You're an award winner! You're a bona fide award winner! Look at you. You have an Oscar, an Emmy, a Grammy, a Golden Globe, or whatever. An award!
And let me be the first to say "congratulations." Actually, I'm probably not the first. Odds are I'm not even one of the first million. But if you haven't hit seven billion yet, I have to add to all of the praise. It's my duty.
Don't worry about me. It's all about you. Everything should be about you. Let's celebrate your works some more. Why did I even bring myself up? After all, you know damn well that I'm just here to revolve around you. Please resume ignoring me while we glorify you--His Holiness Mr. Award Winner.
I'm just pissed we're not praising your work enough. I mean, just look at what you're doing. The same type of shit over and over again. Holy shit, bro! No wonder you're so widely praised. Six decades of Rodney Dangerfield getting no respect, or 200 episodes of Archie Bunker being ridiculous, or 1,000 hours of Andy Rooney complaining. That made people legends. And whatever the hell you've done--that makes you a fucking legend! Why shouldn't it?
And let's not forget about the fact that you promote your shit on The Tonight Show, or the Today Show, or whatever the fuck show you're on. And you have a big time agent. An agent with $4,000 shoes. His shoelaces cost more than my outfit. Oh--and you're friends with Matt Damon, or Brad Pitt, or some other motherfucker who's important.
You guys are important! Do you here me? You guys are important! Who the fuck am I? No one. You motherfuckers are important! No one should even bother so much as giving any of my works a look. They shouldn't. And even people who aren't award winners should ignore the shit out of me--just so long as they're more famous than I am. And that describes pretty much everyone on the planet.
Even if you have 100 YouTube subscribers, you're way too important to associate with me in any way. If I post a response to your video, just ignore it. Don't accept it, don't leave a comment on it, don't contact me, don't fucking bother with me in any way. After all, I only have 99 subscribers. Make that 98. I just offended one of them. Oh--wait. It's down to 97. And most of them don't know I exist, either. After all, some of my recent videos don't even have twenty views. As opposed to one of Mr. Award Winner shaving or taking a piss. That video has 2 million views.
Mr. Award Winner's day to day life is drawing millions of viewers. And Mr. 100 YouTube subscribers is still too important for me. They're relevant. I'm not relevant. Matt Damon buying ice cream is relevant. That's why People Magazine devoted in 14 pages to it.
It's all about Mr. Award Winner. Forget me. I'm a nobody.
My agent's shoes sure as hell aren't worth $4,000. No sireebob. My agent is barefoot. And nonexistent. He's nonexistent and barefoot.
Mr. $4000 shoes won't even glance at my work. Nor will his assistant. Nor will his assistant's three year old son. I've been hanging around that kid's preschool for the past few weeks, and it hasn't yielded a fucking thing. Which makes sense. I mean, he's the son of the assistant of a very important agent who represents a very important person. A very important person with an award.
Everything revolves around important people like Mr. Award Winner. Just knowing them makes a person much more important. I should know. I don't know anyone--and I'm the least important person on the planet. Actually, I know a few people. And I've offended all of them. Because they like Obama, and I called him a piece of shit. Or they hate Obama, and I called him a great guy. Or they like chicken, and I'm a vegetarian. Or they're vegetarians, and I own stock in KFC.
Mr. Award Winner has a million fans, and I have six. Make that five. I just offended one of them.
But it's all good. As long as Mr. Award Winner is happy. Well, he probably isn't happy. I mean, he has three Oscars, and not ten. He has a million fans, and not a billion. He has ten Ferraris, and not all of Italy. He should get Italy. Someone give him all of Italy. And if that doesn't make him happy, we should all commit suicide.
Let's take another look at your award, Mr. Award Winner. Hold that shit up. Let me take a picture of you with it. Hold it a little lower. A little lower. A little lower. And behind you. Now shove it up your ass. Deeper. A little deeper. OK. Now say cheese.
I'm going to treasure that picture. Why? Because you--Mr. Award Winner--are in it.
If you do anything, we should film that shit using a hundred cameras, and put it on a thousand channels.
I don't give a fuck what it is. Whatever you do, bro. If E! isn't showing you going to the dentist, TMZ isn't mentioning how you walked to the kitchen, and Joan Rivers isn't analyzing your choice to wear a gold watch with a red shirt, I'll declare war on the media.
Whatever you do should be national news. International news. Interplanetary news. Intergalactic news. It should make its way to alternate universes. We should build a time machine, and let 5th century BC farmers know--Mr. Award Winner lost seven pounds in ten days.
And even if you don't do it, it really doesn't matter. As long as your name is on it, we're OK. After all, you're So and So. And as we all know, So and So sells, even if his picture is on a package of antacids. So and So brand antacids. I'll take an enitre case full.
I'm just pissed that you only make $20 million a year. And that's with all of your endorsement earnings. Without all of that, you're only pulling in $15 million. (No wonder you're running around town promoting Japanese beer and Kodak cameras. You need the money.)
What the fuck is wrong with the world? You deserve as much money as you can spend. And darn it, you deserve more praise.
But let me just say this. As great as you think you are, there are people who think even more highly of themselves. Like me.
And that makes me a hundred times more unbelievable. After all, you're worshipped non-stop. I'm in the opposite boat.