5 Artistically Acceptable ‘Corporate’ Sponsorships


Baby, I know it’s been over a month. I haven’t forgotten about you. I just haven’t been paying my bills. And I’m not just going to sit here all drunk from drink and lung-sick from chain-smoking anymore, looking at pictures of my son and his mother for inspiration while you long for me to pull something great and beautiful from my humid, hairy ass. Truth be told, I’m a little tired and unsure of myself. After all, you promised me the moon, but I’ve yet to be pulled into the orbit of a big, fat, three-figure check. Maybe it’s because you’re too cheap to buy my modestly priced e-book (oh how I languish well beyond the millions in sales rankings!) or maybe it’s because you find my presentation rude, crude and socially unacceptable, but baby, you don’t even read my posts! Well, I’m sorry I don’t have McInnes’s VICE cred or Goad’s “fuck feminism or any progressive-ism” white male angst or whoever else’s whatever that gets the hits. The only thing I do have is an idea. Perhaps it’s my last idea, but here goes:

Remember all those confabs we had about the evils of capitalism? No? Well, if there’s a next time, I promise to broach the subject without the long intervals of grab-ass, okay? Anyway, I was telling you that the worst thing an artist can do is sell his/her soul some cliché of clichés about how artistic integrity is paramount with the implication being that I’m the prettiest picture of unimpeachability. Hell, I think I even showed you that Bill Hicks rant about Jay Leno hocking Doritos to drive my point home (*insert deity here* bless Youtube!). But I was thinking about it, and I’ve decided that Doritos are delicious, and so are a lot of other things that could possibly aid me in my endeavor to get rich be taken seriously as an artist*, so why not use them to my advantage?

5 Artistically Acceptable “Corporate” Sponsorships:


Not to be confused with the computer programming company or whatever they are. I’m talking about the delicious “bum” wine that comes in purple and red and some orange-ish variant (too). For a time, I would pepper stories and blog-posts with references to the drink in the hope that someday I would be published or it’d be noticed somehow. It was dream of dreams that they’d contact me and bequeath upon me cases of their product so that I may one day drown in a pool of the shit. To my dismay, this never happened, and what’s worse is that now it’s more difficult to find. I’ve since shifted my allegiance to Johnny Bootlegger.


Without suggesting that I have an above-average size penis or that I actually use them, I believe it is essential for any liberal-minded artist to promote safe sex. After all, my target demographic is impressionable, corruptible youths. Remembering the constant product placement of them MAGS in Peazy’s oeuvre, the kids will wrap up instinctually before any awkward tryst. Or not. I just don’t like paying for prophylactics.


Speaking of things I don’t like paying for, cigarettes have shifted in the last several decades from a celebrated, ubiquitous act of enjoyment to a habit stigmatized worse than heroin usage (embellishment all mine). And I suppose the crusaders are right: I stink and I don’t look cool. But if I were to have an endorsement, I wouldn’t have to work a demeaning, go-nowhere job in order to support my habit. Hell, maybe they could even start Marlboro Man Press with my debut novel popping their publishing cherry. This would also go a long way to warding off the hipsters at book readings. “Marlboro? Really? I only smoke American Spirits. At least they don’t have all that garbage in them.” But they taste like shit. The only reason to ever smoke them is when you get those two-packs-for-two-dollars deals.

4. 7-11

Nearly on every corner in Dallas, 7-11 is the Subway of the 2010s. We don’t really need them, we don’t really want them, yet we patronize them because they’re there. Convenience is key (obviously), but if one has ever opined the inconvenience of walking, driving, or going long distances on public transit in the name of decent literature, this is an option. Just think! You can have a little bit of me in your arms as you walk out, stuffing your face with whatever novelty-of-the-month junk food 7-11 is using to fatten you for the eventual slaughter. And not to worry, if you get bored with my oversexed, under-cerebrated drivel, you can always treat your eyes to the glossy, colorful pull-outs advertising STUFFED DORITOS or whatever.


Artists—especially writers—love to eat. That’s why we’re so mushy and easily winded by most physical activity. It’s always good to support and have the support of these small businesses. You never know when you’ll have to lean on them for affordable sustenance. Personally, I like this place in Deep Ellum called Serious Pizza. You can get a huge ass slice of pizza and a forty for less than $10. Hell, you can eat for two for less than $20. And then there’s the fenced-in frontage—a tight fit—perfect for punishing unsuspecting customers with flirty (if women are around) and obnoxious readings of my rather offensive literature: an act all the more acceptable with the establishment’s logo all over my published works.

*However, Jay Leno still isn’t funny.

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