Here’s the thing about the internet: it helps to have a schtick. You can be yourself, cultivate a fine personality and develop a strong rapport with your social circles - but if you want to go anywhere, you’ve gotta get a schtick.
Now, this can be any number of things. Maybe you share pictures of a certain kind of funny sign. Maybe you superimpose the 1950s Connecticut Husky logo over things. Whatever it is, just pick a thing and run with it, and fame, fortune, book deals and co-branded shows with ESPN are sure to follow.
Me? Well, my schtick has been using the cuteness of my Pembroke Welsh Corgi, Holly, to smooth over gaps in my own personality. It’s a good schtick, and most importantly, it’s mine, and no one can take that away from m-
First of all - and I feel like it’s important that Bill knows this - dogs have knees.
Second of all - my dog, the real Holly - is scared of everything and fears change, so yeah, I see why he’d admire her politics, but she can’t vote.
THIRDLY, if that’s anyone other than Queen Elizabeth, you’re stealing my bit!
Fine, you know what? You steal my schtick, I’m stealing yours. No, no - not being a boorish, vile excuse for a human being who spews hateful filth on television. I’m not looking for a Fox Sports 1 show here. No, I mean O’Reilly’s other schtick, writing a series of half-assed Airport Dad Books, loosely strung together by titling them all “Killing _____”.
First, a pet project:
I would absolutely write this book if given the chance, by the way.
Hmmm, you know, this isn’t quite close enough to O’Reilly’s shit, though. I think I need to straight-up steal his titles, too:
This book sold 10,000 copies at the Youngstown B. Dalton on release day.
I can also use slight punctuation changes to make the titles work!
This book can be used as a doorstop, or to smash through a concrete wall.
Hmm, hmm, what else. Oh! You may know I have a soft spot for mascots. And we all love Puddles, The University of Oregon’s mischievous, silly duck mascot. How easily we forget, though, that another mascot once prowled the sidelines at Autzen Stadium. In this 1,200 page tome, we dig into his short, brilliant career, his ultimate betrayal by those closest to him, and explore his unknown whereabouts.
Hmm, ahh, geez, I’m starting to run out of ideas here. But the thing is, so is Ol’ Bill. His last book, which I saw in its expected place “across the aisle when I was buying diapers at Target” (they were for my kid, not for me, unlike his target readership), is titled “Killing England”. Huh? The first couple of books were about notable assassinations, and now you’re writing a book about the American Revolution and pretending it’s in the same series with clever titling? Fine. Whatever. I’ll take this one step further and brand my own local cable hunting show:
You haven’t truly experienced Thanksgiving morning if you haven’t watched Coach Boom punch a wild turkey to death while children cry.
Alright, I think I’ve made my point.
What’s that? You want one more? Well, okay:
Wait, that’s not quite there yet. I might need to steal someone else’s bit to polish this one off.