When I recently performed my quarterly Facebook ragequit, my spiritual adviser and life coach, Scott Haven, messaged me and expressed great concern. “Bob,” he said, “I cannot sanction this. You may damage your brand irreparably, and you underestimate the impact you have on the deranged schadenfreudists who follow you.”
I was reminded of the time William Shatner quit Twitter after an influx of particularly harrowing harassment. The next day, he was contacted by his old pal Tom Berenger. “Bill,” I imagine Tom said, “the Internet won’t be the same without you, or your social media guy. I never can tell. Your tweets seem pretty hip for an octogenarian, but what do I know? Anyway, come back soon. Love, little Tommy Berenger.”
Bill (or his social media guy) returned, and the rest is history.
It is tempting as all hell to jump back in headfirst, but I’m going to do this carefully and take a lesson from the greats. I need a guy. All the heavy hitters have one. Nobody runs their own social media except for Wil Wheaton and Donald Trump, and I’d do well to stay out of the fray lest I transform that lovely relationship into a triad rivaling the political map from a WWII turn-based strategy game (I’m the Comintern, obviously).
Nope. I hired a guy. He came highly recommended from Chewbacca Mom. Haven’t you noticed my little red notification packets of joy popping up on your icy blue globe recently? Last week when you got your first dopamine hit from me in a month, I bet you thought I’d done it again. “There goes ol’ Bob,” you said to your dog(s)/cat(s)/child(ren)/significant other(s)/body pillow(s), “up to his tricks again.”
I wouldn’t clue you in to my master plan while you still had time to stop me. No, I handed all my account passwords over to PR prodigy Will Giggles, Esq., a week ago.
“Bobby. Booby. Baby,” he said. “This year you were followed by Tay Zonday. Tay. Fucking. Zonday. Or his bot, but that’s no multilevel marketing bot! Look at this look at this.” He paused and tapped the surface of his impossibly thin phone.
“You tweet and mention Eva Green,” he squeals, his tiny fingers flicking across the glass, “ten thousand interactions, baby. You need to go down to Academy right now and get those fifty pound dumbbells you’ve had your eye on, because you’re a fucking heavyweight baby. Look at these replies. Derf Backderf. Andrew Cartmel. It’s probably not even his guy. Of course it’s his guy Boobala, but you’re a goddamned star.”
Don’t be fooled by his diminutive stature. Will Giggles has worked for the best. Nuglah. Steve Sutton. The Amazing Jonathan Ray (not to be confused with the Amazing Jonathan). I could go on all night but I don’t have time because I have to approve all these tweets he’s crafting. Check this one out:
On January, 1, 2016, I submitted my deadpool list to Santa and I must say that it has been a Very Merry Christmas. I may have typoed “Santa”
Knocked it out of the park, Will! His home runs are always 140 characters because if the counter isn’t at zero, you aren’t tweeting like a hero.
Now that the guy is out of the bag (he was actually delivered in a small burlap sack), rest assured that when you see Bob Talbot next to a tone-deaf political tirade, it’s Will Giggles working his magic. When you see Bob Talbot digitally hobnobbing with old British actors who fired fake guns at Daleks in quarries, it’s Will Giggles tickling those greasy keys. When you see Bob Talbot clicking Angry Face on your North Korea/Carolina meme at 3 am, it’s Will Giggles hammering the hormones home to your cerebral cortex. When you see someone crying over website metrics, it’s me.
Until I don’t have to hand over Benjamins to caress Stan Lee’s liver-spotted husk, make mine Will Giggles.