Post by Olivia R. Adler on Dec 1, 2019 6:55:45 GMT -5
Her eyes lit up like Christmas trees as she stared down at the pile of pink circles in her palm. Her heart pounded, throbbing in the back of her throat as she counted, re-counted, and re-recounted the pills. One, two, five, ten. She could feel the corners of her mouth tug upwards — an involuntary spasm — as she plucked one from the collection and held it up to her face, pressed between a thumb and index finger.
Two choices stared back at her as she inspected the little pink pill: the smart one and the right one.
We open on a black screen, accompanied by a poorly-mixed, way-too-fucking-loud sound effect of a shotgun being cocked. White impact font appears on screen, each line paired with an equally well-mixed shotgun firing sound effect:
HO SCIENCE #420:
THE FLEX APPEAL
WORKOUT
ROUTINE
EXAMPLE TEXT
HOW DO I DELETE EXAMPLE TEXT
The scene fades in on a medium shot of the Adler twins, Cassidy and Oliviae, standing in front of a moderately populated gym. Cass is out here looking fresh as hell in some of that official merch (AKA a black bro-tank with the words "ok incel" written across the front in comic sans) and some slick Nike joggers, while Olive, her left wrist inexplicably taped halfway down her forearm, rocks some of that #unofficial merch (AKA a crop top depicting a cartoon fan drawing of the twins, with Cassidy's arm around Olive's shoulder) and a pair of running shorts. Cass mugs for the camera as Olive launches into the intro, arms flailing wildly.
"So we all know that the key to getting ahead in any entertainment industry is star power. Failing that, you can also get ahead by being remarkably skilled in your given craft. If you can't say that about yourself either, you can maybe just fall back on some interesting, appealing aspect of yourself that an audience can sink their teeth into."
Olive slowly approaches the camera, jittering like she's going to jump out of her skin.
"Those are the facts. Some of you might be looking at your computer screen like I just told you Santa Claus isn't real and neither is a man who's actually five-eleven. You might be thinking that you're fricked, huh? But luckily for you, that isn't the case anymore. Now, Cass and I can't relate to that struggle at all, but we do know a couple of people who do and it's in their honor (and namesake) that we present to you this handy guide to getting ahead in spite of yourself.
"No superstar presence?
"No talent?
"No discernible personality?
"No frickin' problem! In this video, we're gonna show you the dos and don'ts of succeeding when all conventional logic says you oughta crash and burn harder than the Challenger. Without further ado, this is the Flex Appeal Workout Routine."
Shotgunfire.mp3 hits and we smash cut to a shot of Olive lightly jogging on a treadmill, her forehead glistening with "sweat" while a conspicuously damp rag rests draped around one of the machine's arms. In the background Cassidy curls ten pound dumbbells with the straps on.
"Whoops, didn't see ya there. I hope you've done your cardio, gotten your steps in and all that good stuff, because the first step of the Flex Appeal workout routine is running your mouth. Talk smack, puff out that chest, front like you're made of teflon because we all know that worked out great for the last guy who tried that. It doesn't matter if anything you say is clever, or interesting, or impactful, matter of fact it's better if it isn't. Otherwise, you might be treading dangerously towards having a personality and then you won't even need this tutorial.
"What does matter is that you believe it. Even if nobody else does. This is your calling card. This is your lifeline. When all else fails — and believe me, it will — you can always go back to the front. While you're doing this, it's important to make grandiose claims about your ability, to prophesize your dominance like you're some monologuing Disney villain, to do your victory lap well before the race has frickin' started.
"Wait a second, you might be asking. Why would I do that? What if I get the snot beat out of me? Won't I just look like the biggest buster in the world?"
Olive stops the treadmill and hops off, blotting her damp face with the rag. Cassidy is now doing bicep curls in the squat rack.
"Well of course. Everyone's got a plan until they get their ear bit and everyone's gangster until the pants start walking. It doesn't matter if you get absolutely pantsed when push comes to shove, this is a course about succeeding in spite of yourself, remember? We're gonna show you how to deal with that in a second, but first—"
Olive is promptly cut off, please enjoy this mid-roll advertisement.
Her eyes drifted from the pill to the mirror. Though her lips grinned, her face didn't match. The pale bathroom light flushed her already pale skin, seeming to illuminate every blemish on her face, from her puffy eyelids and bleeding eyes, to the crooked teeth hidden behind her wormy lips. Despite the blasting heat and the thick wool sweater she had on, she shivered.
On the counter, a neat row of pill bottles sat, all bearing one name:
ADLER, OLIVIA.
"Welp, what doesn't kill me doesn't kill me," she muttered to herself, turning away from the mirror. She shook her head at the pill pinched between her fingers and flung it into the toilet, followed by the handful.
Then, remembering the lock of thinning hair in the wastebasket, she dropped to her knees and forced two fingers down her throat.
"Alright, next up, I hope you're nice and limber."
We cut back from the advertisementand certainly not from anything else to a shot of Olivia seated on the floor, stretching. Cassidy has officially popped his shirt off and is pulling 135 on the deadlift platform.
"Because right now, we're on step two of the program. We're getting nice and loose for some mental gymnastics. See, this is ain't real gymnastics, you aren't gonna be doing any cool flippy stuff that might get an audience to pop because that might actually require talent. Instead, you're going to be doing the kind of gymnastics that impress nobody but yourself and ensure you won't be getting laid anytime soon. But who needs that kind of external validation when you've built yourself a delusion as powerful as this?
"So you got punched in the mouth. So you got exposed. You tripped and fell and spaghetti flew out of your pocket so hard it gave your crush a concussion. Now what? There's three ways you can come back from this. Two of which you can do, and one of which you're going to do.
"From the jump, we can eliminate acknowledging failure and working towards self-improvement. What are you, the Dalai Lama? Nah, you're Gerald from Westchester and you've never had to experience adversity in your life because your daddy gentrified half of Brooklyn. You've probably never even played a real sport in your life; all you know is how to play one of those fake rich people sports like lacrosse. Personal growth ain't even in your frickin' dictionary.
"So that leaves you with one of two options. You can acknowledge that L but vow to not let it dampen your spirit or some dumb anime thing like that. But not really because even acknowledging that might lead to introspection and you do not introspect ever.
"Which means you have one option. Deny reality. Literally ignore the fact that you just got owned, pick yourself up, and start all over again. Like I said, this is a thankless art. No one's gonna congratulate you on being a delusional idiot. Except yourself. And Jesus Christ. Which is basically what you think you are.
"Now, we're onto step three—"
After this finely curated mid-roll advertisement.
Cut back from commercial. Olive is standing near the squat racks. Cassidy is being escorted out of the building for party rocking #freecass.
"Sculpting a brand.
"Now, you might be wondering, how do you go about sculpting a brand when you don't have anything you sell yourself on? If you don't have the presence, or the talent, or the endearing/hateable personality, what are you? And the answer to that is nothing. Which is why you instead base your identity around something so vague and intangible that it says literally nothing about you (which is very good since you're a literal nobody.
"Maybe you want to appeal to gym bros, or goths, or goths who go to the gym, or gym bros who listened to Marilyn Manson once, or weeaboos, I don't know that part isn't important. What is important is embodying the aesthetic of whatever you choose, even if all you nail is the superficial stuff. Especially if it's all surface level. Marketing departments love the appearance of hitting a niche market without actually understanding what makes it tick at all. This is the most important step. This is what separates the Nickelbacks from the Theory of a Deadmans (Deadmen?).
"You don't have the presence. Or the talent. Or the personality. But you vaguely resemble the shape of something companies like Papa Johns can use to sellthe second coming of the messiah himself, John Schnatter pizza. And that's how you succeed in spite of yourself. Not through anything you did yourself, but because you're being pumped full of resources by some faceless corporation who has their hand up your backside like you're a muppet.
"That's the secret."
Olive takes a deep breath, seemingly the first time she's stopped for one on-camera.
"Wow, that's kind of a downer ending, isn't it?
"Don't forget to like, comment, and subscribe! We'll be reading and responding to the best comments on this video soon! Until next time!"
CUT.
"Olive?" Cassidy's voice rang out as he grabbed her by the shoulder and shook her, stirring her awake. The bathroom was spotless, not a Q-tip out of place. Sans the twenty-something sprawled on the floor, face pressed against the cold tile.
"Yeah?" she responded, rolling onto her back and rubbing her eyes.
"You look a little uh…" Cassidy trailed off, seemingly unable to find a nicer way to word things.
"Had a bit too much to drink last night, is all." She pushed herself off the floor and took a look around the room. "Maybe a lot too much."
"You left the party before I did."
She shrugged, glancing to the mirror. In the faint glow emanating from beyond the slightly ajar bathroom door, she looked better already. A sincere smile formed on her face as she looked back her brother — a perfect reflection, except for all the differences.
"What can I say? I'm a lightweight. Always have been."
"Yeah, whatever."
He rose to his feet and turned towards the door.
"Hey, Cass?"
He stopped and glanced over his shoulder.
"Do you actually feel like a grown-up?"
"What the fuck does that mean?" he asked, though his question fell on deaf ears. Olive's glossed-over eyes stared right through him, as if he wasn't even there.
"Yeah, me neither."
Two choices stared back at her as she inspected the little pink pill: the smart one and the right one.
We open on a black screen, accompanied by a poorly-mixed, way-too-fucking-loud sound effect of a shotgun being cocked. White impact font appears on screen, each line paired with an equally well-mixed shotgun firing sound effect:
HO SCIENCE #420:
THE FLEX APPEAL
WORKOUT
ROUTINE
EXAMPLE TEXT
HOW DO I DELETE EXAMPLE TEXT
The scene fades in on a medium shot of the Adler twins, Cassidy and Oliv
"So we all know that the key to getting ahead in any entertainment industry is star power. Failing that, you can also get ahead by being remarkably skilled in your given craft. If you can't say that about yourself either, you can maybe just fall back on some interesting, appealing aspect of yourself that an audience can sink their teeth into."
Olive slowly approaches the camera, jittering like she's going to jump out of her skin.
"Those are the facts. Some of you might be looking at your computer screen like I just told you Santa Claus isn't real and neither is a man who's actually five-eleven. You might be thinking that you're fricked, huh? But luckily for you, that isn't the case anymore. Now, Cass and I can't relate to that struggle at all, but we do know a couple of people who do and it's in their honor (and namesake) that we present to you this handy guide to getting ahead in spite of yourself.
"No superstar presence?
"No talent?
"No discernible personality?
"No frickin' problem! In this video, we're gonna show you the dos and don'ts of succeeding when all conventional logic says you oughta crash and burn harder than the Challenger. Without further ado, this is the Flex Appeal Workout Routine."
Shotgunfire.mp3 hits and we smash cut to a shot of Olive lightly jogging on a treadmill, her forehead glistening with "sweat" while a conspicuously damp rag rests draped around one of the machine's arms. In the background Cassidy curls ten pound dumbbells with the straps on.
"Whoops, didn't see ya there. I hope you've done your cardio, gotten your steps in and all that good stuff, because the first step of the Flex Appeal workout routine is running your mouth. Talk smack, puff out that chest, front like you're made of teflon because we all know that worked out great for the last guy who tried that. It doesn't matter if anything you say is clever, or interesting, or impactful, matter of fact it's better if it isn't. Otherwise, you might be treading dangerously towards having a personality and then you won't even need this tutorial.
"What does matter is that you believe it. Even if nobody else does. This is your calling card. This is your lifeline. When all else fails — and believe me, it will — you can always go back to the front. While you're doing this, it's important to make grandiose claims about your ability, to prophesize your dominance like you're some monologuing Disney villain, to do your victory lap well before the race has frickin' started.
"Wait a second, you might be asking. Why would I do that? What if I get the snot beat out of me? Won't I just look like the biggest buster in the world?"
Olive stops the treadmill and hops off, blotting her damp face with the rag. Cassidy is now doing bicep curls in the squat rack.
"Well of course. Everyone's got a plan until they get their ear bit and everyone's gangster until the pants start walking. It doesn't matter if you get absolutely pantsed when push comes to shove, this is a course about succeeding in spite of yourself, remember? We're gonna show you how to deal with that in a second, but first—"
Olive is promptly cut off, please enjoy this mid-roll advertisement.
Her eyes drifted from the pill to the mirror. Though her lips grinned, her face didn't match. The pale bathroom light flushed her already pale skin, seeming to illuminate every blemish on her face, from her puffy eyelids and bleeding eyes, to the crooked teeth hidden behind her wormy lips. Despite the blasting heat and the thick wool sweater she had on, she shivered.
On the counter, a neat row of pill bottles sat, all bearing one name:
ADLER, OLIVIA.
"Welp, what doesn't kill me doesn't kill me," she muttered to herself, turning away from the mirror. She shook her head at the pill pinched between her fingers and flung it into the toilet, followed by the handful.
Then, remembering the lock of thinning hair in the wastebasket, she dropped to her knees and forced two fingers down her throat.
"Alright, next up, I hope you're nice and limber."
We cut back from the advertisement
"Because right now, we're on step two of the program. We're getting nice and loose for some mental gymnastics. See, this is ain't real gymnastics, you aren't gonna be doing any cool flippy stuff that might get an audience to pop because that might actually require talent. Instead, you're going to be doing the kind of gymnastics that impress nobody but yourself and ensure you won't be getting laid anytime soon. But who needs that kind of external validation when you've built yourself a delusion as powerful as this?
"So you got punched in the mouth. So you got exposed. You tripped and fell and spaghetti flew out of your pocket so hard it gave your crush a concussion. Now what? There's three ways you can come back from this. Two of which you can do, and one of which you're going to do.
"From the jump, we can eliminate acknowledging failure and working towards self-improvement. What are you, the Dalai Lama? Nah, you're Gerald from Westchester and you've never had to experience adversity in your life because your daddy gentrified half of Brooklyn. You've probably never even played a real sport in your life; all you know is how to play one of those fake rich people sports like lacrosse. Personal growth ain't even in your frickin' dictionary.
"So that leaves you with one of two options. You can acknowledge that L but vow to not let it dampen your spirit or some dumb anime thing like that. But not really because even acknowledging that might lead to introspection and you do not introspect ever.
"Which means you have one option. Deny reality. Literally ignore the fact that you just got owned, pick yourself up, and start all over again. Like I said, this is a thankless art. No one's gonna congratulate you on being a delusional idiot. Except yourself. And Jesus Christ. Which is basically what you think you are.
"Now, we're onto step three—"
After this finely curated mid-roll advertisement.
Cut back from commercial. Olive is standing near the squat racks. Cassidy is being escorted out of the building for party rocking #freecass.
"Sculpting a brand.
"Now, you might be wondering, how do you go about sculpting a brand when you don't have anything you sell yourself on? If you don't have the presence, or the talent, or the endearing/hateable personality, what are you? And the answer to that is nothing. Which is why you instead base your identity around something so vague and intangible that it says literally nothing about you (which is very good since you're a literal nobody.
"Maybe you want to appeal to gym bros, or goths, or goths who go to the gym, or gym bros who listened to Marilyn Manson once, or weeaboos, I don't know that part isn't important. What is important is embodying the aesthetic of whatever you choose, even if all you nail is the superficial stuff. Especially if it's all surface level. Marketing departments love the appearance of hitting a niche market without actually understanding what makes it tick at all. This is the most important step. This is what separates the Nickelbacks from the Theory of a Deadmans (Deadmen?).
"You don't have the presence. Or the talent. Or the personality. But you vaguely resemble the shape of something companies like Papa Johns can use to sell
"That's the secret."
Olive takes a deep breath, seemingly the first time she's stopped for one on-camera.
"Wow, that's kind of a downer ending, isn't it?
"Don't forget to like, comment, and subscribe! We'll be reading and responding to the best comments on this video soon! Until next time!"
CUT.
"Olive?" Cassidy's voice rang out as he grabbed her by the shoulder and shook her, stirring her awake. The bathroom was spotless, not a Q-tip out of place. Sans the twenty-something sprawled on the floor, face pressed against the cold tile.
"Yeah?" she responded, rolling onto her back and rubbing her eyes.
"You look a little uh…" Cassidy trailed off, seemingly unable to find a nicer way to word things.
"Had a bit too much to drink last night, is all." She pushed herself off the floor and took a look around the room. "Maybe a lot too much."
"You left the party before I did."
She shrugged, glancing to the mirror. In the faint glow emanating from beyond the slightly ajar bathroom door, she looked better already. A sincere smile formed on her face as she looked back her brother — a perfect reflection, except for all the differences.
"What can I say? I'm a lightweight. Always have been."
"Yeah, whatever."
He rose to his feet and turned towards the door.
"Hey, Cass?"
He stopped and glanced over his shoulder.
"Do you actually feel like a grown-up?"
"What the fuck does that mean?" he asked, though his question fell on deaf ears. Olive's glossed-over eyes stared right through him, as if he wasn't even there.
"Yeah, me neither."