I Have Not Been Eaten By Bears.

While I have but a minute to spare before happy hour arrives and I lose myself in a tall glass of firewater, I felt it high time to reassure one and all that contrary to rumor and cruel innuendo, I have not expired. I did not fall to my death during a peyote inspired visionquest, nor did I make the grave mistake of thinking a mother grizzly might be in need of a friendly backscratch, only to be devoured tooth to bone. Fear not, as I do live and breathe. In fact, praise be to mother fortune, as I am once again comfortably at home in my southern compound, free to cast spears at those who have long tormented my soul with their small minded ways. I shall mock again, I promise thee. Until then, I bid you adieu and suggest you enjoy an afternoon of inebriation on the company dime. You can account for your time under whatever job number is associated with "Planning/Research." The pencil pushers in accounting could give a fuck. Unless you are under audit by a government authority, of course. In which case you are on your own.

Salud!
The Editor

I Need A Job.

A fair dinkum to one and all. I hope the new year finds you well. It has been several weeks since my last update, but unfortunately my attentions have been required at the compound, where I’m afraid all is not well. Pardon me for a moment, while I rub my brow and down another tall dram of Mr. Daniel’s finest. Ah yes, that is better. Another? A fine idea. Thank you, Chaba. Please, leave the bottle here. Muchas gracias.

Now, where was I. Oh yes, my troubles. Alas, this season has not been kind. Far from it, in fact. As I look around, I see my once glorious moated compound in disrepair. My beloved rum still is in dire need of a new stainless steel pot boiler. Feral cats of preternatural ferocity wander about freely, with little interest in combating the now burgeoning snake and rat population. My personal valet has abandoned his post after requesting an obscene raise in pay in return for continued servitude. The local harlots and pleasure maids, sensing my quickly evaporating resources, have taken to refusing my lurid advances without cash in hand. (The concept of credit is apparently an American affectation for which there is no acceptable translation.) Even my technical staff of once highly trained chimpanzees, lacking the required supervision and the occasional encouragement of a well-placed cattle prod, have neglected needed maintenance on this very website and have instead refocused their energies towards nit-picking and relentless self-gratification.

Of course, at the core of this rapidly degrading situation is my quickly dwindling nest egg of South African gold bullion, Afghani poppy futures and American greenbacks. Fie. It seems when I originally retreated to my heavily fortified jungle paradise, I was perhaps overly optimistic regarding my financial condition. Or perhaps I was simply too liberal in my desire to share the splendor of fine Crystal champagne with the local tribesmen while flamboyantly lighting foot-long Cuban Montecristos with a freshly minted $100 bills. But now it not the time to point fingers, however. What’s done is done. And with a clear mind, I realize I can no longer avoid the troubles of the day by simply planting my head into a liquor-filled hole in the sand. Drastic action must be taken immediately. I must find employment.

And so, I reach out to the advertising world at large, the very hand which I have been proverbially (and in some delightful instances, quite literally) biting these last five odd years for my own cruel amusement. The cursed irony of it all. Nevertheless, to potential employers, I say this. I offer a strong back, a certain je ne sa qua with the finely tuned prepositional phrase, well-polished glad handing skills which will disarm the most inhospitable of client types, and the willing constitution of a seasoned senior writer. I also offer the white flag of truce. For while a return to the comforting world of agency life will most certainly fuel my desire to mock with an abundance of well-deserving new targets, I shall only speak in the most glowing of terms towards those who welcome my prodigal self back into the fold.

Further inquiry can be made via a well directed carrier pigeon, or email, the address being theeditor@adweak.com . As I do have a weak constitution and fallow skin which requires both direct sunlight and the comforting presence of a cool ocean breeze, I must constrain my endeavors to the Southern California area.

There, it is done. The pain of prostration assuaged by the knowledge that I am doing the right thing. The camaraderie will be healing. This will be good. And so, well worn portfolio in hand, I humbly await the kind knock of opportunity.

Regards,
The Editor

I Am Betrayed.

Humble greetings.

Contrary to all appearances, I have not fully abandoned my endeavor here, though I know my actions often suggest otherwise. Blame the bright, shiny objects which constantly draw my attentions elsewhere. I cannot resist their allure. But enough chit chat. Time to fill a few column inches while sobriety still maintains its shaky hold on my being.

First, a few random thoughts.

Is that fucking Hootie? It is, isn't it. Good sweet Lord. I imagine some sort of pseudo 90s-homage ironic casting is the idea at work here, accentuated by a hefty payment for a half day's work, but all due meta-awareness aside, there is but a stone's throw from Hootie shilling Burger King to Susanne Sommer's legendary Thigh Master work. Fucking Hootie needs another hit, or I fear Tijuana-based gay porn is the next and final stop on his semi-melodic, easy-listening downward spiral. Poor fucking Hootie.

The overly hyped Super Bowl commercials blew. Hard. Except for the one you had some connection to, of course. That one was ok. But the rest blew. Damn, they blew.

You mean time sheets aren't always entirely accurate? I, for one, am shocked. Shocked, I say. Shocked.

I have lost interest altogether in the so-called, self-perpetuating Beer Wars. Though with every broadside, I am sure there is a brand manager high-fiving a sycophantic toady, with assurances that their latest effort "really put those bastards in their fucking place." Right.

Whatever happened to Nike's ad budget? Do they still do TV, or are monies now focused on various internet/viral efforts which fly so far below the radar they clip low standing buildings? I'm curious.

Second, a warning.

Recently, it has come to my attention certain individuals are attempting to take credit for my several years of rumor-mongering and public self-flagellation. A pox on their houses, I say. Goddamned publicity-whoring leaches. Pay no heed to whatever they say, for they do not speak for I. And fear not, as I will not let their loose lipped ways endanger this dialogue which serves to quiet my soul. My cadre of blood-thirsty, flesh-craving chimpanzees will soon make short work of them and their kind, of this you can be sure. Fie! The more of I think of their treachery, the more I feel the need to retreat to the bar for a well earned Old Fashioned and a block of Turkish hashish the size of my fist. Yes, that time has come and my attentions have been pulled elsewhere once again. I bid you adieu.