Dear Mr. Sag: Stop.
A long time ago, I decided to grow up
There came a time in my life where I had to make a choice. Either continue in my immature ways, or do the unthinkable and subscribe to AARP.
Faced with these two choices, I chose a cheeseburger and fries to go.
I jest. I did ultimately grow up. And ultimately, I count it a privilege to not be carded for cigarettes. Note: I do not buy cigarettes, although I did used to smoke. I am merely stating how nice it is to not be carded for cigarettes. Not to be carded because I do not buy them I mean. Because I do not buy cigarettes. Stop judging me.
I also count it a privilege to be able to vote, to watch certain videos on YouTube that require age verification, and to purchase alcohol, though the liquor that I tend to purchase are spirits the names of which are only ever mentioned in movies. For example, I was out on a date once, and to impress my date, I requested of the bartender a “Sweet Vermouth on the rocks with a twist please” because:
- I had recently watched Groundhog Day
- I am unquenchably lame
The bartender called security, my date ran off with the bartender, and I called my Pastor for emotional support, who asked me why I was at a bar and then married my date. I am not responsible for the bizarre things that happen around me. A gnome may have even been involved.
Being unquenchably lame comes with its share of challenges. Concordantly, it comes with its advantages as well. One of those advantages is that because I utterly suck, I am not familiar with things that are "cool", save perhaps tap water that is not turned to the side that has a red dot. And because I do not ever care what trends are "cool", I am able to grow up. And because I am able to grow up, I have decided to NOT wear my pants hanging off my ass, and I have decided to say "ass" because I feel it makes a stronger point than donkey, which helps me to avoid dragging the animal kingdom into this fierce melee. #chalkoneupfornature
In short, at some point I decided to grow up.
Conceal Thy Derriere Post-Haste
I am the type of human who was blessed with hair that continues to remain dark black, despite the fact that some days I feel like I am older than sin, and parts of my body decide to suddenly stop performing their assigned duties. So I look younger, but I actually am older. The truth of the matter is that I would prefer to be older: to be able to confidently use impressive words like “antidisestablishmentarianism” and not live under any pretense; but rather be fully rooted in all assurance that I can privately ask my wife what does that silly word even mean.
Sure, I used to be a strapping buck, a spring chicken, a little wet behind the ears. I used to be a tenderfoot. Green. Fresh off the assembly line. Do I miss it? My body does; but not my mind. Ultimately, I think we would all like to have the mind of God and the body of a juvenile cheetah, because people enjoy fusing unrelated things, and an omniscient miracle-working adolescent Acinonyx jubatus would also guarantee movie-deals, book deals, and lots of other deals that feature Almighty Quadripeds.
Where was I.
Ah yes. Just the other day, I was driving. I do this from time to time when I am not recording and I must have Taco Bell or I will perish. On the side of the road, I noticed a man who had to be at least in his thirties, whose bulbous butt-cheeks were outlined clearly through his Perry Ellis briefs, which were on full display as his pants sagged completely below them, ready to fall off as he tried to flee the police for indecent exposure. All I could do was shake my head, which is all I can ever do when I see phenomena that I simply do not understand, such as Caitlyn Jenner or the DMV. Or the following:
- why God created mosquitos
- what is the deal behind anyone saying the word “yawn”, and I must involuntarily obey them
- why my wife scoffs at watching another episode of Whale Wars
- that tiny little pocket inside my jeans pocket
- why I simply must win every fake internal argument with a supposed foe
- scratch that last one; I get it
But sagging. Oi vei. Is this some sort of new visual mating call? I ask this because I did not witness any large harem of females following after this man and oogling his bum. Cue a comical narration from David Attenborough: Ahhh, the American male, with his denim sagging below his supple buttcheeks, exposing, for all the world to see, far too much boxer briefs for Planet Earth to sustain, causing a massive exodus of the populace into sanctuaries that were previously the domain of wildlife. A phenomenon truly frightening to behold, as wildlife now replaces wildlife, and now all my viewers have fallen asleep at my narrational wooing. Yawn.
See? I got you! Close your mouth now please.
It is not that I despise this young man for his apparel selection. It is more a case of wanting to screech to a halt, get out, slam my door, saunter across traffic whilst gesticulating and screaming with a high-tenor angst, “What the bleep is bleeping wrong with you pull your bleeping pants up you bleeping bleep!”
So, yes, I despise him.
Thou Shalt Not Sag
I am a Voice Actor. And yes, I do all my own stunts. But the wagon I am draggin' is never saggin'.
Just the other day, I received a blog article from a voiceover colleague who mentors others. Among many other colorful words in this article which I did not read in its entirety due to Overwhelming Irritating Annoyance Syndrome, I note the following descriptors were used by her:
- Da bomb
- Bomb AH
- Hella bomb
- Beyond bomb
The writer of this blog is apparently a terrorist, and if you will please excuse me while I make a quick phone call.
Oh! “Bomb” is a word used to describe something that is cool??? Well now…see? I did not know that, because if you recall, I am old and unquenchably lame. Had I known that we are now employing detonating similes in our everyday lingo, I would have taken a class on explosives.
I kid. This colleague of mine is respected, and is simply articulating what she likes through comparing said likes to concussion blasts. The truth however is that I found myself distracted by the use of so many explosions in her email that I could not focus on where my dentures were, and my Depends are now soiled.
I know she would agree that there are certain laws of decorum for how we should operate as voiceover freelancers if we are going to be taken seriously. We are entrepreneurs. We are businesspeople. We want people to listen to us. In my humble opinion, professional conversation with clients or colleagues that we instruct does not include “bomb AH”. If we are sending out a marketing email, we should not use “Hella bomb.” In all of my test emails I sent out that said “Yo, I’m Joshua Alexander, and I’m da hella beyond bomb AH bomb. Hella. Beyond. AH. Bomb bomb bomb bomb bomb” I am currently 1 for 3,979,286 in replies received. My mom was the only one to ever respond. If I recall, her exact words were "How did you get my email address?"
So, NO, thank you, my butt is NOT showing. Unless I am in the shower of course. I am assured by my wife that it is ok then, as long as I keep the explosive similes to a minimum in there.
*from shower*: "Honey??? What does simile mean? Is that a metaphor for antidisestablishmentarianism???"
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- This is a fourth bullet point.
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Seattle Voice Actor & Voiceover Artist for hire