Joel Murphy

Back in January, I wrote An Open Letter to Erin Esurance, poking fun at the series of Esurance commercials that featured a pink-haired cartoon spy simultaneously fighting crime and extolling the virtues of affordable, hassle-free auto insurance. Not long after the column ran on the site, Esurance stopped depicting Erin Esurance as a spy and instead starting airing spots with her interacting with actual people, a la Who Framed Roger Rabbit. I assumed this meant Esurance execs read my column and decided to rethink their ad campaign, proving once again that my words have the power to change the world.

From there, I sort of forgot about the Erin Esurance letter. Lost started getting good again, a new Dark Knight trailer found its way online and GTA IV finally got released, so my open letter was one of the last things on my mind. However, that changed this past Tuesday, when the column got linked on Fark.com and suddenly tens of thousands of Fark readers found their way to HoboTrashcan. While the extra site traffic was definitely appreciated, the most interesting part of the whole thing was a thread of comments left by the Fark members.

The comments were quite a mixed bag. Some of them were helpful, many were overflowing with hate and quite a few were downright creepy. But overall, they were incredibly entertaining to read. So, since Fark’s commenters have shown me what an unfunny, talentless hack I truly am, I figured the best course of action would be to devote this week’s column to the comments they left me.

First, I’d like to thank Miracle Whip, The Slush and phaseolus for finding a few typos in my column. I should hire you guys as copy editors since you are obviously doing a better job finding mistakes than my staff. I appreciate the help.

I’d also like to thank The QMan and give me doughnuts for bringing something disturbing to my attention – namely, that the cartoon version of me looks like an “unfunny,” “slightly more retarded” Adam Sandler. If only one person thought that, I could deal with it, but the fact that both of you think that “cartoon me” looks like Adam Sandler means that I need to get in touch with Joe Dunn and have him come up with a better representation of me – perhaps I can get him to draw a retarded, unfunny Brad Pitt.

With that out of the way, let’s move on to the haters, the people who posted comments overflowing with revulsion and disgust. These are people that were so upset and disappointed in my column that instead of simply closing it out and pointing their browser elsewhere, they feverishly typed comments expressing their disapproval so that the world would know just how much they disapproved of my shenanigans. Here’s a sample of what the haters had to say:

Noexit

I wish that had been funny.

kemosabe

That all was worthless. Just wasted a minute of my time.

drunkenmidnight

I don’t find the humor in this, where did it go?

howski

I’m sure he has friends that tell him how funny he is.

dahmers love zombie

Article: teh fail in almost every way, from humor value to writing to editing.

“teh fail in almost every way.” That’s a stinging jab right there. Thank God I have friends who will reassure me that I’m still funny. Otherwise, I might never be able to look myself in the mirror again, now that I know comedy experts like kemosabe and dahmers love zombie hate my writing.

I will give the above haters credit though. Their comments are quick and to the point and unmistakably convey their opinion of my work. It’s really hard to argue with them. However, there is a group of commenters that I do take umbrage with, who I like to refer to as “the pot-kettle commenters.” Here’s a sample of their responses:

ScottMpls

If his mother sees this, she’s going to kick him out of her basement.

SgtArkie

note, to Joel Murphy, get a life

Unfair Issac

Dear Mr. Murphy,

I am pretty sure by the amount of time you spent on that, that you don’t have many friends. Perhaps it would more productive for you to use that time to instate a hygiene regimen that includes bathing more than once a fortnight.

Sincerely,

Unfair Issac.

Now, here is a group of guys who clearly didn’t like what they read and felt the need to lash out. They did so by implying that I don’t have friends, I live with my mom and I have poor hygiene. The irony is that this is coming from a bunch of guys posting on an Internet message board. They spend their days surfing links that other people posted and mocking columns that other people wrote, which I’m guessing doesn’t exactly make them the life of the party. (It doesn’t help that every time I read their comments, I begin picturing Comicbook Guy from The Simpsons in my head.) Seriously, I can stomach a lot, but a guy who uses terms like “fortnight” and “hygiene regimen” questioning the amount of friends I have is ridiculous.

Of course, I’ll still take the pot-kettle commenters over the creepy guys any day. While I expect people to tear apart the column, one thing I didn’t expect was a bunch of creepy guys who were disappointed because they clicked on the link hoping for Erin Esurance porn. Here are a few of those guys:

retro128

Was this guy trying to be funny? I don’t see even one fapping reference.

jagarr

weould’ve been much funnier if the article was about how hot she is.

durkzilla

Was hoping it was at least a love/lust letter….

TheGreyPiper

Yeah. ‘Letter’ was stupid. Erin is hot.

Dhusk

My Open Letter To Erin Esurance:

Wear more tight short-shorts like you did in that basketball commercial.

That is all.

At this point, I feel the need to remind all of you that Erin Esurance is a cartoon character. She is not real. Yet here are a bunch of guys expressing sadness that I didn’t focus on what a hot piece of ass she is. The thread is actually filled with lots more Erin Esurance porn talk, along with talk of Jessica Rabbit’s hotness and countless links to cartoon porn. I just can’t understand why anyone would ever want to get off looking at naughty drawings of cartoon characters. It’s not like it’s tough to find real porn on the Internet.

Of course, not everyone was outright negative or creepy. Some people felt the need to leave backhanded compliments, like these guys:

siva

Sure its not like geckos and cavemen have much to do with insurance either, but at least their commercials talk about Geico’s insurance without having some crazy plot that involves fighting a giant monster/robot. Like this open letter writer guy, I too don’t understand Erin’s purpose. Unlike this guy, I don’t really care enough to write any more on the topic than this very post.

dj_bigbird

well, that was a interesting way to waste time while I rebooted my SQL server.

accujimmy

there were too many words, not enough of them were combined in order to illicit a smile upon my face. Humorous concept but poorly executed.

nikitas84

Amusing, but way too long.

The column was only 974 words, but apparently that was too long for nikitas84 and accujimmy. I’m guessing these guys aren’t big fans of books.

But it doesn’t end with backhanded compliments. Believe it or not, some people actually enjoyed the column and even defended me:

vishus

THIS IS SATIRE PEOPLE~!~~!!!!

I Do It Wrong

Everyone step back and take a good look at your posts. You are all degrading this guy for being lame, some of you even complain about how it was a satirical piece of nonsense and he should have talked about how hot she is.

Friendly reminder to all Farkers:

At times it may seem you may never meet a guy/girl to Fark your brains out, butI promise you will. However at no time in any part of the future will a cartoon be able to pleasure you like the touch of a human. Cartoon drawings should have no sexual appeal and if they do, then might I suggest you watch 40yr old virgin and get some tips on how to avoid the sad and troubling life you are about to lead.

/feels terrible for making all the 40yr old virgins here uncomfortable…..NOT!

It’s hard to tell much from these two short comments, but I get the sense that vishus and I Do It Wrong are attractive, intelligent people; captains of industry that succeed at everything they attempt. They are gods among men, unlike the people who wrote spiteful things, who I imagine are lonely, bitter losers who will most likely die chaste and alone in a pool of their own vomit.

But I don’t want you to think that I am petty. In fact, even though most of the morons who posted hate-filled comments probably wouldn’t know good comedy if it bit them on their bulbous, unwashed asses, I will admit that one of the negative commenters actually made me laugh with his over-the-top sarcastic dig:

nytyper

ZING!!!

Take THAT Erin Esurance!

Man, this guy doesn’t care whose toes he steps on!

Seriously, that’s brilliant. It sounds like something I would write (you know … if I was actually funny).

Anyway, I should probably wrap this up. The column is already over 1,500 words long, which is apparently way beyond the average Fark commenter’s attention span. So let me just say thank you to all Fark readers who stopped surfing cartoon porn long enough to read this column. Hopefully you will all take a look around the rest of the site and perhaps even shower some hate on to some of the other columnists here. They are equally deserving of your scorn, I assure you.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go get a new cartoon version of me drawn before The Love Guru hits theaters.

Random Thought of the Week:

The writers of Two and a Half Men and CSI collaborated on scripts for both shows which will air this week. I’m guessing this means the Two and a Half Men writers finally gave in and decided to give us the “Charlie Sheen accidentally kills a hooker” episode we have all been waiting to see.

Joel Murphy is the creator of HoboTrashcan, which is probably why he has his own column. He loves pugs, hates Jimmy Fallon and has an irrational fear of robots. You can contact him at murphyslaw@hobotrashcan.com.

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Ned Bitters

This week’s inductee into the “Overrated Hall of Fame” is … diners.

The other day, Barack Obama caught hell for getting snippy with the press while trying to eating breakfast. He was working on a waffle while the press jammed 87 microphones and cameras into his face. Of course, they hammered him for his rare loss of composure.

I don’t think it was the press that pissed him off though. He and the other candidates invited such nonstop press intrusiveness when he declared himself a candidate for president way back in, what was it … 2002? Or so it seems. No, I think he was hacked because he had to make yet another stop in a goddamn diner, because diners inexplicably have become the symbol of middle America and the average American. I think it’s a symbol of the typical American Dipshit. (Last census count: Too fucking many.)

Who the hell decided that the diner was representative of the average American? Give us a little more credit. The typical diner denizen is a far below average, the D-minus American, if you will. Think about it. The candidates always seem to hit the diner between 8 a.m. and 2 p.m., looking for a stimulating give and take with the average Joe or Jane. You know where the average Joe or Jane is that time? They’re not eating a four-dollar plate of greasy slop that would clog the arteries of a grizzly. They’re at fucking work. Or watching their kids. Or in school. If you’re sitting in a diner on a Tuesday morning at ten o’clock reading the engagement announcements in the Local Boring Gazette, you probably don’t know what the hell the real issues are anyway, and I know I’m not interested in hearing your ungrammatical question about a non-issue like flag burning on that night’s evening news.

Maybe the fascination with diners is Hollywood’s fault, specifically Quentin Tarantino. His movies are filled with classic diner scenes where the characters dress cool and talk about cool shit like fucking Elvis and robbing diners. But in real life, most people in diners are not Samuel L. Jackson or Christian Slater. They’re more along the lines of Ed from two apartments down, the alcoholic loner who can’t hold a fucking job longer than six weeks, or Charlie, the octogenarian former security guard who is now posing angry questions about the candidate’s stance on the skyrocketing cost of those big wrap-around AARP sunglasses that seem to be mandatory eyeware for senior citizens.

Diner food is as overrated as the people eating the diner food. Sure, if it’s 3 a.m. and you’ve been drinking since 7 p.m., then diner food is tolerable. I’ve eaten many a grilled turkey bacon sandwich and fries after eight hours of drinking and a parking lot blowjob, and I have the scalding hot melted cheese scars on the roof of my mouth to prove it. But diner food is unhealthy, unsatisfying, flavorless shit. Yet these candidates, who have no doubt eaten in some of the world’s finest restaurants, have to pretend that they are just lovin’ to death that bacon-egg-cheese-sausage-scrapple deathwich they’re forcing down while they engage in what must be the most unstimulating conversation imaginable with unemployed handyman Buzz, whose trying (but failing) to formulate intelligent comments between bites gravy-drowned chicken fried steak. Because god forbid a candidate says he doesn’t eat that kind of food for breakfast. He’d lose the Disgustingly Unhealthy Fat Bastard vote, and in this country, that means election day death. (Then again, maybe these diner dolts don’t even vote. Come Election Day, they’re too busy sitting in the diner, eating the Election Day Red White and Blue plate special. It comes with bacon.)

Yet these are the people being pandered to and listened to. These people are providing sound bites between their bites of colon-clogging white toast, which is slathered with that chemically flavored unnatural goo that must be scooped out of a mini plastic container. (Note how the label calls it “grape-flavored” jelly. Ain’t a single grape used in the production thereof, I bet.) Then again, maybe these people do have some clout in the national debate. They are probably very interested in what the candidate intends to do to help those with diabetes, morbid obesity, high cholesterol, colon cancer and gunt tucks.

Instead of wasting time talking to the idiots killing time in diners, the candidates should stick to those silly factory visits where they don a hardhat and pretend to turn a screw or do whatever it is you do with a rivet, ratchet or wrench. At least they’re talking to people who are at fucking work. Talk to cops, teachers, firemen and other self-important whiners. At least they’re working folks. Visit a jury room. At least you’ll know those people vote, which is why they got suckered into jury duty in the first place. (But please, don’t talk to high school students. I really don’t care to hear the candidate’s view on “… like, what you plan to, like … you know … do about … like … all these perverts on, like, MySpace …who are like, always trying to like, get with me …”)

Here’s what I want to see on the news tomorrow night after one of the Big Three candidates visits yet another loser-filled diner in yet another podunk town in the middle of yet another redneck/heartland state. The candidate could ask Freda or Charlie a question such as, “Hi, I’m Barack Obama and I just forced down an egg and cheese sandwich and two sausage links that have me on the verge of puking into your hashbrowns bloated face. However, my lust for the presidency requires me to spend time in this godforsaken shithole and pretend that you are a well-read American who has the remotest grasp of at least one major issue facing this great country of ours. Do you have a question about health care, Iraq or illegal immigration?”

And the person would say, “What? Um, sorry, I don’t have time to talk. I just stopped in for a bran muffin and a decaffeinated green tea to go. I’d love to talk with you about your ideas on how to help alleviate the domino effect fallout from this mortgage mess caused by unchecked predatory lending, but I HAVE TO GO TO FUCKING WORK! I mean, I really wish I could squeeze into one those uncomfortable booths and eat the scrapple special and talk about the complexities of this illegal immigration issue, but I HAVE TO GO TO FUCKING WORK!” I bet even middle America-pandering Brian Williams could find a way to squeeze that priceless campaign moment into his Wednesday night newscast. He could sandwich it between two of the more important news stories that day: this month’s missing blonde girl and the 147th crying Virgin Mary statue.

But that will never happen. Instead, we’ll have to listen to another dumb diner-dining American pose questions like this: “Mr. Oh-bamma …my husband is laid up with a bad hip, and his INNsurance done run out, even though we was guaranteed four more years a-coverage. He lost his pension when the people who runned his company screwed up things so bad that the whole dang comp’ny went kaput. And them bastards ain’t even in jail or nothin’. I even seen one of ‘em golfin’ with Bush on the news last night. My two sons is in the Army. One of ‘em is still in Eye-rack, and he been there three tours and still ain’t got no bulletproof vest. My other son lost a leg over there, but the V.A. keeps fighting him on what’s covered and what ain’t. I can’t afford to go see him but once every two weeks, what with gas-o-leen over four bucks a gallon. So I has a question about something very important, something that will help me determine if I’m gonna vote fer ya.

“Why ain’t you wearin’ no flag pin your lapel?”

Ned Bitters is, in fact, overrated. You can contact him at teacherslounge@hobotrashcan.com.

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Courtney Enlow

This may come as a shock to those of you unfamiliar with me, or with this column, or anyone unfamiliar with the minds of writers in their twenties, but I’m kind of fucked up in the head.

Now when I say that, I am of course exhibiting that kind of blunt hyperbolic exaggeration people have come to expect from me, this column and from writers in their twenties. But I’m not being wholly inaccurate. There’s something wrong with my brain. And I blame Hollywood.

They say we learn about relationships and love from our parents, our families, those around us who raise us and teach us the ways of the world. But I don’t think that’s true. Because I grew up thinking my parents’ relationship was totally unrealistic. Why did I think this? Because it was completely different from the fictitious couplings I knew from movies and TV. My parents didn’t spend the whole day smiling, holding hands, then sneaking kisses when our backs were turned. They didn’t seem madly crazy in love. I’m not sure to this day I’ve ever heard them say “I love you” to one another. They’re casual. Like best friends who sleep in the same room. I didn’t realize until I was older that this was normal. In fact I was pretty convinced for years that my parents were trapped in a loveless marriage. But this of course was not the case. My parents relationship is normal and real. And they do love each other. But not “movie love.” And unfortunately, it is movie love that’s ruined so many people my age.

Top Five Movie Moments to Ruin People in Their Twenties (The Notebook not included because, let’s face it, we were already done for when that movie came out):

5. Andie and Blaine Reuniting at the Prom:

Molly Ringwald, every “normal” girl’s patron saint. She wasn’t beautiful, she was unique and that made her better, superior. And therefore every girl who identified with her subsequently believed that she too was better, superior, to every perfect skinny blonde with big tits. Because we had better taste in music, because we had better taste in clothes, because this, because that, and that possibly messed us up far more than anything else mentioned in this article, but that deserves its own whole thing, and if I get into it, I might weep. Best kept between me and my therapist, kthnx. Anyway. Popular hottie goes for cool different girl. He’s pressured into dumping her, but love conquers all. He just, to para-quote, didn’t believe in himself.

Whatever. Sit down, Andrew McCarthy, you with your neat hair and baby face. In life, none of us are ever Andie. We are all Duckie. That’s what superior cool uniqueness gets you. Duckie. Fuck.

4. Jake Ryan and Samantha Baker and that Goddamn Cake:

Okay, they’ve never spoken, don’t actually know each other, but the most popular senior in school is going to go for a sophomore that just stares at him all the time because she’s different from his perfect pretty popular girlfriend? How can that NOT destroy your soul? How are we supposed to watch that and then go on with our daily lives? How am I supposed to leave the house without makeup knowing that any given time, Jake Ryan might just be staring at me, deep in the thoughtful decision to pick me up at a church and buy me cake? That’s a lot of pressure, and frankly, I don’t think I can handle that.

3. This isn’t a moment per se, but the very existance of Ewan McGregor, David Tennant and Robert Downey, Jr. has caused more damage than is truly necessary. I mean, how are we supposed to be happy with our respective other halves knowing there’s men like that out there? Hardly playing fair.

2. Lloyd Fucking Dobler and Everything He Fucking Does:

This one is personal. Damn you Cusack. You more than any one person are responsible for these issues. I’m getting dangerously close to Klosterman territory here, and he put it better than me, so I’ll be brief, but how are we ever supposed to be happy with our average everyday men when you defined our notion of what the average everyday man is supposed to be? Because you embodied this perfect averageness, everyone else somehow fades to gray. No one can ever measure up. Even Cusack himself, if various “I met him” stories I’ve heard around Chicago are to be believed. And that’s not goddamn fair.

1. Meg Ryan Leaving Bill Pullman to Go Meet Tom Hanks at the Empire State Building:

This one kills me the most. Partly because of my sizable lifelong crush on Pullman, but mostly because of this: he was a good guy. So sweet and decent, and he loved her. And she left him for the idea of something better, something magical. And who can’t relate. Who among us hasn’t found a relationship, a love even, and been happy with another person, and been able to picture eternity, until that one little switch in the back of your head wonders if maybe there’s something else out there. Something magic. Someone who’s dropping everything to look for us, that special other piece that will make them complete. And Meg left her good decent man and went and found the magic. What are we supposed to do? What if there’s no one waiting for us on top of the Empire State Building? In the movie, it’s touching and glorious. In real life, we’d be fucking assholes to even go check.

Movie love. So perfect. Stars align, fireworks explode, music plays (depending on the genre or time period, the type of music can vary, of course). Two people come together and know that they’re right for one another. Maybe they’ve known each other for years, and only finally realized it after almost losing each other. Maybe one of them pined after the other for years, unnoticed. Maybe they found each other after being in their own miserable situations (miserable here meaning at worst “slightly bored”). Whatever the premise, the outcome is always the same. Happily ever after.

Ugh. Bullshit.

Look, I’m not saying that we simple “real” people can’t find happily ever after. I’m not saying we can’t come together with the one person meant for us and find that sweet forever. I’m not saying that because I don’t know. I think so. It’s what I’d like to believe. But I also see with the slightly cynical eyes of someone who sees the “real world.” The real world here of course meaning the darker sadder side of love. Sometimes with my own relationships, sometimes with those around me and yes, sometimes in movies, I’ve seen heartbreak, divorce, cheating and I’ve seen people who will live their lives forever alone. Per usual, there’s a war on in my brain. Because I can’t seem to find the happy medium. It’s hard to settle for anything but perfect fairydust magic love, but when we’re taught to never settle, how the hell are we supposed to know what constitutes “settling” in the first place?

This all seems very complicated. And it really seems like something I’m not equipped to figure out. So Dobler, I’ll be expecting you outside my window with the boombox soon, ‘kay?

Courtney Enlow is a writer living in Chicago and working as a corporate shill to pay the bills. You can contact her at courtney@hobotrashcan.com.

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(Click to enlarge.)

Jeremiah was raised in the deepest part of the darkest jungle. That’s why he smells like adventure. He currently lives in Elkins, WV with his wife, Becky, and son, Isaiah, who is epic and destined to rule the world one day. You can contact him at jeremiahwentz@hobotrashcan.com.