I'm Matt Champagne. Watch me type things at you.
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“YOUR REVIEW OF THAT REVIEW OF THAT REVIEW OF “GIRLS” WAS AWESOME!”
Hey, you guys! I finally got a chance to check out the premiere of the negative blog reviews for the new HBO series Girls. Well, shucks! Don’t mind if I do weigh in! Here’s just a brief run-down of some of this first season’s crispier blogisodes about Girls! (SPOILER ALERT: People didn’t like it!)
SnarkyPants101 who writes for Yakker, said this:
Lena Dunham’s character Hannah has all the poise of a prostrate platypus on sabbatical! Next!”
Way to stick to your guns, Snarky! You decided on the letter P and committed to it! You thought: “I will not give up until I arrive at three pejorative (hey, that’s a P word too!) words that all start with P to describe what I hate about the main actress on this show, and I’ll use my thesaurus if I have to!” It’s that kind of passion I’m looking for in a negative TV blogger! I can’t wait to see what you’ll hate…next! (Get it? You said “Next!” in your blog and then I just referred back to it in mine! See, I wanna not get paid to hate TV too! Oh wait! I’m already doing that! Kinda! Never mind!)
PeeOnTwee672, at the always challenging ShitSpring, dropped these sweet little nothings about HBO’s new show:
“If I ran into any of the girls on Girls in real life, I’d probably run screaming the other way!”
Really, Pee? If I ran into any of the girls on Girls in real life, I’d probably say: “Hey! What’s it like to be a series regular on a TV show?” Also, thanks for using the phrase “girls on Girls.” Because now I have a boner. Or, as they might say on Girls, an “erec-sh.”
Super Assanova471, who blogs for the painstakingly critical BrainSpork, took the show to task for something quite specific:
“Oh thank God! Mumblecore on HBO! What a delight! (Can you tell I’m being sarcastic?)”
I can now, Assanova! I love it when you young scamps start droppin’ terms I not only don’t know but also don’t ever in a million years need to know! I don’t know what Mumblecore is and I don’t wanna know. I’ve decided what it is. It’s the unofficial fifth house of Hogwarts. Right? Mumblecore’s wizards are known for low-budget stammering, low-energy whining and an aggressively precious low-impact admiration for ironic racism. More evil than Slytherin. Am I right? (Don’t answer!)
ThroneBone73, typing from the inner sanctum of DoucheNuzzle, had this to say about the four lead actresses on Girls:
“So deez bitches be all related to famous peeple and shit. Who give fuck bout them. PEEEECE!”
You got me there, Bone. Who indeed do give fuck bout them?
(By the way: Me? Never seen Girls.)
I remain
Champagne
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MONOLOJISM
One of the many reasons I like hanging out with comedians more than actors is this: When I’m hanging out with comedians, it’s a pretty safe bet that none of them will suddenly declare: “Hey, guys? Just so you know, I’ve decided to become a monologist.”
After asking someone “What do you do?”, it’s quite a daunting challenge to find yourself immediately stabbed with the answer “Oh, I’m a monologist.”
We live in L.A. and we’re surrounded by people all trying to do the same show bizzy things and I ask you “What do you do?” and there’s a whole bunch of stuff you don’t say. You don’t say: “I’m an actor.” You don’t say: “I’m a performance artist.” You don’t say “I’m a writer/performer” nor “I’m a performer/writer” nor “I’m a theatre-maker” (I did hear that once) nor “I do one-person plays.” You, instead, swing for the fences and—armed with more courage than someone who admits they love origami—say: “I’m a monologist.”
Being a monologist is not a manly thing, yet it still takes balls to say you are one. Is there any way for someone to say “I’m a monologist” and not be met with different variations of the response: “Huh?”? All the times I’ve heard some intense wag wearing a black turtleneck say that he’s a monologist, the reactions range from the aforementioned “Huh?” to “What?” to “Oh.” to “What is that?” to “Can we maybe not be friends?”
To be clear: I’m not railing against what monologists do. My beef is with the word itself. It’s problematic on three levels, the first of which you may have noticed in simply reading thus far: its pronunciation. “Monologist.” Do we go with the hard G or the soft G? I’ve used the word here more than several times thus far and I bet each time your eye gets assaulted by its unfortunate existence, you have an annoying debate with your brain on exactly how you’re supposed to say the fucker. See, the glitch lies in that pesky last syllable of the word. “GIST,” or “JIST?” I believe the former to be the lesser of the two evils, but the word still sounds like it was made up just yesterday. It’s always sounded weird. But you’re almost forced to use the hard G option since no one really wants to say: “Mon-ol-o-JIST.” Because you know where that leads us! We’re gonna start describing euphemisms and turns of phrase in your memorized speech as “monolojisms.” But, now that I think of it, that at least might be funny. Though you won’t think so. Because you’re a monologist.
The second level is the spelling. Did you know that you can also spell it “monologuist?” That’s right! You thought picking the right presidential candidate was a no-win situation. Imagine flip-flopping between “monologist” and “monologuist.” It’s like being forced to choose between “douche” and “super douche.” Is there a bleaker world than the one in which our options are “monologist” or “monologuist?” If those are the choices you’re offering, I want there to be a third alternative: a huge gun for me to eat.
The third level that irks me is what the word suggests about the person who insists on using it to describe what they do. What’s wrong with “writer/performer?” Or just “actor?” Seriously. When you say “monologist” instead of “actor,” you’re telling me there’s more to what you do than most people think. And I guess that’s true. You’re willing to ask people to refer to you as a monologist. And that’s very brave. It takes a lot of courage to have your girlfriend introduce you to her dad with: “This is Brian. He’s a monologist.” Any woman’s father worth his salt should immediately respond with: “What the hell is that, Brian?” even if the dad already knows what it means. Hell, especially if the dad already knows what it means; you should be made to explain yourself. And I guess it’s not enough for you to sufficiently freak him out with just “actor?” You’ve just gotta to ramp up the bullshit with “monologist,” huh? At that point, you might as well thoroughly seal your fate and insist that her dad spell it “monologuist.” Right there in front of you. With a scroll and quill, of course.
Keep doing your one-person shows, but stop calling yourself a monologist. Please. It’s a troublesome, terrible term. Here are some alternative suggestions for the word:
—Stage Jerk
—Theatre Monkey
—Proscenium Ponce
—Speechifier
—Art Fuck (Named after the thoroughly unfamous monologist Arthur Fuck.)
—Black-Shirted Blowhard
—Water-Drinking Jack Hole
I remain
Champagne
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LIE TO YOUR FRIENDS.
I’m looking through my closet the other day, wondering what the hell I’m gonna do with all those VHS tapes, and I see it at the bottom. Beyond Balderdash. Taking Balderdash up a notch, know’m sayn’? I haven’t played that game in a long time. It’s the one where someone reads a word, date, acronym, film title or person’s name and then you write down a made-up identification for it in the hopes to fool your opponents that what you made up is real. Bullshitting your friends, basically. Great fun. I open this box, this box of Beyond Balderdash, for the first time in—I don’t know—ten years or something, and inside are all these old pieces of paper from old games long ago, with fake answer after fake answer scrawled on them, written by old Orange County friends I haven’t seen in years. I read through them and still can’t decide which ones are fake. They’re all so plausible! Here are some:
***
June 4, 1937: Kaiser Wilhelm’s wife dies of dropsy. (Pretty sure I wrote this. I still think the word “dropsy” sounds funny.)
RFC: Rand Foundation Committee (RAND, not “Randy”) [and then an arrow pointing to that with a notation that says: “Do Not Read Aloud.”] (My friend Mike wrote this one. I need to call him.)
Hyclomania: a trend involving glow sticks and swinging couples in the ‘70’s. (Sounds like a condition caused by excessive walking.)
[I found five different options for a movie called One Wish Too Many.]
One Wish Too Many: the porn movie where John Bobbit wishes, to no avail, for his penis to work again. (I love how it’s the porn movie, not a porn movie. Like: “You know, it’s that one porn movie! You know the one!”)
One Wish Too Many: holiday film in which a young boy is given the ability to grant wishes without realizing he has the ability to bring his family out of poverty. (And that’s the end of the movie?)
One Wish Too Many: A priest discovers that young Sister Alphonze is really a man…in search of a miracle… (How did he not know that a nun named Sister Alphonze was a man?)
One Wish Too Many: an old genie comes out of retirement to grant just one more wish… (Morgan Freeman can’t not do this one! Right, Hollywood? I know you’re reading this! With all eight of your eyes!)
One Wish Too Many: a genie falls in love with a woman who releases him from an urn. (Alternate title: “Hey, Nice Ash!”)
The Last Volcano: Bomba, “the jungle boy,” fights greedy African guides who are searching for buried treasure. (I’ll say it: I wrote this one. Yeah. I wrote “the jungle boy.” And, as you can see, capitalized neither “jungle” nor “boy.” That’s really the most offensive thing about it. I would blame my insensitivity on being young, but I really wasn’t that young. I was probably like twenty-seven. But “jungle boy” doesn’t have to mean what you think it means. There can be all kinds of jungle boys. Right? Just say: “Right.”)
Someone To Remember: A woman with Alzheimer’s desperately tries to remember which woman in a police line-up is her daughter. (What if that’s the whole movie? This woman standing in a precinct viewing room going: “Um…I don’t know…wait…um…” And then a half hour later she goes: “Oh, I know!” and you think it’s gonna get good, and then she goes: “Oh, wait a minute…shoot.”)
Papillote: the chrysalis discarded by an emerging butterfly. (I thought Papillote was the all-female musical version of Papillon.)
Prunella: prune-flavored soft drink. (Everyone knows Prunella was one-half of the snack-based, female comedy duo Nutella and Prunella.)
Hyclomania: abnormal love of wood. (I believe this one. I really do.)
I remain
Champagne
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“HERE WITH THE STORY IS NPR CORRESPONDANT SALACIOUS CRUMB.”
Here’s a fun game with no main stream value but you should try it anyway: Take the name of your favorite NPR news correspondent and replace it with the name of a character from Star Wars. It still sounds like NPR. Let’s do it!
***
“The anti-secrecy group WikiLeaks began publishing on Monday more than five million emails from a U.S.-based global security analysis company that has been likened to a shadow CIA. Here with the story is NPR correspondent Bib Fortuna.”
Bib Fortuna, as you know, was Jabba the Hutt’s…I don’t know, butler? Assistant? Attaché? He answered the door. I know that. Apart from being the major-domo, I don’t know what Bib’s day-to-day obligations were at Jabba’s castle, but I doubt he was moonlighting as a public radio correspondent. Although with that name, he could have, as long as he interviewed for the job over the phone. Bib should not interview via Skype. If I’d never seen Return Of The Jedi and was listening to NPR and heard one of their correspondents was named Bib Fortuna, I would not bat an ear. (Can you bat an ear?) Bib Fortuna sounds like the name of a Dutch master’s student in journalism who occasionally gets calls from Terry Gross for updates on what’s going on with the fish population in his local river.
***
“The blue grass/jazz fusion craze in Reykjavik, Iceland is one of the most unusual music scenes in the world. Sometimes called “lava lo-fi” for its live performances taking place on the lip of an active volcano, the sound has been described by many as ‘hot.’ Here with more about this new cultural trend is NPR correspondent Wedge Antilles.”
Wedge Antilles, as you know, was Luke Skywalker’s friend and, as you know, the only Rebel pilot who survived both attack runs on both Death Stars. That’s hard! The only thing harder than that is pretending you like weird music from far away places and talking about it on public radio.
***
“The preponderance of negative campaign ads at election time is par for the course. Today’s politicians must decide not only how to react to them but also how to participate in them. Here with an analysis of this all too familiar political tactic is NPR correspondent Count Dooku.”
Perfectly plausible! If I didn’t know shit about Revenge Of The Sith, I would not question for a moment that there was some guy named Count Freakin’ Dooku workin’ for NPR! It is perfectly reasonable to imagine getting the news read to me on the radio by a Count Anything! Sounds more like a d.j., actually. “Come on back at midnight for Spin Hits hosted by Count Dooku and his trusty band of ol’ 45’s.”
***
This works the other way too. Take the name of a Star Wars character and replace it with the name of an NPR correspondent!
***
“I like the part in Star Wars when Luke and Obi-Wan go into that bar and start getting hassled by that one deformed guy in the rags. What’s his name? Oh yeah! Audie Cornish!”
Audie sounds like it could be George Lucas’ dog.
***
“Of all the bounty hunters that Darth Vader gathers before him, my favorite is by far Kajon Cermak.”
Kajon Cermak sounds like a bulky, hunched-over henchman from the farthest reaches of the galaxy, armed with a lazer machine gun perched on each shoulder and a silver ball bearing for a right eye.
***
And finally:
“I love that part in The Empire Strikes Back where they all get taken on a tour of Cloud City by Lando Calrissian’s assistant, Kai Ryssdal.”
I remain
Champagne
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“SPEAK UP, GUYS.”
Killing time between two cancelled shows in Claremont last month, I’m flanked by two different conversations in a bar. On my right, two guys talking about gold futures, economic freedom and Fox News. On my left, two guys talking about the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Seriously.
I wish I could cancel both these conversations the way both of my shows will be cancelled tonight. At this point I only know one of them has been cancelled, but, now that I look back on it—even using the present tense—I should know that getting shoehorned between two of the most unappealing exchanges in the history of talking is the biggest, doomiest omen for what can only be a rough, disappointing night ahead. I’m by myself (because that’s my jam) and right as I sit down I hear them, so right as I hear them I know I’m in a place where the sun don’t shine; it’s that dark. But we’re all so close—the five of us, though we’re not together—that I can’t not hear. I take my 2007 Tréo out and transcribe them as best I can: the guys on my left and the guys on my right, back and forth, a little here, a little there.
***
On my left: “Jesus told them to pray. And that’s what they did.
On my right: “Now I make a hundred thousand dollars a year.”
On my left: “The Holy Spirit is everywhere.”
On my right: “I love Fox News. It’s like, you can’t escape it.”
On my left: “The Father’s acceptance of me has absolutely nothing to do with how I perform.”
On my right: “So now they’re just another welfare drain on the government.”
On my left: “No one would argue that Jesus didn’t have the Holy Spirit in him when he started his ministry.”
On my right: “Why would someone invest in a company that wasn’t trying to maximize profits? Why would I invest in that?”
On my left: “And the oncoming Rapture is certainly one way of looking at that.”
On my right: “And the next Meltdown is gonna be an example of that.”
On my left: “And the sinners among us will know what we mean but only when it’s too late for them.”
On my right: “I don’t give anything to charity at all. I hate charity. I don’t like giving something for nothing.”
***
Here’s the thing: Both of these conversations? Deeply religious.
I remain
Champagne
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AN OPEN LETTER TO MODELS WHO WANNA TRY STAND-UP
Hey, pretty women! Sorry to take you away from touching up your headshots, buying underwear and banging your boyfriends, but I understand that some of you wanna try stand-up! Cool! Go for it. Slink those perfectly proportioned hips onto that stage, grab that mike with those meticulously moisturized, lily-white hands and let her rip, girl. But before you go where many models have fleetingly and half-heartedly gone before, how would you like some tips from a guy who doesn’t even make his living at stand-up comedy and is quite sexually inadequate? Great! Here they are:
* Don’t talk about how tough it is to get a date.
Seriously. Don’t do it. We know the second you walk on stage that you’re a model. We can all see it. We also know—and I mean know—that the first thing you’re gonna talk about is how hard it is to get a date. How do we know that? Because every model before you who’s tried stand-up comedy has talked about it. The second I see an inappropriately pretty girl on a stand-up comedy stage, I look down at my watch and count the seconds before she takes out a violin to guide us through the trials and tribulations of not being able to find a dude. It’s almost as if you guys went to The Academy Of Stand-Up Comedy For Models and got told by some jag-off that the key to connecting to an audience is talking about how tough it is to be beautiful and single. In the words of fellow comic Robert Yasamura: “If you’re a model and you’re having a tough time getting a date, ask someone.”
* Talk about how pretty you are.
Seriously. Do it. Tell jokes about how great it is to be hot. Make jokes about how sweet your life is because of how beautiful you are. I’m serious. Make jokes about all the places you travel to because you’re hot, all the people you get to meet because you’re hot, all the things you get to do because of the way you look. In fact, the first thing you say into that mike should be this: “Hello, ugly people! What’s it like to not be pretty?” Talk about how pretty you are and talk about how pretty you know you are. And then talk about how pretty the audience isn’t compared to you. I would honestly find that hilarious. If a model did that as her act, it would completely turn me around.
* Admit that the only reason you’re doing stand-up comedy is because it’s an assignment from your acting teacher.
We’ll know where you stand if you tell us this. We’ll also know that you’ll be quitting after two more weeks and such information will be greatly appreciated. If you’re sleeping with your acting teacher—as many models do—admit that too. (That reminds me: I should become an acting teacher.)
* Don’t tell your guy friend who comes with you to the open mike that you’re not gonna fuck him.
Oh, there’s no way you’re gonna sleep with him, but don’t ever let him know that. Because if it weren’t for him, no one would be laughing at your stories of how grueling it is to hang out at the Playboy Mansion. Keep him guessing. Keep him around. You’ll eventually quit stand-up, but you’ll still need him to help you move into your acting teacher’s house.
* Contact me at your earliest convenience for further, intimate one-on-one advice. Make it quick though because you’ll be quitting soon.
I remain
Champagne
AN OPEN LETTER TO THAT GUY AT SEPULVEDA AND BURBANK
Okay. What is it? What’s your secret? I wanna know.
You are forty-seven. You are sitting in what appears to be a 1968 Toyota 2000 GT Convertible. You are waiting for the red light to stop being red so you can go. You are smoking a cigarette. You are listening to “Ship of Fools” by Robert Plant. It’s really loud. You know all the words. And right at the first break after the first chorus, you raise your hands high to air guitar the solo. And never has the term air guitar been more apropos, for your hands are quite airborne, sir, lifted up against the dark of night, your fingers twitching in time to this song you love way too much, your cigarette clamped tight in your shit-eating grin of a mouth.
How the hell are you so happy? In the Valley, too? What did you do? Who are you?
I just came from taping a podcast where I talked about nothing but my fears for an hour, and here you are: the least fearful man on the planet. In fact, I’d be so bold as to say you are fear-free. When that light goes green, your good cheer will lift your vintage car off the street and send it sailing into the black sky. Any man as happy as you has no need for roads. What you’re high on I gotta get on.
This all sounds like a come-on, don’t it? Sounds like I got a crush, doesn’t? Look: I don’t wanna have sex with you, but I do wanna have sex with your happiness! I envy your happiness! That’s all I know! If that’s what a crush is, then I guess I got one. You’re the happiest thing I’ve seen in weeks, man. Jeez. I just re-read everything I’ve written so far and, what the hell is this? A goddamned missed connection? Now I’m thinking about what I would’ve said if I had had the courage to make small talk. “Excuse me…uh…what kind of car is that?” And then you would’ve been like: “What?” And then I’m all: “You car it’s…nice. What kind is it?” And then you’d tell me and look all annoyed. And then I’d be desperate and try again with: “Is that Led Zeppelin?” And you’d scoff at me and go: “Robert Plant” and then the light would go green and you’d be gone.
I bet my small talk with you would’ve been just as bumbling as my small talk with any strange attractive woman; I can’t even have good small talk with people I don’t wanna fuck.
I remain
Champagne
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I GOT THREE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE POSTS, BUT A JOB AIN’T ONE.
And that’s it. That’s a year. August 5, 2010 I started blogging in earnest here on Tumblr. Once a day, at least three hundred words a day. Three hundred words a day ain’t a lot. I don’t think so. When I missed a day, I would write two for the next day to make up for it. Just wanted to see if I could do it. And looks I did it. “You gonna turn all that into a book?” a friend asked me. “No,” I immediately said. “No. I’m not.” There’s no plot, no through-line. Other than all of them being written by me, the posts largely don’t have much in common. As I look back on the thee hundred and sixty-five posts from the past year, I do notice this: my acting career took a hit. Maybe if I had fucked around a little less with my stupid blog, I would’ve booked some new acting work. With the exception of a small part in a friend’s low-budget movie I shot in Detroit near Christmas time, I didn’t book one new job. In the year I’ve been doing this blog, I earned money from old ones, but booked no new ones (other than that Detroit one). And why is this the first time I’ve thought about that? Why is this the first time I’m drawing a correlation between the two? Do I really think that the devotion to this “Remain Champagne” Tumblr blog had nothing to do with the fact that I haven’t booked a commercial in a year? Do I really think that it’s just a coincidence that while I insisted on posting at least three hundred words a day for a year I was also not getting hired to do the thing I’ve been doing to support myself for over fifteen years now? How could I not see that? I got three hundred and sixty-five posts, but a job ain’t one.
So, no more of this blogging every day thing. And my posts haven’t even been showing up in my Tumblr dashboard lately anyway. I’ll click “Create Post” and the blog will appear on my own private page, but sometimes will take an entire day to appear on the public dashboard. I knew it was time to stop when I found myself in earnest email correspondence with Tumblr tech support to address this problem. I was like: “Am I really having a back and forth with the nice people of Tumblr tech support because my precious blog posts aren’t appearing with the speed I’ve come to expect?” I should be having backs and forths like this with my agents, not Tumble tech support.
So, no more of this every day stuff. I’ve gotta live and survive and no one’s gonna help me do that. As I look back on the first post from a year ago, August 5, 2010, it was about how I don’t get as much sleep as I want. It was called “A Good Eight.” And I just re-read it and nothing has changed. In the year since writing it, I’ve tried Ambien and Melatonin to see if anything got different and things got different enough for me to never wanna try that shit again.
It was a cool little discipline, but I need to focus on my livelihood. Most of my creative energy is gonna go towards writing for stand-up and staying an actor. I guess if you wanna experience my writing more often, you’ll have to come out and see me do comedy shows around L.A. instead of reading my stuff in your undies. And thanks for reading it at all, if you have been reading it at all. And if you have been reading it in your undies, do put some clothes on. And if you do come out to see me do a show, wear more than just your undies.
(Fellow Tumblr-ites: If the pattern of the last few days stays its course, this blog won’t appear on your dashboard for about twenty-four hours.)
(Also: To find an appropriate picture for today’s post, I Googled “Pictures Of One Year.” I saw a bunch of birthday candles and commemorative, glittering icons shining forth. But mixed in with these bright, celebratory images that signify an entire year of accomplishment, was this shot:
Yup.
I remain
Champagne
BOSS DOG
So let’s talk about that dog: It’s at a party and so are you and it’s being a pain in not only your ass, but everyone’s asses. It keeps jumping up on you, on everyone, humping you, licking you, barking constantly, every five seconds it loses its memory of whatever has just happened so it’s in a perpetual state of crazed wonder, and everyone’s yelling “No!” at it repeatedly, hoping it will stop ruining life. The dog is taking complete focus over everyone’s day and it’s simply exhausting to be around. And then, it happens. The Owner steps forward not to do the thing everyone’s hoping he’s gonna do, which is to place the dog in a large catapult and launch it into another zip code, but rather to say this:
“He’s just showing who’s boss.”
And he says it for the benefit of everyone there. As if that explanation—“He’s just showing who’s boss.”—will explain everything and make it okay that there’s this little creature figuratively—if you’re lucky—shitting on everyone’s good time.
You hear that a lot from dog owners who defend their dogs. “Oh, he’s just showing who’s boss.”
Oh. Is he? You know what? I should’ve picked up on that myself actually. Because now that I think of it, there are many boss-like qualities to your dog’s behavior. It won’t mind its own business, it’s making sexual advances on everyone’s leg, it’s desperate for attention, and sticks its tongue out while making direct, unyielding eye contact with you. All traits that more than a few bosses have exhibited, I’m sure.
I’ve never been in a jungle, but I have been in a home where the pets are in charge. I would compare it to a zoo, but zoos are actually run by people, not the animals.
But since your dog is the boss and not you, tell it to get me my coat ‘cause I’m outta here.
I remain
Champagne
AN OPEN LETTER TO THE TEN PEOPLE WHO JUST UNFOLLOWED ME ON TWITTER
Hey, guys! I don’t wanna take up too much of your time, what with how busy y’all are with…all the shit you guys do! You’re all probably swamped with tasks and errands and what-not. Some of you are clearly robots, in which case you definitely have a lot of stuff to do, like follow people on Twitter, leave an ad under the Mention tab and then immediately unfollow them. That’s time consuming. Some of you have your own business who follow someone, leave an ad under the Mention tab and then immediately unfollow them. That’s a grind. Some of you are people I know, people I occasionally see out and about. That’s weird. I’ll never bring it up when I see you though. And I mean never. I promise. You’re welcome.
Some of my tweets from the past few days have been pretty shitty, granted. Let’s go through some that are really freakin’ horrible:
—“Oh, everyone calls you a baller, huh? I can’t wait to never hang out with you.”
The snarky tone of this tweet is pitch-perfect: it precisely captures that judgmental, eye-rolling, negatively critical angle that seem absolutely imperative to being a comic on Twitter. Maybe that’s why it got no response. Maybe people are so completely sick of this sound that they can’t bear to hear it anymore. In which case, my bad. You know what else makes Twitter comics snarkily roll their eyes and unfollow people? The phrase: “My bad.”
—“Stop using ‘needy’ as a negative. We’re all needy. For example: People who say they’re not needy clearly need to suck it.”
Kinda whiny, ain’t it? Anything that sounds like it could’ve been written by a model/actress instead of a comedian (or someone trying to be a comedian) is gonna get you unfollowed by people. And, hell, you might not get booked on that cool show you can’t get booked on anyway.
—“The next time someone starts talking about their wicker class, I’m gonna keep interrupting them with: ‘WICKA WHUT?! WICKA WHO?!’”
Maybe people don’t know what a wicker class is. Maybe when you take a class on how to make wicker chairs, they’re not called “wicker classes.” I thought the image of me listening to someone’s boring story about learning how to wicker and then all of a sudden breaking in with “WICKA WHUT?! WICKA WHO?!” might be funny. But not at all. You guys are right to unfollow.
—“Irony: When your video store has all six of their copies of the film ‘Just Go With It.’”
I remember almost putting something like: “Looks like the customers of that video store are just not going with it” or something obvious like that. But I think any failed movie with huge stars in it with a title like “Just Go With It” is its own joke. (I’m. Going. To. Die.)
—“You know, in a couple days she’s gonna be Gamy Winehouse.”
I tweeted that on the day she died and it got me unfollowed by a veritable princess of the comedy movement on Twitter. Someone with hundreds of thousands of folowers, who writes comedy pieces for magazines that—you know—publish comedy pieces, someone who prides herself on contributing to intelligent humor instead of crass, base, lowbrow comedy. And I regret the joke in no way whatsoever.
I remain
Champagne
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