy prevailed." And the millions of men and women who valiantly gave their lives in the service of this country for the past 240 years, can resume their well-earned peaceful sleep. 

How dare these fishbrained fascist fuckers do what they did? 

Moreover, they did it all in service of a NY film flamming, grifting conman who'd never let one of these rabble rousers within a mile of his shabby shitbarn country clubs.

Of course while half the country starts sleeping regularly and cutting back on the nightly pain-go-bye-bye sauce and resumes a life of relative normalcy, 74 million of our compatriots will whine and cry and rail to the heavens about a stolen presidency and an election that was not free and fair.

And therein lies the ultimate irony.

They have no evidence of cheating. None. But they feel there was widespread fraud and election tampering. All while choosing to ignore actual, verifiable, smoking gun evidence of foul play.

At the risk of raising my blood pressure again, I have three words for these die hard Trump dingleberries who can't accept reality...

"Fuck your feelings."

 

The Bedminster Chronicles Part II

 As you may recall, last week I decided it would be a good idea to give my nephew Ira Cohen a magnificent Bar Mitzvah at ex-President Trump's exclusive Bedminster Country Club. 

You can see the correspondence here.

And for several days, I never heard back. Well the squeaky golf cart wheel gets the oil, so I tried again.

Well, that seemed to get their attention, as I heard back immediately from Amanda Gazi, the events director at this fabulously world class resort.

And while I was disappointed to hear their seating capacity was diminished because of the Democratic Hoax....er, Covid, I need little in the way of motivation to continue my pursuit.

Turns out Amanda was not clear in her response and needed to set the table straight, as it were.

Now, we're talking real problems. How do you throw a proper bar mitzvah with only 75 guests. It'll end up looking like Precedent Shitgibbon's sad farewell at JBA.

The good news is now they want to pitch me the club membership. This could get interesting.

Stay Tuned.

A note from the president

 

Donald Trump wishes his successor well.

(In case you can't read it.)

Hey Joe,

 

Hope you enjoy your stolen presidency. 

 

You know you stole it. 

I know you stole it. 

Everyone knows you stole it. 

 

But that’s ok. I got other things to do. And this job really sucks. The only thing I liked about it was calling down to the white house kitchen and getting anything, I wanted. 

 

And limitless Diet Cokes. I like my Diet Cokes.

 

And there’s free TVs, everywhere you look. I had them put one in the Oval Office Bathroom. So, I could watch Maria Bartilomonio while I was on the crapper. She’s hot, if you squint your eyes and the lighting is right.

 

I’m taking the TV with me but if you ask, I’m sure they’ll get you one. Maybe. After all, I was the staff’s favorite president. It’s true. I asked them to there face and they said, “Sir. You are our favorite.”

 

Anyway, they told me it was tradition for the President who is leaving to write a note to the president who is coming in (even if he stole it.) So, here’s your note.

 

I don’t know what your plans are. Nor do I really care. I’m going down to Mara lago and start playing golf again. And the best thing is I’ll have a full crew of Secret Service guys with me. Paying full price for golf cart rentals and paying room rates with all the amenities included. I’m telling them to hit the minibar as much as possible. 

 

$18 bag of cashews? No problem. 

$22 Toblerone bars, go for it. 

$53 room service breakfast, why not.

 

Uncle Joe is paying for it.

 

One more thing, the second dimmer switch to the left of the doorway in the Lincoln Room is a bit janky.

 

There’s my note.

 

Person Woman man Camera TV,

My New Year's Readsolution

As you can see from our rather sloppily arranged  bookshelf, we are running out of storage space for the growing number of books that have accumulated in the Siegel household.

As problems go, it's far more favorable than the other more pressing issues of the day. You know, problems that have driven so many angry white people to our nation's capitol to demand the proper redress.

"I need a haircut."

"This mask is infringing on my God-given rights."

"I miss the baby back ribs at AppleBees."

The rising value of precious real estate on our bookshelves can be largely attributed to the Pandemic. Boredom with jigsaw puzzles. The need to adjourn to separate rooms and not engage in familial bickering. 

And also the rediscovery of the joy of reading.

Though 2020 was a monstrously horrible year on so many fronts, I did have the chance to turn the last page on more books than I had in any previous year. 

This year, I've made it a goal to surpass that.

Should tomorrow's inauguration actually take place, without any further disturbances from the empty-headed Golden Corral crowd (I make no apologies for painting with the wide brush) (furthermore, if you storm our capitol and are willing to discard 240 years of democratic rule in service of a lying douchebag from Queens, NY, you deserve the derision, and then some) I will wean myself from the lure of social media and turn my time over to more reading.

I will also make a note to myself to curb my tendency towards run on sentences.

And perhaps I'll be inspired by the additional reading to get back to writing. 

Earlier in 2020 I had started writing a book about the colorful collection of Neighbors I have known and endured throughout my 44 years on this planet.

I'd like to get back to that. 

You know, if the clamorous and always-ignored dogs that surround my house would ever shut the fuck up.

The Abomination

Did you ever watch this show?

I'm ashamed to admit it but when it first aired in the thick of the Reality TV phenomena, and while my daughters were young enough to sit in the living room with their parents, I embarrassingly did.

It was, for lack of a better term, a Shit Show. 

And my red hot hatred for this man grew even hotter. Mostly for passing himself off as a businessman. 

"I'm not a real businessman, I just play one on TV."

To a 6 or 7 year old little girl, his schtick might have passed muster. Oh look, he wears a suit, people walk behind him. He sits on a throne. And everyone defers to him because his words -- the best words -- are so important.

His business acumen was, and still is, as thin as the gold plating on his 5th Ave toilet bowl. 

He knows nothing about profit and losses. Correction, he knows quite a bit about losses. He never managed inventory, distribution, manufacturing, or payroll. He was his own board of directors. And flailed every which way, dependent on his sugar and adderall intake.

I suppose you could argue he know a little about marketing, my arena of "expertise." Only because his name and his "brand" were so recognizable. But again it was all a farce. And I know this first hand because one of my unnamed clients actually made an appearance on his little Shit Show. Not for real business advice, but for exposure on national TV. 

Months later, a colleague running the creative department for a large auto company also stood next to the Donald.

Go back on YouTube and watch Season 1 and 2 (if you've got the stomach) of this flim flamming, know nothing grifter. Like the last four years, you'll see his demeanor is childish. His self absorption is without limit. And his hair, a tonsorial defiance of all the laws of modern physics.

But what you'll see most of, is his unabashed pugilism. He loves the fight. He lives for the fight. And he does everything to pit people against each other. You can imagine how orgasmic he was as the unwashed masses raided the elitists in the Capitol building, busted furniture, soiled the surroundings and exhibited the piggish behavior of a bunch of kindergartners. All on his deranged behalf.

Mostly, he pits people against each other so he can reward the alpha character and humiliate the beta. To him, that's business.

"You didn't stand up for yourself, you're fired."

"You let him walk all over you, you're fired."

"You backed down, you can never back down, you're fired."

It's Saturday morning as I write this. Four  L    O   N   G days until the Constitution takes away his toys and sends him to his room. I don't know what's going to happen between now and then. But I do know he will fight until the end.

That's who he is.

That's all he is.

Let's stage a Bar Mitzvah

Some of you may recall that last year I started a correspondence with the Club Membership Manager, Willy Ruiz, at Mara Lago. 

It was a fun back and forth that revealed the shockingly overpriced fee one must pay to be in the presence of imagined greatness at this shabby South Florida dump. And it gave me an opportunity to play footsie with an actual live person connected to Precedent Shitgibbon.

Now that it appears our esteemed leader will be heading back to civilian life and in desperate need of funds to fend off the many civil and criminal trials coming his way, I thought it would be fun to explore my roots in New Jersey.

And find out how much it would cost to put on a fancy schmancy bar mitzvah at the prestigious Bedminster Country Club.

Let the fun begin....

Dear Bedminster Receptions Manager,

My brother-in-law Irving Cohen is planning a bar mitzvah for his son Ira, who is a huge golf fan and can tell you the history of the mashie and the niblick. See pics.

MASHIE

NIBLICK

Irv, we call him Irv, has had a bit of hard luck since the China Virus hit and killed his brisket-to-go restaurant in Mahwah, next to the old Interstate Bowling Lanes. 

He wants to do the bar mitzvah at the Ramada Inn in Upper Saddle River. The place is kind of run down and there are literal holes in the carpet. 

I want to do something more special for Ira, who is a good kid, though a little awkward, if you know what I mean. 

Anyway, I've done pretty well in import/export business and would love to find out more about having the ceremony at your club. I'm about to get on a plane, can you send me details for doing something like this at the beginning of June, 2021?

Best regards,

Rich

Sterling work

I know that when people, whether they be industry colleagues or just friends and family, think of stylish design, tasty lines and a clean modern aesthetic, my name is hardly the first to come to mind. 

Not once have I passed a crowd on a busy sidewalk, you know in Pre-Covid times, and caught someone whispering, "There goes a sharp dressed man." Like my buddy Paul, I'm only seen in cargo shorts, t-shirt and flip flops. Even in the frigid month of February, compliments of my Southern California locale.

On a good day, I can name you 10 artists. 5 popular musicians. And absolutely not one iconic maker of designer shoes.

Nevertheless, I'm going to venture outside my comfort zone and introduce you to woman who is fluent in all of the above. 

Her name is Jennifer Sterling. 

Like many of the people on my Facebook/Linkedin list of friends/followers, I don't know Jennifer. 

I do know that when she posts her latest, mostly graphics in motion I find myself staring at them. Admiring the complexity turned simple. And allowing myself to become somewhat hypnotized by the flowing pixels.

It hasn't just happened once. 

It happens every time.

Her work has a certain Kandinsky meets Calder meets Bauhaus type of feel to it. And that's as far as I plan on dipping my toe into the pool of pretension.

Last week she posted the visual seen above for the Michael Graves School of Architecture. Keep in mind I've seen the concept of type turned into visual before, I think most of us have, but this one struck me as genuinely organic to the brand.

And so I felt compelled to introduce you to her work, which can be seen and experienced here.

Who knows, maybe one day I'll be on a project and be able to throw some work her way.

And if I can't, maybe you should.

I don't need a gun, I need an updated passport

Earlier this week a friend of a friend, argued on Facebook (naturally) that had German Jews armed themselves they could have effectively warded off the Nazi persecution and subsequent genocide. 

It should be added that friendship is showing some very public signs of daily fraying, just more divisiveness brought to us by the outgoing LOSER president.

The notion that personal firearms, in the hands of doctors, dentists, musicians, lawyers, scientists and Talmudic scholars could have prevented the Holocaust is gravely insulting at best. Sounds like someone ought to stop depending on Quinton Tarantino movies for their history lessons.

It also displays a glaring ignorance of the slow moving rise of the Third Reich. German National Socialists did not come to power overnight and suddenly decide, these hardworking, often successful people who had been living in Eastern Europe for centuries and made mighty contributions to civilized society, have got to be rounded up and exterminated. Immediately.

So when, I asked this clueless ammosexual clod, when should my ancestors have started locking and loading?

In the early 1920's when anti-Jewish songs could be heard in any beer hall, from Frankfurt to Munich? 

In the early 1930's when the Nazis came to power, in a very legal and binding manner, and started passing race related laws?

In the late 1930's when propaganda and the incitement ("It's gonna be wild", "Stand back and stand by" and "Very Fine People") to violence came from the highest offices in the land? 

When exactly should these butchers and bakers and candlestick makers have taken out their pea shooters and unloaded on the most militarized nation on the face of the planet? When should the 475, 000 Jews in Germany have turned on the 67 million who had been whipped up to a murderous frenzy?

He did not have an answer. Just a glib deflection reflecting his glib, "Have gun will solve any problem" attitude.

If I sound mad, it's because I am. 

I am still shaken from the events of last week. And my blood boils with the revelation of more and more video coming from our modern day American Putsch. Including some "very fine people", inside our nation's capitol screaming in unison, "Hang Mike Pence, Hang Mike Pence". 

Moreover they brought the rope and handbuilt galley to do so.

And if that were not bad enough, you have dedicated seat warming Red Hats, who didn't board the busses for the DC rally but have no problem minimizing, deflecting or otherwise condoning this unAmerican Bullshit from afar.

Last week my love of America was diminished.

Because last week I got a good hard look at many of my fellow Americans. 

Hail Trumplandia

President Donald J. Trump, loser of the 2020 presidential election, proudly proclaimed that he has purchased Greenland. 

The leveraged buyout, with laundered money from Russia and Saudi Arabia, was facilitated by Deutsche Bank, who will retain a minority stake in the newly renamed country.

Mr. Trump, who will go by the moniker Supreme King Most Handsome Man in the World, announced the sale from the West Wing of the White House.

"I don't need these losers in America. I have my own country now. And guess what, it's bigger and badder than any of those puny United States. I'm looking at you Georgia."

Pressed for details about his new country, Mr. Trump reverted to a line that was often heard during his American presidency, "We're still hammering out the details. We'll see what happens."

But the ex-president was clearly enthused and was eager to taunt the man who had beaten him just several months ago.

"This place is fantastic. It's beautiful. Not the shithole you got Joe. All our cities Nuuk, Sisimut and Qaqortoq, that's a terrible name, we gotta change that Kellyanne, put that on my list, are on the coastline. I'm talking fabulous ocean views. Every which way you look. Hell, even the shitters have ocean views. Jared is already working on a plan to build fantastic luxury condos up and down the coast (looks at map) both coasts. From (looks at notes) Llulissat to Narsaq. Who comes up with these fakakta names?"

At one point during the press conference, former President Trump unveiled the new Trumplandia flag. 

Asked about the Stars and Stripes motif, "Our people looked into it and it turns out there's no trademark or copyright on the design, so we borrowed it. Incredible isn't it? 

"And no other country in the world has a face on it. Isn't that right Mick? Where's Mulvaney?" Ivanka whispers in Mr. Trump's ear, who appears surprised about Mulvaney's disappearance.

It was also clear that Trump, who lost the recent US election in a landslide, had a lot to learn about his new island nation. When shown a map, he was shocked to discover more than 90% of the land mass is covered in ice. Which might disrupt his plans to start building his many planned golf courses.

"We're gonna melt all that ice and see what's under there. It's like when you buy a new house and you go to tear up the carpet, hoping to find some beautiful old hardwood floors. We're gonna get rid of this useless ice and I gotta feeling, and Don Jr. and Eric agree, we're gonna find treasure under there."

The entire Trump clan was buoyed by the prospect of the move which will give their father an opportunity to rule without the pesky and oftentimes messy constitutional constraints facing democratic leaders.

When asked about Melania and Barron, Trump simply responded, 

"Yeah, they're not coming."

With that, the ebullient former leader of the United States of America, who humiliatingly lost the last election, closed up his green binder and exited the stage. 

Perhaps for the final time on US soil.

The Fighting Irish

Recognize this place? Probably not. Even if I tell you the name, I suspect most of you will scratch your head and spend a few seconds trying to pronounce the name correctly.

This is Donegal. Actually County Donegal, as the locals call it. The locals being the few and hearty people who live on the most northwestern corner of Ireland. It's north of Northern Ireland, south, though not too far south, of the Arctic Zone and about million miles away from a certified dentist. 

I bring up County Donegal because recently the good folks at 23andme brought it to my attention. 

Since doing their ancestry test a couple of years ago, I get regular updates from the 23andme people. Being in the marketing game I understand it's all part of a plan to keep me engaged and to sell me some of their more obscure services:

For $19.95 we can tell you why you gag on broccoli.

Nevertheless I do appreciate the updates, including the ever-growing list of 5th and 6th cousins that look like the folks that always got picked last for the high school athletic teams.

In the latest update I was told that due to further advancement in genome composition my DNA breakdown changed. 

It was now updated to read:

48.1% Ashkenazi Jew

51.3% British Isles

My father was from the Bronx and my mother was from Glasgow, so I'm not sure why it's not a 50/50 split. But even more intriguing was the new data that showed I had considerable lineage from Ireland. More specifically, from the County Donegal.

Faith and Begorrah, laddie.

Naturally, I did a little more digging into life on this most remote part of the Irish Isle and came away with the distinct impression that the place is cold. 

Really. Fucking. Cold.

Keep in mind I spent 4 glorious years in Syracuse, New York, "Snowiest City in America." And at the urging of my two daughters once took the family to Europe in the middle of December. And almost got frostbite on my oversized nose while walking the brick-laden streets of Edinburgh. 

I don't know how those people live there, but the stinging rain and bone-bending wind go along way to explain why so many of them are uncorking the whiskey before noon.

In any case it's always exciting to discover a new line of ancestry. And it gives me an excuse to waste less time on Trump memes and more time discovering the wonders of County Donegal.

Who knows, maybe I'll even take the family there.

In summer, of course.

A few choice words on HATE

You'd think that on this fine January 6th, my wife's birthday, I'd have some loving words for the world. (I'll keep that private)

You'd think that on this January 6th, the day President Elect Biden is officially announced by the 117th Congress, I'd have some celebratory words for the world. (Let's hope this Congress remembers their oath to the Constitution)

But instead, I'd like to put forth a case for HATE.

As many readers of this blog know, my hatred for the current cockwomble in the White House burns hotter than a billion suns. Not our sun, which though large and really hot, particularly if there's a Santa Ana wind, I'm talking about the big suns.

Like that fucking hot.

Moreover, this searing hot hatred of mine, and it should be yours, is brimming with righteous justification. Not because of his actions of the last four years, but just what he has done in the last four weeks.

Set aside his violation of Federal Elections laws and the Stormy Daniels debacle.

Ignore his inveterate presidential lying that officially kicked off on Day One and the infamous "my crowd was bigger" affair.

Brush off the illegitimate claims of creating the best economy ever, despite never topping 3% GDP growth or bettering Obama's economy in any form or fashion.

And then, if it's possible, wipe clean the slate of all the colossal clusterfucks this diabolical douchebag has inflicted on this country: 

Russian interference with the 2016 election

Obstruction of Justice

The Muslim Ban

Appointment of unqualified judges (see Matthew Spencer Peterson)

Kicking people off Obamacare

Enabling Kim Jong Un

Bowing down to Vladimir Putin

Dropping the Covid Meat in the Dirt

etc., etc., etc., etc., ad nauseam

FORGET ALL THAT

Let's just take it from November 7th, the day the presidential race was called and Joe Biden was announced the new President Elect.

Captain Assnapkin was unable to muster up the humility to accept the loss. My daughters, who are sometimes given to excessive melodrama, have far more character. 

I hate him for that.

Grandpa Ramblemouth then accused our new President with cheating and skullduggery without a shred of evidence to back up his scurrilous charge. 

I hate him for that.

Retreating to his room to pout, and scheme, and whine, and then pout some more, Precedent Shitgibbon seemed to forget that in the shadow of this landslide electoral loss (306- 232) 20 million Americans have contracted Covid. And more than 350, 000 of our fellow citizens lost their lives. Not once has he ever addressed this deep hole in the American soul, that he dug with a shovel that is covered in blood. No hospital visits. No funerals attended. Not a single word of empathy. But lots of feet-stuck-in-cement dancing.

I hate him for that.

And now, with vaccines sitting in cold storage, and more and more Americans contracting the virus everyday, including my sister-in-laws family, he mocks Dr. Fauci. He fails to address the urgency of wearing a mask. And instead of hunkering down in the Situation Room with his top CDC and NIH advisors to undo the bottlenecks and speed up delivery of these lifesaving shots, he chooses to invite thousands of people to super spreader rallies in Georgia and encourages White Supremacist agitators to fill the streets of Washington DC.

I hate him for that.

But perhaps most galling is the fact that with 14 days left and the opportunity to "act" presidential at least once, this worthless, narcissistic, inhuman fat fuckknuckle opts to do this...

Yeah, I hate him.

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Editorial Note: this blog was written before we heard the criminal phone call with Georgia Secretary of State and his lame attempt to steal an election while whining about someone else stealing an election. God I HATE this fucker.

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Editorial Note #2: this blog was written before mobs of thugs and white trash political numbnuts, egged on by Captain Assnapkin, stormed the capitol building and tried to grab the pussy of Democracy.

F U C K  T R U M P ! ! ! 

Juaquin.

 

To be clear, I am an easy laugh. 

I like to think I don't laugh at dumb, schmaltzy shit, but for the most part it doesn't take much to make me laugh. This blog is the best proof of that. I will often find myself rereading what I just wrote and then have to pull myself out of a fit of laughter. 

My wife and daughters will attest to that.

"Where's Dad?"

"He's in his office laughing at his own shit again."

All that said, I am unapologetically a fan of the Progressive Insurance commercials, where Dr. Rick coaches a bunch of 30-50 year olds who are slowly becoming their parents. Maybe because as a 44 year old, I too have slipped into some of the habits they mock.

As an advertising message I have no idea how any of this will get me to consider Progressive Insurance. I've been with Allstate and my responsive Allstate agent Larry Goldberg in Santa Monica (you're welcome Larry, Happy New Year) for many many years. And there isn't a thing in the world that would make me go through the tzuris of switching. 

The paperwork, the phone calls and the fear of the unknown preclude all that. Just as I would never switch where I bank, even after repeatedly getting boned in the butt by the thieving imbeciles of Wells Fargo, who just last week uncashed a paycheck because it was made out to Richard and not Rich.

Fuck Wells Fargo.

But as a piece of TV entertainment that I cannot avoid watching during the broadcast of a live football game, these new Progressive spots are the tits. Do people still say that? Or am I going to get letters and nasty comments from my 3 woke readers?

If you watched any college football or even the pro games broadcast last weekend, you have no doubt seen these. They are so well written and so well acted they bear a repeated viewing.

Here's the 45 second version.

I particularly like the 15 second addendum to the spot that you won't see on TV. 

Why? Because it uses that additional time in a highly organic manner, that surprises and rewards the viewer. Moreover it does it in a way that avoids the pimping and the hard sell. Clients need to learn the concept of restraint and the soft sell.

Ok, this post didn't have me laughing at my own writing. But this line from the spot kills me. Kills me.:

"Juaquin."

Go back and watch the video again.

A fresh start

 Happy New Year everybody.

How cathartic is that? Everything feels completely different. 

Except we're still stuck in our homes. We're still not showering regularly. We're still wearing T-shirts and flip flops. We're still masking up every time we leave the house (my daughters and wife mask up every time I use the bathroom). People are still dieing by the thousands. And our fascist dictator is still trying to set fire to the Constitution.

One thing is noticeably different, I'm unemployed again. 

For the last 8 months I had been permalancing at Dollar Shave Club. My gig there ended at the stroke of midnight on December 31st. And though I had been reluctant to talk about it --mostly for fear of running afoul of their legal team -- it was a bit of a Cinderella story.

In short, a great, great chapter in my cobbled-together, less-than-impressive career as an underachieving copywriter. 

As most of you know, Dollar Shave Club places a premium on humor. The company was literally hatched and launched into our pop culture by a YouTube video that went viral before going viral was even a thing. 

You can see CEO, and genuinely funny guy, doing his thing here. 

There wasn't a day that went by, thanks to thousands of Zoom calls, that we weren't laughing hysterically and tossing about great ideas that would blow up the ad world. 

In fact, I got to partner with two great creatives, Matt Orser, who I worked with at RP& and the thunder from down under, CCO Matt Knapp, on some really fun projects, which again I cannot talk about. But will in due time.

Of course when Flying Spaghetti Monster closes one door he/she/it often opens another. And in my case then exclaims, "Good god man, what have you been eating? Light a candle, damnit."

In the last three weeks I've done projects, for separate agencies, for two of the kids -- now Creative Directors -- who used to work for me. As well as a Japanese production company who, for reasons still unknown, chose my name out of the millions of freelance copywriters to help on an assignment. 

I have done several projects for Japanese agencies. And I must say I find it very refreshing. Particularly the professional courtesies and respect rarely afforded freelance copywriters. 

Suffice to say, I am entering this new year with a sense of buoyancy, perhaps unwarranted. 

In three weeks we will have a new president, barring any nuclear conflagration or any internal insurrections. Vaccines will soon be coursing through our veins. And with any luck I will soon be applying my ample supply of Dollar Shave Club products to my face, head, back and shoulders, ready to climb out of my self imposed hermitic state.

And until one of the many irons, I have in the fire, pans, out, I am at your disposal for any and all freelance work. 

As long as it doesn't interfere with my on-retainer work for Harry's House of Catheters.