Remain Champagne - AN OPEN LETTER TO THAT SIX-YEAR-OLD GIRL

Hey, kid. How’s it going? It was nice meeting you today at that commercial audition. You were polite, friendly, smiling. You’re obviously a really sweet person and I would be honored to be paid to pretend to be your dad. But here’s the thing:

Just because you’re a little kid doesn’t mean your stories have to be boring.

Seriously, girl: Cut to the chase! C’mon! You’re like this:

“One time, when I was babysitting with my dad, we had to wait for my mom to get home before we could leave and go to the store to get more markers for my sister’s school project she had to do and the whole time we waited we couldn’t play the Wi because my mom told us we weren’t allowed to play it so we waited and waited and finally my dad just took it out and we started playing anyway!”

And I’m like: “Gaaawwwwwwwd!” Dump some fuel, kid! I’ll be honest with you: I zoned out at “I.” You had me at never. I have no idea what you said to me. None! Clearly you’ve never heard of an attention-getting opener. Just because you’re a cute, friendly little kid doesn’t excuse you from keeping my interest if you’re gonna talk to me. Before you hold someone hostage with a story, ask yourself something: “Is this worth anyone’s while?” And if you can’t honestly answer that question with a truthful “Yes” or “Sure” or “You betcha,” don’t tell that story. And none of this “But I’m just a kid!” shit. That’s not gonna fly. We’re all on this planet together.

Seriously: Punch it up! Get to the point! Trim the fat! Learn a new word! It’s called “embellishment.” Don’t tell me what happened. Tell me what should have happened. And if anyone ever accuses you of lying, politely correct them by saying: “Excuse me. It’s called embellishment.” And say it with the same tone the American Idol judges use whenever they think something is “pitchy.”

Let’s go back to your story and see if we can’t fix it. You started with the words “One time…” Lose it. We don’t need it. When you start with “One time” or “This one time” or “Lemme tell ya about this one time,” all I hear is: “How would you like to die of boredom for the one hour it’s gonna take to tell this story?” Next, you mentioned how you were babysitting with your dad. You’re six. How are you babysitting anything? Because now I’m distracted. Unless your story includes child protective services coming in to straighten up your obviously abusive household, I’m gonna go into a coma. Next, your sister’s school project. Make it about a pterodactyl. Don’t ask why. When in doubt about whether or not your story’s any good, throw in a pterodactyl. We’ll thank you. Next, you talk about your mom not letting you or your dad play the Wi. Your mom’s clearly a bitch. Spend more time on that. I wanna hear about how she holds you down in life and constantly tries to stifle your passion. It may not feel to you like she’s doing that, but she is. Oh, yes she is. And finally, your dad. Your dad sounds awesome. He clearly has a Falling Down moment where he takes out the Wi even when he knows he’s not supposed to. He’s the hero of your story. You don’t know it yet because you’re a little kid, but he is. I wanna hear more about the exact moment when the sound of your mom’s voice—which has been on REPLAY in his head for years now—finally flips a circuit in his brain and he starts to lose his shit like the champion he is.

So if we end up working together, and I hope we do, and you launch into a story that starts to go into my lunch hour, I’m gonna help you out with it. You’ll thank me. After you’re done crying.

I remain

Champagne