Hardly Noticeable

Friday, November 11, 2005

Koreans love me

“Commercial, you mean. There’s only one, Gabe.
“Well, it starts out with me sitting in a chair looking directly into the camera. I’m wearing the kickass silk suit I got in Itaewon. You remember the one? No, the one with pinstripes. No, the black one. Yeah, that one. Well, I start by asking the audience a question, ‘Are you tired of being the last one picked in gym class’—No, I don’t think it’s too infantile. People respond to that: most of my clients—okay, fine, potential clients—will really understand what it’s like to be picked last in gym class.
“Anyway, I continue: ‘My name is John Smith’—Yeah, I decided on Smith. Nitkowski is just too much, you know? Nobody respects that name.—‘My name is John Smith and I’m here to help you.’ I point directly at the camera on ‘you’ and then swivel in my chair to camera two—I know, two cameras is fancy.
“I finish with: ‘Let John Smith help you to become the man you’—No, I don’t think so…It’s not like I need to say ‘woman’ or anything like that. What woman is going to go see John Smith speak? Well, yes, I am quite handsome.—Oh shut up. I’m not saying it. Okay fine, dashing—but I just can’t see it happening.—‘Let John Smith help you to become the man you want to be. Come to my seminar and renounce the old you and apotheosize the new you’—It’s a word. No, it is. I looked it up. It means to turn into a…okay, you know what it means. See, it works perfectly with what I’m trying to accomplish. To make people gods, yes, that’s my goal. Just like the deification of motherfucking Julius Caesar.
“No, no venue—that’s what we call it in the industry—yet. But I do know a guy who works at one of the stadiums around here. Yeah, it seats 50,000. What do you mean? I don’t see what testosterone has to do with anything. Oh, the no females thing. I’m sure men will bring their wives. Yes, or mistresses. Start small schmart small. I’m looking for the big time, Gabe. This is my chance. Thanks, but I think I know what’s best for me, and little high-school presentations are not in my future. I’m not a washed-up NFL lineman. I’m John Nitkowski—That’s right, I’m John motherfucking Smith, bitch.”

I’ve often been impressed by John’s almost godlike ability to deflect any criticism. He is the apotheosis of himself, I suppose, and he exudes ethereality. He is, to put it succinctly, John motherfucking Smith, bitch.


Post a Comment

<< Home