Blackness Tips for Barack Obama

Let's face it, Obama could be blacker...

Barack Obama is winning about 90% of the African-American vote, which sounds impressive until you realize that historically, black support doesn't require a high standard from black politicians (Am I right, Marion Barry?). Ninety percent on the black scale is actually about a D-plus.

The reason for Obama's disturbingly low "Black Belt" numbers is pretty clear: he's just not black enough. And I don't mean the whole mulatto thing; he just hasn't connected with the entire populace the way that he needs to in order to sweep the African-American vote.

So, I put my ear to the streets to find out what the peeps had to say (feel free to steal lingo like that, B.O.) about keeping ol' Barry from Gumbeling up the Democratic nomination.

Give yourself a title.

Make it something "rappy," like Lil' or O.G. On special occasions, carry a scepter and a tastefully bedazzled pimp cup.

Sleep with Hillary.

This might be a bit tricky, with both of you being married and all, but that hasn't stopped generations of NBA players from bedding white women.

Cornrows.

Of course, this would require some time to grow your hair out, not to mention that awkward in-between "halfro" phase. A weave might save time -- maybe some Rick James braids or a retro Jheri curl.

Cling to guns and religion.

Contrary to media types, these aren't the sole property of white rural Pennsylvanians. Black folks can be just as clingy -- just more rhythmic with their religion and more illicit with their guns.

Star in a Tyler Perry movie.

He's all the rage, and it would help procure those religion-clingers.

Downplay the African connection.

Black people are just as xenophobic as whites, so try a more all-American name, like Denzel or Tiger. Or maybe just add a prefix like "La" or "Da" or "Ja" to your name. DaBama would be both a name and a clever pun.

Start beef with 50 Cent.

Not only would you improve your street cred, but your linguistic skills would come in handy, as verbal barbs like "miscreant" would no doubt go over Fiddy's head.

This Week in Moving Pictures -- Why I Hate "The View"

I have the day job that every 6 year old dreams of: I watch TV.

I'm on staff at a television show where my job is to sit in front of a TiVo all day looking for weird and funny stuff. As a result, I watch a lot of shows that I never would have otherwise. While I do enjoy some of these programs, I have rapidly spawned an unhealthy hatred toward ABC's The View.

Before I watched The View every day, I thought yelling at the TV was just something my dad did when a liberal was on the screen. But now I myself spend 60 minutes of my day seething and shouting at my set. But why exactly does The View make me so furious?

1) They talk over each other... a lot. This is a problem properly functioning adults do not have. It happens so often the hosts even have a name for it: "Cross-talk." Feel free to scream "one at a time!" at your computer monitor. I have multiple times during the writing of this post.

2) Even though their job is to go on live television and discuss "Hot Topics," the ladies rarely familiarize themselves with the material they cover. "Elizabeth: Did you guys watch American Idol last night? Joy: No, I hate shows like that. Whoopi: I never watch it and I don't ever plan to. Barbara: That's the singing show, right?" AND THEN THEY ALL TALK ABOUT IT FOR 6 MINUTES. They have a blatant disregard for information as a concept.

3) They critically misunderstand what it means to segue between topics. "It was so sad to see those Kenyan dying of AIDS. They go hungry every single night. But luckily the members of our studio audience won't go hungry with this box of Sees Candy they're all receiving!"

4) Last week, Whoopi kissed Joy on the mouth and I have found it impossible to masturbate ever since.

I'm drafting a letter to The Mayor of Television to not only take this show off the air, but to provide me with a free lobotomy in a desperate attempt to forget about the time Sherry referred to someone as "The black Patty Labelle." I wish that was a hilarious joke I just thought up, but it's not. It's just not.

Defaced

Hey Facebook. If I wanted to be friends with him, I would have already added him, ok?

Dear Facebook,

I appreciate that you’re always working to improve yourself, but I have a real problem with your recent “application,” these “People I May Know.” It’s great for you, conceptually, but do you ever think about anyone but yourself?! It sucks for me and probably “Him.”

Like how about the fact that grammatically you refer to ‘people’ in the most plural sense of the word. It’s not “Person You May Know” or “Know This Guy?” In reality, you only ever show me one person.

Add to that the fact that the one person just happens to be my ex-boyfriend, who I habitated with for years, introduced to all my friends, and touched parts with on a semi-regular basis, and you might see why I want to punch you in your screen. Yeah, I know him. No, I do not want to be his friend.

Can we please talk about the fact that you’ve neglected to give me any option to make this screen go away other than to be-Face him, which I JUST TOLD you I don’t want to do. You never listen! I’m not harboring resentment towards him, but that doesn’t mean I’m interested in seeing his “status” or tagged photos of his new Tiny Asian Girlfriend on my home page.

You’re so unfair! Are you doing this to him? Are you?!

Will you just be honest for one second? What are you really trying to say? Every. Time. I. Log. In.

Also, why not go for broke. I mean, you have a “Wall” and a “Fun Wall” why not have a “Naked Wall” –- where we can collect all the peoples that we’ve let see us at our most undressed and afterwards had that horrible realization that we actually LET them touch us from the inside (a.k.a. Regrettable Naked Times) and it feels like we’ve just run full speed, head first, into a brick wall—The Naked Wall. If we can make it “public” you’d be doing a community service by helping us avoid double-dipping.

Also also, what else do you know? Is a “People You Will Open Yourself Up To Only To Get Hurt” feature in the works? How about “Good For One Date” or “Don’t Date This Dude” or “People With Baggage Who Never Open Their Proverbial Suitcase” or “Secretly Married?”

Look, our problems are fixable, if you’re willing to change. I’ll keep ignoring those “87 requests” for bullshit things, if you will stop being jealous over him. Seriously, it was a million years and 3,000 miles ago. But if things aren’t gonna work out between us, I still have my space.

xo

-andrea

Promoting Your Improv Show

Improv shows are a dime a dozen in LA. Here's a list of "don'ts" to help you effectively promote your gig.

When you live in LA, you're friends with a lot of actors and you inevitably get invited to 6 improv shows a week. I turn down 99% of these requests based solely on the info on the flier. If you want people to show up to your gig, I recommend you heed the following:

-Don't perform at a venue that has words like "laugh," or "ha ha" in the title. This implies that the only time these sounds will actually be heard throughout the evening will be when the MC repeatedly mentions the name of the club. I'm sorry, but I'm simply not driving out to Pasadena to spend a entire night in a place called The Chuckle Hutch.

-When naming your troupe, don't use the buzzwords like "improv" or "comedy," and for the love of God don't use a Simpsons reference or make it rhyme. It's like naming your ska band something like "The Ska-shank Redemption." It's a douche move and I'm not going.

(Editor's note: I'm a big fan of SSR. Is that wrong?)

-Even if your group is good, watching 2 hours of terrible improv groups before you makes me want to murder you and all of your fellow joke-sters. Just tell me when your set starts. I know this goes against the actor's code, and if I'm willing to come see my friends I should be willing to experience the other groups as a sign of artistic support blah blah blah blah blah rage punch stab run.

By the way, if you're free Wednesday night at 11:15, my group "The Chortle Squirrels" is doing 10 minutes at Happy Harry's House of Ha Ha-larity. 3 drink minimum and you have to bring your own drinking glass.

Drinks are on the House

Having a steel worker for a father, I come to usually side with labor when labor clashes with management. However, being a motherfucker, I will invariably side with mischief over either party.

When I found myself in the middle of a thousand airline workers on the verge of striking one Saturday night labor ended up getting the short end of the stick…and a shitbag Mardi Gras themed bar got that stick up their ass.

After dinner my friend and I went for coffee to see a curious sight. We noticed a line of several hundred people holding candles walking single in a single file line and wearing lime green t-shits with the words “give us a break” in large letters. The mood was heavy so I knew this line wasn’t going conga. The line ended up at the headquarters of a major airline that just happened to be in the 11^th hour of labor negotiations.

A man appeared with a mega-phone to announce that the airline was at an impasse with the union. People grumbled and affirmed their commitment to striking with slogans of solidarity like, “fucking assholes, fuck this shit.” The scene got ugly as the airline employees knew they’d be on strike and struggling.

Then as easily as all seemed lost, the workers got what they wanted and more. A little time passed and the mega-phone guy announced that they had a breakthrough and would be getting most of the concessions they requested. The crowd grew optimistic and light-hearted as the speaker warned that the deal was not done yet.

I approached the man in charge and told him that I was the manager of the Fat Tuesdays down the street. I offered my support and told them that if they get this thing worked out, the first round is on the house. The man immediately held up his mega-phone and boisterously told the workers that they were going to get some free drinks at said bar, the people roared with applause.

Another 30 minutes or so passed and the man stood up on a chair to proclaim, “We got it! We got it! We got it! Now let’s celebrate at Faaaaat Tuesdaaaaays!” Sadly, I could not join them for that complimentary first round. Yet, I could take some comfort in seeing several hundred people arguing over who was going to pay a $5,000 bar tab.

"Donut Time" Almost Cost Me My Life

When forced to choose between my own physical safety and 85 cents worth of donuts, the decision was alarmingly easy.

I did a late night improv show in Hollywood recently and was hungry on my way home. It was 3AM and I was faced with the decision of stopping at an establishment called "Donut Time" at Santa Monica & Highland or baring hunger pains for my 20 minute drive home to the Westside. I was tired and not of sound mind when the choice became crystal clear: it was motherfucking Donut Time.

At night, the corner of Santa Monica & Highland is exactly how my strict parents envisioned all of LA when they wouldn't let me drive up here in high school: Shady characters, gender benders, and a public display of those black stereotypes that white people feel really guilty just thinking about.

I parked my car right next to an angry African American gentleman who was menacingly looking back and forth. When I got out of my car he screamed "what chu want?!" at me, to which I replied "a donut." He didn't respond to that, which I decided was the best possible outcome to that interaction. Two very polite transvestite hookers greeted me at the door and asked if I needed anything. I figured using my "donut" answer again might take on a tragically different connotation in this scenario. I said "no thanks" and threw up a little in my mouth.

Once inside I asked the sagely Korean owner for a bear claw; he gave me a cinnamon role. I tried to correct him but he insisted that what he had just bagged up was, in fact, a bear claw. I had 2 thoughts at this point 1) This does not matter, they taste exactly the same, this is not the time or place to have a semantics argument over breakfast pastries.. and 2) Fuck THIS guy. He owns an establishment called "DONUT Time" yet has an amature donut vocabulary? It may be 3AM, but justice does not sleep, good shopkeep!

I made it out alive with a real bear claw, a second offer for horrifying threesome with the hookers, and something I can only describe as a "honkey stare-down" from the man standing by my car. Snacks always taste better when you risk your life to obtain them. And you know what? That was a good god-damned bear claw.

Mirror Mirror On The Agent’s Wall

So after a mass mailing of about eighty of my headshots to eighty different agents, I finally got a meeting on Wilshire Blvd. I was feeling…damn good. The building was impressive, my monologue was prepared, I was new in LA, and this was my moment to shine.

When I walked into The Agent’s office, the first thing I was struck by were the mirrors: we’re talking floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall. From The Agent’s last name I was expecting someone of Asian decent, but this guy was British - and once he began speaking I was quick to realize, he also had a lisp. I tried to catch his eye so I could smile and introduce myself, but that proved impossible since he never once took his eyes off his own reflection…even as he shook my hand and invited me to sit down on the couch.

The Agent poured me a glass of champagne, refilled his own, and began to impart his dubious wisdom: explaining to me the impossibility of getting a SAG card without an agent, saying how hard it was to even get an agent if you didn’t have blonde hair and big tits. He found himself riveting. His eyes staring squarely into his own.

Once he was finished with his monologue, I performed mine (a piece from the Vagina Monologues) with gusto and conviction! And as my voice broke for a tear-filled finish, I looked up and saw that The Agent was aligning his toupee with the help of the mirrors on the north and south walls.

I sat back down on the couch and The Agent told me my monologue needed some work. He knelt before me and put his hand on my knee. “Everybody needs…friends in Hollywood. Now why don’t you see my secretary and if you like, she’ll set you up next week for a 6:00 appointment, my last appointment of the day.” He winked at himself.

As I was ushered out of the room, I saw the receptionist packing up and a girl who looked like me except with blonder hair and bigger boobs sitting on the couch. I checked my watch. It was 6:00.

Lie the Balls She Gave You Off

You can literally hear it in her voice when your mother shifts from talking about your father’s bursitis and the son of a bitch your sister married to asking you how it’s going for you out in Hollywood: Hope.

Hope that her little boy or girl is not actually doing what they say they are doing, and toiling in the mailroom at a third-rate talent agency. That the child she wanted to be a doctor, a congressman, fuck even an accountant, isn’t literally washing someone’s dishes just to have a job in ‘the industry.’ With that kind of sentiment underlying your every conversation, why would you do anything but lie your balls off?

A few weeks ago I spent two hours in the office of a powerful director trying to cover his massive, floor-to-ceiling windows with a black, velveteen cloth to make sure no light could get in during an upcoming screening. The process involved cutting and hanging a textile approximately the size of Connecticut without disturbing any of the man’s plants, metallic Buddhas in repose, framed head shots or Arabian tea sets, a task that required me to delicately and painstakingly tap a series of tiny nails into the window molding, standing on a chair.

Not long after, she called.

“Well, I was just in a Powerful Director’s office for a couple hours, actually...”

“Really? What were you doing?”

“Having a meeting.”

“What were you talking about?”

“Art. Movies. Religion. We just kind of talked.”

The Man Himself was actually at his Malibu home at the time, but what the hell.

“Wow. Is he going to read your script?”

“Ma, it’s not like that. He has to ask for it. It’s impolite to offer it.”

“You were in there for two hours and he didn’t ask?”

“He said he was thinking about it.”

“Well, at least you’re not washing his dishes.”

“True. True.”

My Brother is a Putzy Lawyer

It’s true, he is. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t mind his shiny shoes, his two-pound Rolex, or the financial ease with which he maxes and relaxes.

But he has money and I don’t, and sometimes I need to borrow this (his) money, and I don’t think he gets that.

I’m not one of those guys who’s anti rich-putzy-yuppies. It’s just that in the case of this putzy yuppy there are a few salient character flaws I feel he should explore:

-When footing the bill at a restaurant, don’t wince after saying the words, “I got it.”

-When discussing major home appliances, such as televisions and microwaves, avoid phrases such as, “Not enough financial wiggle room.” If your winter bonus can start a hedge fund, there’s room for wiggle.

-Cough up the $25 to get a haircut at Rudy’s. Just because your wife can cut your hair doesn’t mean she should.

If he were to follow these pointers (as well as ease up on sending me Youtube videos every time Zach Galifianakis makes a joke about Asians) he might just de-putzify himself.

I ate dinner at his house the other night, an exquisite Japanese dish served by his exquisite Japanese wife. As he washed and dried the dishes and I watched, we discussed the hardships only those with money can really know.

“The thing is,” he said, “people with money wear Golden Handcuffs. That’s something they don’t talk about.”

“What are Golden Handcuffs?” I asked.

“When you make a lot of money, you have a lot of responsibilities.”

Translation: Mo money, mo problems. Three years of law school and everything he knows he learned from Biggie.

(Editor's note: I always thought Golden Handcuffs were when a chick cuffed you to the bed and pissed on your face.)

“Like what?”

“Like…saving for a house. Retirement. That stuff.”

“But,” I protested, “people who don’t make a lot of money also want to save for a house and retirement. They just can’t. So I guess you could say we wear Bronze Handcuffs.”

“I know,” he said, “but…I have a lot of responsibilities.”

“Yeah. Someone has to Rick-roll me on the half hour.”

It’s true, he does.

Big Pimpin'

It was 2am and I was filling my tank at the Mobile station on Santa Monica and Vine when a black man wearing a pale yellow suit approached me.

“You drive a Lexus!” He exclaimed.

I don’t want to brag, but I do drive a 1992 Lexus, which is a pretty nice car if you’re living in the year 1992. In 2008, it's covered in scrapes and dents, and the tape player is broken so you can’t even plug and ipod into it. Luckily, it does have heated seats, which really come in handy living in the freezing cold tundra that is Los Angeles.

“Someday I’m going to get me a Lexus,” the black man said.

“That’s cool.” I said, nodding.

“What do you do?” He asked me.

“I’m a comedian,” I said.

“You’re a comedian? I’m a pimp!” He said, as if being a comedian and being a pimp were two soul career paths, and that though he chose the path of a pimp, there was a day when he could have just as easily become a comedian. A day when, had he come across a stage with a live mic he might have turned to comedy, but instead he came across an over-weight cock-sucking sister and turned her out.

“You want to see my hos?” The pimp asked.

“Sure,” I said. I mean, how many times in your life do you get to meet real actual hos?

I walked over to the pimp’s late 80’s model Lincoln Towncar, which was parked at one of the other pumps.

The pimp opened the rear driver side door, and sure enough, inside were three chunky black women wrapped in tight short spandex dresses.

“This is Monique, Bunny and Luscious,” he said.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

The hos smiled. I smiled back, and then I got the fuck out of there.

Dear Arbi, Please Don't Make Me Attend the Next MadAtoms Writers Meeting

Arbi, I have the greatest respect for you and the writing staff of MadAtoms. But I can’t stand those fucking meetings.

First off, let’s talk about Thursday nights. You might call Thursday nights “me” nights. I have my racquetball league from six to eight. Then, it’s usually fried chicken at the 101 and then home to watch Survivor.

The writers meetings, which I hold in the highest of regard, take for fucking ever. It’s like watching My Dinner with Andre 8 times in a row. Not only that, but I have to suffer the indignity of a drive to Culver City. By the time I get home, some poor aspiring actor has long since voted off the island. Sure, my TiVo has safely recorded Survivor, but it's more exciting to watch live- well, not live, but with a 20 minute time delay so I can skip the commercials.

The Mad Atoms writers, while full of wit and charm, are, how shall I put this… Juvenile? Bawdy? Every discussion inevitably leads back to pornography, masturbation, or some sexual fantasy passed of as real life experience. I thought the addition of a few females to the staff might tone things down, but they seem to have made it worse. That one girl says things that would make Heidi Fleiss blush.

I swear I'm not a prude. I just don't like porn. Or speaking openly about jerking off. I believe it’s a private matter. Like prayer, or tax fraud.

And lastly, there’s the food issue. I do really appreciate MadAtoms ordering pizza for the meetings (for which to attend, I am paid not a red cent). But a couple of pizzas for a dozen writers shapes up to about two slices per person. Let's face it- two slices of pizza? What the fuck is that? It's like more than a snack, but not quite dinner. And at 8 pm on Thursday night, I've just played in my racquetball league, I'm hungrier than I'll be at any point in my week. The first time we ordered pizza I ate like 5 slices in 10 minutes. People were looking at me like I was an asshole.

All I’m asking for is to be treated like a human being. A human being who loves Survivor.

Sincerely,

Hillel Aron

(Editor's response: Do your paychecks whine too, asshole? Seriously, who watches Survivor anymore? People who watch reality tv ironically don't even watch that crap now that there's Celebrity Rehab. And by the way, I had to take three masturbation breaks just to get through your whiny bitchfest.)

Banging Mr. Bean

Don't be the victim of fucking an ugly person.

In high school, anti-drinking assemblies were filled with morons telling teens about the terrors of inebriation, and how it lowers your inhibitions causing you to do terrible things. They ended up wasting a perfectly good assembly trying to scare teens from having a good time with reasons to have a good time.

If I were in charge of these assemblies I would tell one story and the nationwide teen alcohol epidemic would cease. And if it didn’t, at least 16 year old girls would start using a little discretion when it came to getting wasted.

For me, getting wasted wasn’t about having a few drinks and some laughs. It was about competition. Drinking with me meant you were going to puke or die and I was going to mock you. When it came to getting blitzed out of my mind, I was a pro and everyone was in trouble.

One night, I started boozing, while getting ready to go out. Before I even left the house I’d finished an entire bottle of vodka with a friend. If you’re already scared, you probably should be.

Once I was at the bar, I kept drinking, but boldly switched to whiskey. All bets were off. Grown men were scared and I was steadily entering blackoutland. For the most part, blackouts are not that terrible, I am fully functional and I am awesome during them, but this particular blackout something terrible happened.

I had sex with an ugly person, and not just ugly, but terrible looking. I had sex with a man that looked just like Rowan Atkinson, the guy that plays Mr. Bean.

To make matters worse, when I woke up he wanted to get my number. I was racing to get away from him, but he haunted me, and not just on television. It turned out he was a really good friend of the guy my sister was dating. It was social suicide. So kids, watch what you drink and how you drink it before you end up fucking the horrible look-alike of a bad British comedic actor, just like me.

I, Dream Crusher

I didn’t see it in the job description when I first signed up for the internship at the Hollywood TV and movie production company, but by the third day it was clear: Much of my time would be spent crushing people’s dreams.

Not discouraging them, not deterring them, not suggesting they would be better invested in practical pursuits like scrapbooking or slum-lording, but outright devastation of people’s dreams, loud and declarative. You. Have. Failed.

I, intern, you see, where my main purpose is to deliver salads to powerful people, quickly and with all the god damn peppers removed, thank you very much. As a side job, I am also often asked to perform what is called ‘script coverage,’ in which I take the pristine, coveted gem of someone’s imagination and in the matter of hours reduce it to a single word: PASS.

“Please,” the authors seem to say, “Recognize my unique talent and do one thing to help me realize the desire I have harbored since the day of my creation, and recommend this script.” To which I generally reply, “No,” and then go pick up a salad.

I don’t relish the job of Dream Crusher, but the worst part is that I do it for free—as if I’m doing a favor for friends. “Hey, could you come over tomorrow and help me dash the hopes of aspiring writers for a few hours?”

“Sure,” I say. “Sure I could.”

Roommate, Where Art Thou?

A staple of finding new digs in this town is the potential roommate meet-and-greet. This is my story…

Meeting people from the “housing” section of Craigslist is kind of like a job interview, but the questions all concern self-assessed personal hygiene, and your stance on food organization. Searching for rooms in the past, I’ve been invited to play tennis, consume beers, and discuss religion with complete strangers. The routine is half real estate, and half blind date.

This one’s name was Noelle and she greeted me with a handshake while explaining how uncharacteristically sick she had been lately. In my attempt to make a good impression, I extended my hand, and smiled warmly, while making a mental note to not touch my face for a while, in case she had hand-ebola, or finger herpes. You never know.

As soon as we entered the dining room, I noticed a weed pipe sitting on the dinner table. No shock really, I’ve currently got three strategically placed pipes in my bedroom alone; you can usually tell how depressed I am by the proximity of my paraphernalia to my pillow; if it’s on the dresser across the room, most likely I’m puffing on the way out some where and smiling with the world; if it’s on my nightstand, that means I am in a state of general world-fear. Healthy, I know.

No sooner had my eyes fallen on the glass, than my host nodded at me and challenged, “So what do you think of that?” The mildly boastful threat caught me off guard, like she expected me to tell on her or something. “You mean, you smoke r-r-r-eefer? I’ve seen educational filmstrips about rebels like you! I’m telling my youth group leader!”

“That’s okay,” I responded coolly, not letting on how much or little I smoked. You see, in the pot-smoking community, there are levels of acceptable usage, and with this taunt, Noelle may have been trying to figure out which category I fell into: functional stoner, or doesn’t leave the bed stoner. I happen to be one of each.

Weeks passed. I did not end up getting the place, and I’ll be honest, it bothered me. In my attempt to appear legit, had I totally betrayed my true pothead self? Did my putting on of professional appearances cost me the chance to live in my natural “420 friendly” habitat? Oh well, at least I didn’t get hand-ebola.

99 Problems but a Job Ain't One

Wanna work less at work? Regret giving your boss your cell phone number?

Follow these six tips written in the blood of my enslavement and you’ll have way more off-site time, lose those last ten pounds, and your own office/assistant/expense account in no time*:

1. Have a kid.

Don’t actually have a kid, please. But find yourself a pre-existing one that you can exploit. Ironically, even if you’re single and everyone thinks it was unplanned, you’ll look real responsible due to your being in charge of another human person AND extra easy. It’s gonna cost you a little upfront, cause you have to initially claim him or her as a dependent and then recoup that money at tax time, but the benefits you will reap make it worthwhile. Breeders get away with tons of shit. No one can really say ‘No’ when you have to leave early cause your kid is “sick” or you have a “parent-teacher conference” or day care is “closed pending investigation.” When people procreate they also buy cameras so photographic documentation is key. You should also pretend to be really really into it, so tack up photos often and all over.

2. Smoke.

Don’t actually smoke, please. But get yourself one pack of cigarettes and own it. When a smoker is frustrated, cranky, or bored, they are never refused a 10-15 minute smoking break. But you can’t just ask for some air. These guys get to act like assholes AND go outside. If you get two breaks a day, five days a week, for one year, that’s a one hundred thirty hour savings of reclaimed time straight back to you! The trick is to establish yourself as a lone wolf smoker, find your own secret smoking spot, and if anyone asks you why you don’t smell like BBQ Lung, tell them you’re just really good at it.

3. Get therapy.

You probably should do this, but even if you want to keep that unhealthily low self-esteem, misogyny, or eating disorder, tell your HR representative otherwise on day one and establish an Outstanding Shrink Appointment. Every week. Which just happens to fall mid-day. If you want to go pro, pick a brain doctor that’s on the other end of the LAiverse so there’s no time to come back to the office afterwards. Sign up for that UCB class!

4. Be old.

No matter how old you are, be over thirty. Just trust me on this.

5. Yes. Say it.

No matter what is asked of you, always say, “Yes” with your mouth and, “Fuck You” with everything else.

Example: “Hey Seth, Big Jenny clogged the ladies bathroom again. Could you roll up those Thomas Pink sleeves and…”

“Yes.”

If at all possible, muster up a smile, too! I’m not saying you should actually DO the work. Just say yes. Everyone loves a yes man.

6. Go grey.

Even if you just take some whiteout to individual strands of hair. Nothing gives insta-cred more than being a Silver Fox. George Clooney, Anderson Cooper, Maya Angelou, you know it’s true.

*I am not responsible for anything bad following these tips may result in, including but not limited to: cancer, termination, or hair loss (though that also lends major credibility). I am however, responsible for all positives. Gratitudities appreciated.