You would think after years of designing King Day programs and spending hundreds of days immodestly, interminably congratulating themselves for their uniquely splendid achievements, the King Day Committee not only would be hunchbacked from self-adulation but that they would have learned a rudimentary principle:
When ya got a hot product, friends, ya gotta sell it.
Hillbillies who never left the woods or owned a pair of sox know that.
Small, unworldly children who pitch lemonade on summertime street corners know that.
But you, you pseudo-sophisticates, are too stubborn, too blind, too self-consumed, too uneducated to comprehend the First Commandment of salesmanship.
A seventh-grader at the Middle School who wanted to unload his bicycle would have done a more effective job of spreading his message across Culver City and beyond.
Yesterday’s smashing show was a world-class program.
You boobs, through inertia and/or the worst case of naiveté since caveman days, blew it.
The message of promotion — all, please repeat after me — is so darned sophisticated, it has eluded you otherwise successful people for lo, these many years.
Perhaps next year King Day can be held in a closet to accommodate the underwhelming crowd.
Whether it was higgly-piggly or through genuine planning, a sterling program was created.
Then the slowest minds on the committee pathetically assumed charge.
“We formed the program — our responsibility is over — let’s spend the rest of the time feting ourselves,” the geniuses said to each other.
You should be not only embarrassed but ashamed of yourselves.
If the committee is not fired, there is no reason to be optimistic about next year.
