November 30th is the saddest day of the year.

It’s the day the staches get slaughtered.  The day Magnum P.I. gets canceled. The day the handlbar ride reaches its final destination.

No more flavor savor.

No more soup strainer.

The Lady Tickler has been asked to leave the party.

Happy Movember.

Join My Band- A Social Experiment.


I’m going to start a band.

I don’t know how to sing or dance or play music and I’m actually quite tone deaf. But I’m going to start this band, nevertheless.

You see, my band is going to be so cool, we won’t need to do any of that traditional stuff.

We’re just going to create really sweet T shirts, merchandise the shit out of ourselves, do a lot of late shows, host SNL, throw epic parties, get arrested a lot, create our own charities, wear awesome costumes, marry other celebrities, discover other young talent, make a video game, leak sex tapes, join Scientology, and travel in a rock star tour bus.

No where in my equation is there even time for actual music. And after the dust has settled and the cocaine is all gone, I don’t think any would notice.

You wanna buy a Mustang?

My friend, Sean, has a Mustang.

And he wants to sell it. It’s on Craigslist, but i told him he’d need to do something more interesting.

So we shot a little promo video with his iPhone.


"Mustang" :60

Open on an empty road, somewhere in the midwest. Sean is driving his Mustang as the sun rises behind him. He is wearing a tuxedo jacket and a trucker hat. Wild horses pass in the background, and a falcon circles overhead. Sean is singing along to David Allen Coe’s ‘You Never Even Called Me By My Name’. Suddenly, a white cat appears from the backseat and sits shotgun. There is a saddle on its back.

VO: If this Mustang could talk, we would have to kill it.

Cut to helicopter shot of the car, driving into the distance. We notice a police blockade coming up.

Cut to CARD:
Drive something crazy. Sean’s Mustang.
If you had to ask, you can’t afford it.

Door Theory.
Via George Miron.

Door Theory.

Via George Miron.

In Advertising, we are…

Artists seeking corporate sponsorships.

Egos in search of strokers.

Con men looking for our next target.

Schizophrenics listening to the voices.

Humans seeking purpose.

Addicts out for the next hit.

Rifles just waiting to be fired. 

Rockstars without musical talent.

Women in love with our abusive boyfriends.

Outcasts who don’t like your rules.

Kids in a candy store.

Bible Salesmen that believe in our books.

Strippers that make you think we actually like you.

KFC workers that just put the chicken in the bucket.

Gamblers who don’t believe we have a problem.

Whores who love sex.

Hitchhikers turned highjackers.

How you remember it, and now how it actually is.

 - Wyatt Neumann, Copywriter

 - Wyatt Neumann, Copywriter

They were not happy with their portrait.

I just pitched the best TV spot in the world.

It had LeBron James, Micheal Jordan, and 50 high school basketball players from around the world. It was MCed by Morgan Freeman, with a little help from Oprah Winfrey. It was going to take place in Yankee Stadium filled with underprivileged children, singing in unison Kanye’s “No One Man Should Have All That Power”. It was directed by Ron Howard, produced by Spielberg, and paid for by a well-known shoe brand. It ended with Obama shooting the winning 3-pointer, and Bill Cosby nodding in approval. We cut to reveal it was all Billy Crystal’s dream, and realize that we’re still in the NBA lockout!

Cut to Card.

SOMEBODY SAVE THE GAME

Jennifer Lopez is a sell-out.

First, I’m supposed to believe that Jennifer Lopez drives herself around.

Then I’m supposed to believe she drives herself around in the city.

And then I’m supposed to believe she drives herself around in the city in a Fiat?

Not only is it a bad rip off of Chrysler’s “Born of Fire” Super Bowl Spot, with J.Lo. explaining how she will always be from the block, but it doesn’t even have anything to do with the car.

So she sells her self to Fiat, Kohls, FOX, and even Venus Razors. Does she not have ANY standards?

I have a unique relationship with Macaroni and Cheese.

When I was 8, my father posed the challenge of making Mac and Cheese without using a box.

It was the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.

At that age, I never thought you could just do things your own way, break the rules, and say fuck you to the norm. The idea of making something like that from scratch was complete anarchy.

Nevertheless, we went out and bought the cheese and the pasta, and we cooked it together.

It didn’t taste very good. But it completely changed the way I think about things.

You didn’t have to do things the pre-packaged way, the way everyone else did it. You could do it your way.

Some words don’t need to be written.

Professional Bullshitter, Esq.

Some colleagues tell me that labeling myself as a “writer” is overestimating peoples’ ability to understand what a real writer can do. These were some suggestions for titles that my friends gave. And in a way, these titles are all true. But I would hope that who ever would wants to work with me would already know that this is what I do. After all, I am a writer.

Idea-Station

Ball Tickler

Professional Bullshitter

Fuck You, I’m Writing Sayer

Tongue Master

Rule Breaker and Award Taker

Brand Medic

Integrated Platform Genius

Dyslexic Savant

Wordsmith Jiggalo

Problem Assassin

Private Dancer

Pop Culture Engineer

Creative Fluffer

Big Idea Maker

Mind Blower

Concepting Macheeen

If You Had To Ask, You Can’t Afford Me

Thank you Jesus Generator

Tits McGee

More Better Doer

A Facebook Experiment

I wanted some sort of motivation to help me get back into shape.

So I decided to get my friends to challenge me. So I challenged their perception of me.

Through Facebook, I said I’d do one one-armed push-up for every Like I received.

Fuck me, I’ve got a lot of work to do.

Death In Advertising

When our creative ideas are rejected by clients or creative directors, we say that the idea was ‘killed’ or that it ‘died.’

And that makes perfect sense.

Our ideas are living breathing creatures. They have potential beyond our understanding, and can take a life of their own.

Which is why we refer to the ideas that aren’t killed as the ones ‘still alive’, as if they’ve survived a battle, and are still recovering in some barb wired trench on the front line.

And if the ideas are lucky, they get produced. They get ‘created’. We get to play God with our conception, battling the hellish evil of money-hungry clients to bring our idea to life (within the budget allocated to us).

When great people die, the idea of them doesn’t die. And great ideas that are killed don’t ever really vanish either. You’ll never see them on TV or online or in the award annual, but we all have an idea graveyard that we visit every once in a while to pay our respects. We reminisce about when and where we were when we thought it up. And we damn the creative directors and clients who pulled the plug.

In any normal situation, we’d mourn the death of an idea like we’d mourn the loss of a gold fish. But this isn’t seafood. These are our babies. And when they end up being aborted or miscarried, the death can be too much. For some.

Some of us are more prepared for death than others. We have war scars and post traumatic stress so severe that we accept death very easy. We never get attached to an idea. We never get attached to anything. Promises by less-educated less-invested clients are never trusted. And the idealistic optimism of Junior Creative is replaced by a jaded acceptance of a post-apocalyptic reality. We know our chances. They are not good. Although tragic, there is also beauty in having nothing to lose. We push back on criticism, argue on principle, stick out necks out for the right shot, fight for our lives. Our ideas. And when the whole thing is sandbagged on the whim of a 50-something brand guy who doesn’t get it, or just didn’t like what you were wearing that day, all you got to do is move on.

You have more eggs to fertilize.

So why do we stay with it? With minds as twisted and diabolical as ours, we could go into politics or become car salesman. How do we wake up every morning, hungover, smelling of weed, pantless, and go into work? 

We’re chasing a high. When you’ve seen enough greatness die, chances are, somewhere between the shards of shattered dreams and emotional ass-rape, you did produce something. And it’s like crack. That ego-boosting feeling of creating something is so addictive, it keeps you going. It has to.

On the other hand, there are some people that aren’t cut out for this business. They are not emotionally capable, they are not psychologically fucked-up enough to totally give up themselves to potentially dying causes. EVERY assignment, EVERY project could be a suicide mission. We are kamakazi creatives. We go in for the bigger cause, sometimes already knowing it’s dead. We’re dead. And yet we do it cause we believe in it. We believe in our craft. And we know that when we stop doing it, we’re already dead. Some people can deal with that. Most can’t.

And then there are the martyred ideas. Let’s take a moment to commemorate the ideas sacrificed so other ideas can live. These are ideas put on the chopping block because of internal politics or other reasons beyond my pay grade. When you begin working on the Shaheed idea, you don’t know it. At least not right away. You begin to catch on and soon realize your idea is the person everyone would love to fuck, but not the one anyone will marry.  It’s been crafted so the client will like it, but definitely not go for it. They go for the other idea. Your idea dies. It’s a strategy used by the best henchmen in the business.

I’m not buddy-buddy with the creative grim reaper, but we’ve hooked up a few times, and I’ve learned a lot. I’ve seen enough things die to know why ideas die. And so I know how to keep good ideas alive. And although difficult, I know when to save the great ideas for projects with more life support. I know when an idea will die before it’s presented and I know why. Whether or not people listen to me is another story.

When a client wants a puppy, and you being them a kennel, a lot of dogs are going to be sent out back and shot.

When a creative director is in a bad mood and you being him a golden goose, he’s going duck hunting.

And when you know the account people don’t have the cohones to fight, you need to bring your own Bazooka.

But all this time spent fighting these battles has made me realize something.

Life is too short for all the death in advertising.

I am through with this perpetual state of mourning. And although I can’t control this business anymore than I can control mortality itself, I call for less death and more life. I call for less hours working on almost certain death, feeding ourselves bullshit about game-changing ideas when we’re just whores making our overly-paid pimps richer. I call for more hours away from advertising, enjoying a more certain life.

But then again.
Maybe, deep down, I like the pain. Maybe we all like the pain. We can’t live without the torture. We feed off the death. We love the thrill of daily chainsaw massacres. If it were too easy, we would get bored. Maybe we need the bloodshed of a good old-fashion pitch to keep our own blood pumping. The dead don’t die in vain, but decompose and become fuel pumped through the synapses of our minds, oil burnt throughout the night, pushing us onward and upward to the next Big Bang.

We can’t help but need to play God. And this is the only way we know how.

Having KY Jelly as a client…

I don’t currently work on this account, but a friend of mine does. And I can only imagine the meetings that take place around product research and consumer testing.

Even writing this at work has made a couple co-workers walk by and blush. So how does it feel to be constantly concepting sex lube at the office?

Masturbation and Feminine lubrication are staples to each creative brief.

Coming up with different ways to say “Orgasm” is a main ask of the copywriters.

Scripts where ‘Man Jacks-Off off-screen’ are approved and made into animatics.

Riding the fine line between marketing and porn becomes an art.

Fighting with network censors over whether or not you can show balls being shot out of large phallic cannons and huge locomotives entering small dark tunnels is an everyday event.

And the free samples make everyone a little more pleasant to work with.

I think they should have a KY Jelly TV spot contest. Whoever writes the best spot that networks would actually air wins something. Although just being able to say you produced a KY spot is reward enough.