Today I got one of my three times per week Creativity emails. It’s rare that I fully read them. But when I saw Crispin Porter in the first paragraph, I perked up a little, curious to see what the boys down south were doin’. Then I was brought to adcritic, where I watched one of the worst ads I have ever seen. (If I knew how to do links, I’d bring you to it. But remember, I’m an idiot waitress). I watched them borrow interest from a passed his reincarnated fame celebrity, Flava Flave. Then I saw them make an idiotic parallel between his name and being a “taste expert.” Then conclude with a completely irrelevant outcry that succumbs to the humor of tasteless drunk college students who have no idea what kind of formerly insightful and thoughtful work use to flow out of that place. They went from seeking praise at Cannes, to going for the laugh from your average Bevis. He hu he hu.
What happened, Crispin Porter? My once favorite agency. You were one of the reasons I got back into advertising. Yeah, you rejected me for that AE job I interviewed for. But instead of getting bitter, I enrolled in ad school, eager to be just like you. “Oh isn’t that cool!” I thought. “They put a Mini on an SUV!” I adored the Mini small thoughts copy. Reading the last words…”Be careful of long advertisements. The ones that go on and on. Those…will…get…you…every…time.” Yes, you got me and you can get me over and over again! I got choked up the way those pathetic chick flick watching girls do when they recite their favorite dialogue from Beaches. I went on Subservient Chicken at least three times per day and commanded him to hump the couch….HUMP THE COUCH!!! It was inspiration I thought only Oscar Wilde could provide. But then, like Poor Oscar did so many years ago, Crispin Porter Bogusky, laid down and died.
How could the same agency that wrote Ikea Lamp approve Chilltop? The same Creative director who inspired the Office (“That’s not cool.” “You’re not cool.” Oh so very cool!) decide to hire HOOTIE AND THE FUCKING BLOWFISH to sing the praises of the same fast food? Ugoff, you were my homosexual fashion designing fantasy. But now the King conceptlessly runs across a football field to say what, exactly? It’s like Dorothy parker coming back to life and writing Mandy Moore lyrics. Oh CPB, to quote Clare McNalley, “WHAT ARE YOU [FUCKING] TRYING TO SAY!!!!”
I realize that these are big words from the unemployed. And if I hadn’t slept in almost 3.5 years my career may be equally plummeting. But Alex, I’m not ready to see your tombstone erected yet. I don’t want to lay you to rest in the graveyard of Y&Crap and McCrap Erikson. Let your writers sleep, Alex. Give them a vacation. Visit each of their offices and one by one pull their heads out of each of their asses. Because it’s dark up there. And they can’t see what’s going on when their view is obstructed by their own colons. Get a nap, take some asprin and HUMP THE COUCH, GODAMIT! After a head clearing orgasm, maybe you can come back to us and bring all that brilliance back from your quickly approaching grave.