A Copywriter’s Blog
Humanity is trying to kill me. Ben Levy 17, January

A week ago today, ran an article stating that thousands of people were depressed after seeing Avatar. Because real life couldn’t compare to it.

Let me say two things to start with.

First, Avatar is a beautiful movie. Visually, it raises the bar for film. It is our generations’ Star Wars, replacing Cinnabun hairdos and walking shag carpets with elongated Smurfs and braids that have planetary ethernet cables.


Second, this article might very well be a hoax. A piece of marketing specifically calculated to get everyone talking about the movie for an extra week. If so, bravo sirs. You managed to get me to blog about it. But not before looking into gene splicing as a way to forever separate myself from the vomit-inducing shame-spiral of deplorableness that is humanity.

Even if it is a hoax, I am fully prepared to believe it’s true. That’s the sad part. It almost doesn’t matter whether it’s real or not. (I say “almost” because if these people do exist, they need to be rounded up, escorted into spaceships, and shot into the sun as soon as possible.) Regardless, the fact is that our species has sunk to a level where the statements in this article aren’t even a stretch.


What the very existence of this forum thread named “Ways to cope with the depression of the dream of Pandora being intangible” means, is that there are thousands of people on our planet right now who feel that sitting in the dark for two and a half hours is a more vivacious experience then taking a walk. It feels more real. Some advice for these people, and I mean this in all seriousness: please consider all the sensory impressions you get walking from a dark theater, through the parking lot, back to your car.

I really want you all to try this. Listen to the crunch of the gravel and broken glass beneath your dirty white tennis shoes. Inhale deeply, and smell the heady aroma of I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Called-Butter popcorn coming from the theater behind you. Feel the way your spine twists and shatters as I run over you with my car. Take it all in. That’s reality you’re feeling. In a second you’ll feel some more of it as I back up over you.

Humanity claims to rule this planet, yet damn near none of us could survive without a roof over our heads for more than two days. And I mean in the middle of New York. If you air-dropped us Bear Grylls style into the Amazon, we’d make it just long enough to discover our iPhones didn’t get wi-fi before tripping over an exposed root and impaling ourselves on poisonous tree frogs or something. So why should I expect those same masses to be able to distinguish between reality and some bright lights?


Always before I’ve blamed Hollywood. They have mocked my childhood by building multi-million dollar, 200 minute-long dildos to shove up the ass of every 80s show I ever loved. Repeatedly. And I screamed at them. I ranted. I refused to pay even one cent to see these reborn abortions. But perhaps I owe Hollywood an apology.

If there are really are thousands of so-called people who feel that a Ferngully remake is more real than my fist hitting them repeatedly in the face, maybe I should give Hollywood a break. After all, there are millions of idiots who pay for this crap. They make it profitable. Perhaps Hollywood isn’t really to blame. Maybe, just this once, I should apologize.

Of course, those fucktards got in a bidding war over the rights to the Atari game Asteroids. A bidding war.

I’ll agree with those azure-obsessed, movie-masturbating, mouth-breathers on one point. I fucking hate this planet.

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