Fifty big dudes from New York played football better than fifty big dudes from Massachusetts. That's such exciting news, especially since I happen to be from the same region of the country that the winning team plays their home games in! It's like we're all brothers! If I have to hear one more knuckle-dragger thrill about how "we" won the Super Bowl, I swear I'm gonna punch someone. "We" did not win anything ━ the Giants won, you sat on your fat ass and stuffed a bag of Doritos down your maw. There's a difference.
Even worse are the New York tabloids, each one the first to declare the Giants' win a "miracle," and the football players themselves, who all insist on thanking God for winning the game. God, if He exists, had better have more important things to spend His time on than giving Eli Manning (or somebody, I don't really follow football) the strength to throw an eighty-yard touchdown pass (or whatever), or I'm converting to Satanism. God ━ I know this isn't the way things work, but God should smite these football players for their hubris, and the false humility they mask it with. It's not like anyone at the Super Bowl is rescuing puppies from burning buildings or anything.
There's the argument that these professional sports, the community winning vicariously, cements us together in the shared experience. I've read about the Palio di Siena and its effect, that of a needlessly violent symbolic confrontation, dropping the city's crime rate, and I wonder if anyone's done a study about the communal effect of football and its ball throwing, catching, and primitive homosexual overtones. Personally, I think that actually smashing things in a consequence-free environment would be a lot more cathartic than watching other people do it, especially when they get a couple million dollars, a 2008 Cadillac Bling-Mobile, and a trip to Disneyland as compensation for the bruises and broken bones.
I believe that's why they came up with Grand Theft Auto.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Monday, November 5, 2007
Scab
Dear American Media Conglomerates:
I generally sympathize with the working man, the Americans like myself who perform the tedious, backbreaking labor necessary to keep our great nation supplied with the coal, the industrial machinery, or the non-English speaking domestic help it needs to thrive. I'm disturbed when greedy corporations stepping on these good Christian folk, and thankful for the unions supporting our working-class as they struggle to put food on their dinner tables. But with your screenwriters on strike, and broadcasters threatening to fill the airwaves with absurd new reality show mash-ups like Are You Smarter than a Singing Midget Who Loves New York? I feel like now is a good time to compromise a few principles, step across the Writers' Guild picket line, and offer up my writing talent — just to keep television running smoothly, of course.
And also because I'd fucking kill for the job these thankless little sell-out shits aren't doing. I would write for TV shows or movies gratis... I would write for the vast wasteland detritus — Zoey 101 or The Jimmy Kimmel Show or that super-sterile original programming on the ABC Family Channel — just to see my name in the credits and hear something resembling my words out of the actors' mouths. I would pay Viacom, Disney, Warner Brothers or NBC Universal to write for them. FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, ARE YOU LISTENING, STUDIOS!!!???
Not that I'm looking to screw anybody, but it's like watching professional beer tasters or racecar drivers complain about their jobs, but even more oblivious to the irony. I'd just love to watch some NBC exec march up to Tina Fey and throw her 30 Rock words back in her face, "You got into this business because you're funny, and you're weird, and you're socially retarded. And you also got into it because it pays well," and yes, I'd miss 30 Rock but the idea of Tina Fey working some shitty normal job like the rest of us suckers, like Tina Fey as a claims adjuster or Jon Stewart painting dotted lines down the freeway, is just so comically absurd — somebody ought to write it into a Saturday Night Live sketch, if the writers were actually working.
So I'll be stopping by Rockefeller Center and Viacom's headquarters in Times Square tomorrow, pushing aside the picket lines and that giant inflatable rat (I'll stick a few nails in the damn thing if that makes my proposal any more appealing), and pitching my ideas about a new comedy where a fireman and a pyromaniac share an apartment and date women who are way out of their league. Oh, oh, and I've got this one about obscenely rich, spoiled teenagers in Montana who wear skimpy clothes and have sex with each other. And one about four professional women who run their own shipbuilding yard....
Looking forward to scabbing for you!
Thanks,
Jay Harris
Posted by Jay at 11:42 AM 0 comments
Labels:
egomaniacs,
mindless rants,
soulless corporations,
television criticism
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Meet BlingH2O
Hey, frivolous rich people! Are you looking for a way to stand out, to let the other mansions on the block know just who has the most money to throw away? Sure, you could buy a faster plane than the neighbors, or a larger yacht, but in my admittedly impoverished, humble opinion, the most brilliant way to announce to Page Six, "Nobody is gaudier than I am!" is by purchasing a case of (yes, this is real) BlingH2O, at forty dollars for 750 milliliters, the world's most expensive bottled water. That's a hundred bucks for one of those plastic Coke bottles full of something that literally falls from the sky. Now that's ostentation!
By the way, Coca-Cola, or Coke, is something we poor people drink when we've run out of Dom Perignon and Grey Goose.
Among the many healing powers of BlingH2O are the ability to get the lower half of this anonymous bikini model to talk to you.
But the best thing about BlingH2O is that it's fungible. I mean, it's not like BlingH2O comes with an extra hydrogen atom in every molecule or anything. So you could amuse yourself by, say, throwing a party with your wealthy friends and promising them BlingH2O but secretly switching it with Poland Spring instead. When I become rich, I'm totally gonna do that.
Posted by Jay at 3:00 PM 0 comments
Labels:
egomaniacs,
mindless rants,
pageantry,
vanity
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Steve Fossett Wins a Darwin Award
I want to inform you, in case you haven't heard, that dimwit multi-millionaire "adventurer" Steve Fossett and his unfortunate plane have disappeared somewhere over Nevada. It's likely that his days of cheating death have come to an end, and even though Richard Branson is personally coming to every single house in America to officially deliver the bad news, I absolutely refuse to give a damn. People die every day, and I'm totally indifferent — and, admit it, you are too. Last month, a teenager accidentally shot and killed his eleven-year-old relative in Pennsylvania, and I bet you didn't mourn. A drunk driver ran over an elderly woman in Florida. Children die from preventable diseases because they don't have health coverage, or people in third world countries starve because the junta controlling the specious government refuses to distribute food to the populace, and none of it gets a fraction of the attention that a missing rich white guy does. I just don't see what makes Fossett so awesome that his (pending) death deserves international news coverage.
If anybody's going to die, I think it's morally appropriate that, for once, it's someone who willingly took ridiculous, gratuitous risks just to satisfy his gluttony for media attention finally had his dumb, dumb decisions catch up to him.
While we're talking about dead people I don't care about, how about we all finally get over the death of Princess Diana? First of all, she and that guy she was screwing got into a car with a drunk driver. I don't know what sorts of public service announcements they have over in Britain, but on this side of the Atlantic, spoiled princesses don't let their drivers drive drunk. Here, spoiled princesses do their own drunk driving, thank you very much. [You know what, I'm not even going to bother looking up the requisite Paris, Lindsay, etc. links that belong in that previous sentence.] I'm glad they crashed into a wall or whatever, instead of say, into a human being actually following the law. And second, they're the paparazzi, not the yakuza, so I don't know who the hell they thought they were racing away from. Ooh, people want to take your picture; that's a huge price to pay for a lifestyle of obscene luxury most of us will only ever see in, well, pictures of you.
So from now on, I'd appreciate it if we could all just save our sorrow for the deaths that aren't preventable, okay?
Posted by Jay at 2:35 PM 0 comments
Labels:
egomaniacs,
morbid stuff
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
If you haven't had a chance to check out Seth Gordon's unbelievably absurd documentary The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters, I suggest getting your inner nerd on and heading out to the theater before this movie disappears way too soon. Yes, it's about grown men (and one really old lady) who play antique video games, like, from the eighties obsessively... and one of these grown men calls Donkey Kong "a metaphor for life" without any irony whatsoever, but these high-score junkies are actors in an epic, never-ending morality play over something so trivial and irrelevant it's literally one of the most amusing things I've ever seen. The main rivalry in competitive gaming — and it's fought out with the same passion that starts riots in British soccer stadiums — is between two men, Billy and Steve, each trying to score the world record in Donkey Kong, although it spirals into a surprisingly resonant story about nothing less than the pursuit of the American dream.
The movie's star is Steve, the movie's Everyman character, although he's anything but when he steps in with the crowd at the arcade. Steve is a nice guy who cries a lot, a loser by birthrite, and an utter failure at everything he's ever done... except for, he discovers after he loses his job, Donkey Kong.
Billy Mitchell is the film's subject, proclaimed "Video Gamer of the [20th] Century," the personification of the Establishment, and one of the best villains ever captured on film. He set a world record in Donkey Kong back in 1982 that went unchallenged for twenty years, and he's carried around a huge sense of entitlement and self-importance ever since. His life has always been full of fame (among the thirty or so people who follow gaming competitions), fortune (there's no monetary prize for any of these games), and beautiful women (another gamer disputes this, and complains about how there are never "any DDG — drop-dead gorgeous — women" in the arcade), and these days Mitchell runs a hugely successful hot sauce business, has a trophy wife, and wears a different patriotic tie every day of the week. And then Steve makes a video of himself beating Mitchell's high score (and also being a less-than-stellar parent in the process) and Mitchell loses his shit, turning paranoid and questioning Steve's game, his video, and his integrity. Mitchell literally sends some of his acolytes — okay, his two acolytes — to break into Steve's house and examine his machine. He's a stream of Machiavellian machinations, totally clueless about how petty he is, believing everybody's laughing with him instead of at him, and oddly, a loser by choice.
But along with the background cast of dorks, dweebs, and doofuses — including the folk-guitar playing referee and some dude who calls himself "Mr. Amazing," The King of Kong makes a subtle point about how we all struggle for respect in the world, and for the forty-year-olds still playing Joust and Contra in the arcade, there's no road to that respect unless you're seen first. I empathize with Steve, a misfit in the real world who even has to push hard to fit into his own little niche... but I'm also happy to say that I understand Billy. He's never going to be a great man, maybe the best he can do is be great at Donkey Kong.
Posted by Jay at 9:52 PM 0 comments
Labels:
egomaniacs,
fringe cultures,
movies
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
My last video for YouTube
Click on the link above if you need some context here. --Ed.
Mouth stretches to warm up.
I'm proud of my smooth legs. How dare you mock them! I wear short shorts so I can show them off... same reason you do, LisaNova.
The Execu-Lux reclining office chair from Staples wasn't designed for flaunting my assets. STAPLES IS SO STUPID!!!!! DUMB STAPLES! DUMB-PLES!
You guys are probably all wondering...
You guys are my fans! You adore me!
You guys are probably all wondering: How come Jay isn't with a post in days and days and days?
You're all lost in the wilderness without me. The freaking wilderness!
Well, did you...? Not crying is hard. Here is why. This is the reason. Why. I'veNotPostedInManyManyDays. Here's why.
I point and indict you. You, bastards!... Wait, lemme hold on: Do I curse in these things? When I'm angry?
I was terrified. Terrified! I write and write and let you bask in my legs — AND THERE'S NOTHING SOCIALLY UNACCEPTABLE ABOUT A SCRAWNY HALF-MAN SHOWING A LITTLE (a lot of) LEG IN AMERICA — and all I get is critikisms. You guys totally suck!
Really, let's not encourage this kid. --Ed.
Is critikisms a word?
Critikisms IS a real word! Look it up! HereI LookedItUpAnd AndItSays Right Here RightInTheDictionary "Critikisms:" Noun. IsARealWord! I know I'm gonna get a bunch of critikisms from you. I just know! I know you're counting and watching me, all the playa-haters out there.
I heard "playa-haters" on a Smosh video once. Do I have the street cred to use the words "playa-haters?" Yes, yes I do. My critikizers will laugh at me, but I'll get back at them with my magikal webkam.
Neither he, nor the super-caucasians in Smosh, have the street cred to borrow language from Hank Williams, let alone black slang. And no, they've never questioned themselves. --Ed.
Jay, you have so many posts! Six-hundred, and five-hundred ninety-nine aren't funny!
Sorry. --Ed.
Five-hundred ninety-nine are funny! Maybe you're not funny! MaybeIt'sBecauseYou'reStupid!
My fans can sympathize. LisaNova and GreenTeaGirlie and Todd2556 and RedEmerald22 don't understand, cause they talk to YouTube but they're not funny. They're dumb. Dumbdumbdumb.
People will say: You've wasted your time, Jay. Go outside, Jay. I know people are gonna say that, because I have lots of posts. Sleep with a hooker, Jay, that's what you should do with all your posts!
GreenTeaGirlie had a crush on me once.
I know so many people will say I'm stupid. I'm ugly. I'm spastic. I'm in perpetual puberty.
We made a sex video. I'll put it on YouTube and take that Jeremy from school. I'M NOT GAY! YOU'RE GAY!
There is no sex in the sex video. Sexuality remains in question. --Ed.
THAT IS THE KIND OF POOP THAT I HAVE TO DEAL WITH!
Guess I don't curse.
THATISTHEKINDOF POOP THATIHAVETODEALWITH!
GreeTeaGirlie is totally into that.
I'll give you a minute to read the title. A whole minute. You read slow, becausae you're dumb. You're a dumb-reader.
....
.... find that video ....
....
.... remind them that time's running out ....
....
People suck! Here I am writing posts and people are so rude! I'm trying to share my life here, and what do I get from you people. What do you want? What do you want from me!?
Demonstration time, baby!
I'll tell you what you want from me. You want me to fall off my chair! YouWantMeTo BreakMySexyLegs! I'LL GIVE YOU WHAT YOU WANT!
The Execu-Lux from Dumb-ples doesn't maintain a steady weight distribution. When you stand up on it. They should have to have a warning label. Dumb-ples! They're so dumb!
Maybe this kid's an actor and he's putting on some subversive sketch comedy, making him an Andy Kaufman-type genius. But I really think he'll be shooting up a post office sometime in the next five years or so. --Ed.
You got what you wanted! Are you happy?
They're happy. Those jerks. But guess what....
I put pillows on the floor. Ha ha ha ha ha! Me: one. Playa-haters: zero. Yeah, sorry to rain on your parades...
Say something cool, say something cool...
...of MISCHIEF!
Nailed it. That one's gonna spread across the internets.
[Random outburst. Not real words.]
I can't believe people! I'm putting my grade-A material out on YouTube and there you are: let's trash it. Let's ruin it. Let's turn it into a running joke. I AM NOT A RUNNING JOKE! This is me! This is reality!
They can't handle it.
You can't handle it!
They can handle it. --Ed.
My last post. I want to thank the nice people, the fans, the friends, the people who only laughed at me behind my back, and yeah... I just, I have a confession to make: Ian Doebber's trumpet solo was at least a few measures long. I was exaggerating for dramatic effect.
Now I'm about to cry.
He's always about to cry. --Ed.
It's a relief, getting that off my chest. And here's another confession I think you deserve to hear: My underpants situation, from back in May. Solved with a toaster oven, NotAMicrowave.
[Montage of posts.]
At least ten people must be heartbroken. Now, just wait five days and then: my triumphant comeback!
Yes, he came out of retirement in five days, beating Jay-Z's previous record of a week. --Ed.
Posted by Jay at 7:36 AM 0 comments
Labels:
egomaniacs,
mindless rants
Monday, June 25, 2007
Good News For Once!
I can't believe we have two happy news stories today!
First, Bill O'Reilly gets owned! Twice!
Moral guardian O'Reilly was following up on a story from ages back, throwing a hissy over a left-wing Hollywood extremist high school assembly in Boulder, Colorado. BOR was outraged; the assembly was supposed to warn the kids, honestly, about the risks of drugs and sex, but there was no closet-pervert fearmongering priest among the assembly panel. Without God's guidance, the assembly turned into a meth-fueled orgy, according to reports that BOR completely made up. It's bad enough, but then the school principal, cowed, had the gall to apologize for the assembly. BOR lost his shit, again; his basic argument was "How could this gay-marrying, hybrid-driving, cut-and-run principal think that a mere apology could reverse the irreparable damage done to America's moral fiber?" Some sophomore dink from the school was booked on the Factor to validate BOR's indigance.
But then, enter American hero Jesse Lange, sixteen-
But wait! There's more! The judge handed down a verdict in the case of our favorite fashion conscious abuser of the legal system, and I'm just a little less cynical today. You'll recall that Roy Pearson, human hole of suck, sued his dry cleaners for $54 million dollars after they temporarily misplaced his pants. We all knew he wasn't going to win a penny from them, and he didn't. But the story gets better: according to the L.A. Times reports that bringing his frivolous lawsuit actually costed Pearson a thousand dollars. Which he could have used to buy at least four pairs of new pants.
And normally, that would be the end of the story, but it's Opposite Day or something because the judge in the case is now considering a motion to force Pearson to pay all of the legal fees of the people he sued. And Pearson's job — remember, he's an administrative law judge in Washington, D.C. — is in peril! I am giddy over this!
This almost makes up for Paris Hilton getting out of jail today. Although I'm sure she'll be back before too long.
Posted by Jay at 11:51 PM 0 comments
Labels:
egomaniacs,
hypocrisy
Friday, June 15, 2007
Just when you thought Pants Lawsuit Guy couldn't possibly be a more infinitly huge jackass abusing the legal system, Reuters reports that Pants Lawsuit Guy has become an even huger jackass. In case you've been busy following seriously less disturbing courtroom news, here's the story in a nutshell. This guy, Roy Pearson, took a suit to this Korean dry cleaners for alterations. The dry cleaner lost his pants. Then they found his pants, only Roy says those aren't his pants. Now Roy is suing the dry cleaner for $54 million, because they had a sign in their window that said "Satisfaction Guaranteed," and he wasn't satisfied. Some of that money — $15,000 a day — is for covering the expense of renting a car to drive to another dry cleaners. Oh, did I forget to mention that someone appointed Roy as an administrative law judge in the District of Columbia? Yeah, they did. I guess it's not too surprising in a city that elected a crackhead mayor.
Even the wire services aren't hiding their contempt for Pants Lawsuit Guy, as the Reuters report reads, "Pearson's lawsuit has drawn international ridicule. It also drew plenty of chuckles from spectators who crowded into the stuffy municipal courtroom. Even Bartnoff [the judge] had a hard time keeping a straight face as Pearson, wearing a gray pinstripe suit and a stained lavender tie, wielded a 6-inch-thick (15-cm-thick) binder of laws and court decisions that he said bolstered his case." You've got to admire this jerkwad's dedication, if nothing else (and seriously, there's absolutely nothing else about PLG that's worth admiring). He uses his esoteric legal knowledge to exploit some immigrants who don't really speak English, then everybody in the world calls him on it, and what does he do? He shows off his esoteric legal knowledge! Brilliant defense! He's his own counsel, by the way, and he really illustrates the adage about the lawyer representing himself having a fool for a client.
Pants Lawsuit Guy managed to catapult himself into unseen levels of jackassery when he announced that, although he's suing for $54 million, he only needs $2.5 million to cover the emotional distress he suffered by having his pants switched on him. Yeah, that ought to just about cover it. PLG is planning on donating the other $51.5 million dollars he'll never, ever see to a fund for other victims of mild inconvenience who feel the need to abuse our justice system for comically hyperbolic revenge. PLG said his winnings would be used "as an incentive for other attorneys in private practice to take on these kinds of cases."
The plus side is that Pants Lawsuit Guy is gonna feel soooooo stupid when those pants mysteriously turn up in the back of his closet.
Posted by Jay at 10:48 AM 1 comments
Labels:
egomaniacs,
morons
Monday, May 7, 2007
What The Hell Is Wrong With England?
They have a queen, for Christ's sake, and they treat her like freaking royalty. It's the twenty-first century. We've had an Enlightenment, invented democracy and liberalism: get with the program, England!
And get with the program America, while we're at it with the program-getting. Our President held a white-tie banquet for the queen and her totally emasculated prince husband, and seven-thousand of their closest friends. The White House spent the weekend getting ready, spending your tax dollars on floral arrangements, touching-up paint jobs, and gold-engraved invitations. It would be a obscene waste of money even if this weren't a president who hasn't bothered to attend a single funeral for a soldier killed in Iraq. I know, I know: our soldiers didn't have the good fortune to be born into one of history's most prestigious inbred families. Screw them. Well, I guess that's what the Bush administration's doing.
For some reason, whenever the British come and visit, Americans have to turn into the same foppish dandies our forefathers fought a revolution to get the hell away from. Have you seen Entertainment Tonight's coverage of David Beckham's move to Los Angeles? Or that Katie + Peter show on the E! network? Who the hell are Katie and Peter, why should I care, and what are they saying? You're from England; speak English, dammit! The queen's got to be the worst though, and Bush's usual obsequious nature in the presence of his political betters — Dick Cheney, queen of England, American Legion — is just sickening.
Here's the protocol: The queen shall be addressed as "Your Majesty." One does not shake the queen's hand unless she offers her hand first. After the queen is done eating, everybody is done eating. Um, has it occurred to anybody that maybe the other guests aren't finished? God, how I'd love to be the one greeting the queen here in America: "Welcome to America, we don't have royalty here. You can carry your own bags." The protocol may be fine when our head of state visits England's backwards aristocracy, but when you come over here, you follow our customs.
In other news, Paris Hilton got her ass arrested because she thought that, being Paris Hilton and all, it was cool for her to drive with a suspended license. You know, because she's more important than the rest of us. Her family actually got mad at the judge for sentencing her (instead of at the celebutard who drove drunk in the first place, then got and violated her probation), and Hilton apologists took time off from swooning over the queen to complain that forty-five days in rich white person Beverly Hills jail was too harsh. I see absolutely no connection between the two attitudes.
Posted by Jay at 9:43 PM 0 comments
Labels:
egomaniacs,
pageantry
Monday, February 12, 2007
Anna Nicole Dead: A Tearful Nation Mourns
Anna Nicole Smith, voice of a generation of fat retarded hicks, died the other day. I was absolutely shocked when I heard about this tragedy — not so much because Anna Nicole is dead but because I heard about it on CNN instead of The Insider or Access Hollywood one of those other coked-up tabloid gossipmonger panels obsessed with B-list celebrity news. Even worse, CNN's once-respectable anchors Wolf Blitzer, Paula Zahn, and Anderson Cooper (who really didn't have much more credibility to lose after hosting The Mole) aren't treating Smith's death with the requisite respect; that is to say, none. At least the duly sane among us have Jack Cafferty, who combines the sarcasm of Jon Stewart with the sex appeal of Larry King, putting Blitzer and The Situation Room in its place. If there were any justice in the world, Cafferty would've long ago been promoted from the guy who reads viewer e-mails to at least the guy who kicks Glenn Beck's ass.
But even Cafferty is kind of a pussy when it comes to morally evaluating Anna Nicole's death and the media response — I guess being televised live in front of a national audience of housewives who think they're too sophisticated for Oprah sort of neuters even the bravest of us. I want to go a step farther than just, "Who cares?!" Dead Anna Nicole = GOOD! Yes, I'm being flippant, and I don't want to hear shit from anyone who's less indifferent to Smith's death than to the any of the other approximately 6,500 deaths that occur in America every day. Every life is a sacred child of God — unless that life is being lived in Iraq, obviously — but the world is overpopulated and natural selection isn't working the way it once was and if we're going to get rid of someone, we might as well terminate a socially useless, narcissistic, drug-addled, semi-coherent, gold digging drunkard and stripper-turned-diet-pill spokeswhore. I mean, just think of how much Trimspa's now gonna be left over for the rest of us! Anna Nicole's death might have just solved America's obesity epidemic!
Posted by Jay at 3:54 PM 0 comments
Labels:
egomaniacs,
media indolence
Friday, January 19, 2007
For The Title of Most Horrible Person Ever...
...I'd like to nominate antiques dealer Karl Kemp, who just earned himself a permanent spot in the Class Warfare Hall of Fame by filing a million dollar lawsuit against the homeless. So, congratulations, weirdo who filmed Bumfights, for now being only the second most horrible person ever. This must be a proud, proud day for you.
Karl owns Karl Kemp & Associates at 833 Madison Avenue near 69th Street, which the lawsuit rather gratuitously notes is "within the heart of New York's most exclusive Madison Avenue shopping district." How dare these homeless eyesores wander into the heart of New York's most exclusive shopping district! Especially at 833 Madison Avenue, near 69th Street. The nerve! There are people with an obscene amount of money living around here, 833 Madison Avenue, and they shouldn't have to look at squatters who "dress in what appears to be old, worn and unsanitary clothing" and who "can often be found sleeping on the sidewalk." Dude: they're freaking homeless, you goddamn moron! I'm sure they'd love to waste their time shopping inside Gucci and Armani than guzzling beer outside, huddled together over a subway grate for warmth, but they don't have any money. If it bothers you so much, you're wealthy — build the poor bastards a fucking home!
Truth is, I hope Kemp wins his lawsuit, only because I would kill to watch this enormous douchebag try to collect his million dollar judgment from the homeless.
Posted by Jay at 6:23 PM 0 comments
Labels:
egomaniacs
Saturday, January 6, 2007
You Can't Spell "Impossible" Without "Possible"
Back in my Columbia days, the liberal peace-loving, Saddam-hugging, diversity-championing student population was all about hating on Yale, and I could never figure out why. I know that we hated on Harvard because of their larger endowment, and our trustees all bought fancy European sports cars to compensate. But I'm not sure what Yale ever did to us, aside from clearly failing to educate our nation's president and maybe winning a football game or two. (Also, at our high school's college night back when I was applying, the representative from Yale was a real douchebag.) But Yale senior Aleksey Vayner isn't doing his school, or the Ivy League, or white people with a sense of entitlement any favors with his job application to UBS, which included his eleven-page resume eleven-page resume and this semi-inspirational video that looks like something they show on the public access cable channel every four hours.
It's called "Impossible is Nothing," and if you can't figure out what the hell that means, then you're in for a treat: seven minutes of those meaningless platitudes they put on a poster in the break room, endurance or perseverance, with like a picture of a soaring eagle or a guy running up a mountain, mixed with unintelligible blabber, suspicious editing, and Aleksey's tennis serve. I'd like to take a moment to deconstruct Aleksey's love letter to himself, starting with the rambling mock interview in the beginning. Disembodied Voice asks, "Aleksey, you're known as someone who's studied the principles of personal development for a long time. Applying these principles to yourself, you've coincidentally become a model of personal development and inspiration to many around you. Although success is different to every individual, it is [a] generally accepted that people are much happier when they grow, develop, and are good at what they do. How do some people like yourself become very proficient in the fields much faster than most?" You can sort of tell that, by the last sentence there, Disembodied Voice Guy is desperate for breath and just throwing random commas everywhere.
Aleksey non-responds, "Well, thank you." To the scripted question that he obviously wrote! I'm not even going to attempt to punctuate the rest of what constitutes his answer: "I guess the first thing the person needs to understand is that success is a mental transformation. It's not an external event. To be successful, you must first know exactly what you want to achieve. Second, you need to commit to the sacrifices that it will take to achieve your goal. And third, of course you must believe beyond any reasonable doubt that you will achieve your goals." I originally assumed that this whole exchange was, well, written down beforehand. Because it's on video. And Aleksey and his buddies had that luxury. But now that I've actually transcribed the exchange and I'm looking at it in black and white, I'm not so sure. Aleksey, dude, you went to Yale; between the crazy incoherent gloating of the question, the torpid David Brent-like banality of the answer, and "Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we," I'm starting to think that Yale has the fucking world's worst rhetoric classes ever.
Now comes the Feats of Strength, two minutes of Aleksey's audition tape for that strongman competition they show on ESPN2. I'm not even going to argue with the point (I think) he's voice-overing this segment, which the Roman poet Juvenal put much, much, much more succinctly. All I'm going to say is I hope the guy in human resources who got this tape is among America's legions of the obese.
Some brilliant cinematography here: Who wants to bet that's not Aleksey bench pressing 495 pounds? Who wants to bet that's not even 495 pounds?
What I really wanted to share, however, wasn't Aleksey's video, but Michael Cera's parody, which perfectly captures Aleksey's contempt for all inferior man-beasts who aren't Aleksey and his masturbatory ego-stroking till the dick that is this prissy Yale investment banking wanna-be chafes. Maybe it's hearing George Michael Bluth call the rest of us losers, but I feel like Michael Cera captures the complex insecurity of Aleksey Vayner better than Aleksey Vayner does. "Impossible is the Opposite of Possible" even contains a kernel of truth, since "impossible" is, in fact, the opposite of "possible."
Anyway, Aleksey's video did set him apart from the thousands of other applicants who just sent in one-page resumes, and it made him a big hit on Wall Street — just, as you've probably guessed by the way this video made it all the way to iFilm, not in the way Aleksey intended. His self-aggrandizement and overboard egomania made him an instant target of ridicule in the investment banking world, even more humiliated than, say, the working class. Now, I don't like Aleksey. I'd love to be able to cheer, "Bus: 1! Aleksey: 0!" But there's something incongruous about derivatives traders calling anyone out for flying way over the line from ambitious to smug to imperious. It's not like the Buddha works the swing shift over at UBS; it's full of people who get horribly rich by helping the obscenely rich become even richer, now complaining that this Yalie may be able to look down his nose at Swarthmore graduates, but he hasn't earned the Investment Bankers' Right to be contemptuous of the common man yet.
That's why I think that I'm, beyond a reasonable doubt, a much more qualified person to take Aleksey down a couple of pegs, and I'm going to make my own video resume slash inspirational bodybuilding movie slash excuse to show a somewhat attractive chick in a short skirt. I was having a little trouble coming up with a title that would convey how amazing I am and my powers to change the definitions of words and defy the laws of logic. My first thought was "Impossible is the Same as Possible," sort of like how "inflammable" is the same as "flammable." (Boy, wasn't it hilarious the first time we made that mistake and spent the next five months in skin grafts!) It turns out, however, that "impossible" is not the same as "possible," and no one at Columbia bothered to teach me how either consistent or inconsistent — I'm no longer sure which — the English language is. If only I'd been accepted to Harvard! I'm sure they would've educated me properly with their larger endowment.
Then I decided to go with "There's No 'I' in Impossible," but alas, there's not one but two I's in impossible, as well as "me," "mobile," and "plobies." So I'm stuck with the title of this post, an immutable truth for the ages, a hilarious pun, and a little more coherent than Aleksey's title.
This took two hours. I needed a nap.
Posted by Jay at 11:08 AM 0 comments
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egomaniacs,
job search,
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