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Retards like to stick together, in fact, I'd be mighty pressed to tell you which of the two is the bigger egomanic, Carlos Zambrano or Erik Estrada, but for the sake of this iR, we'll say its Erik Estrada.
Erik Estrada strolls through the supermarket, another everyday shopper tending to his everyday needs. He is hassled only by the occasional employee asking him if he needs any help, to which the answer is always 'No, but do you know who I am?' and it is always answered in the negative. This bothers Erik, because he starts to feel like a ghost --like a mediocre ghost-- with a career hidden under many more years of mediocre television, and oh how ruthless that blonde dame Hollywood can be. Its not the workers that bother him, its that only the workers are bothering him. There are no old women drooling over his visage, asking for a rather hefty autograph; no young teens to beat off with a stick. He begins to itch. It bothers him, so he does his best to scratch the itch, and the only way to do so is by getting himself noticed. (Yes, he's that big of a pompous asshole.) What comes next is a moment of such pure desperation that anyone who's ever seen it knows that upon seeing it, you almost wish you were never born with eyes to begin with. Put simply, the vanity oozing from this man's pores is enough to drown the whole world, and leads one to believe that he perhaps spends hours in front of the mirror talking to himself and rehashing great moments on the screen, in life, and in bed. For Erik, the mere notion of a single human being on Earth not recognizing him is such a terrible blow to his ego that one could easily believe it could kill him.
His phone doesn't even ring, but the preceptive braggart picks it up with all the urgency of a man expeceting his wife to give birth at any minute, and pretends that he indeed has some important business to attend to; important celebrity business that anyone who happens to hear wind of it, will certainly come to decipher just who's business it is. He answers:
"Hello, Erik Estrada's phone. Mr. Estrada is busy at the moment with important business, so important that it deters him from answering his own phone, but I Tom, Erik Estrada's personal --and rather grateful-- I might add, assistant am more than willing to help you in anyway possible." And then he added, a total lie of course. "Make it quite, I've already got another call!" He proceeds to nod his head as if he were hearing great news, and responds intermittently with only the name of his 'boss' Erik Estrada, with enough gusto to ring out into people's ears, just like a ringing bell. "Oh! Delightful! Yes! Yes! And what luck. . . MR. Estrada just stepped into his office. One moment please."
An announcement goes out over the loud speakers "SPILL ON AISLE 4, TOM? SPILL ON AISLE 4!" And its loud enough that Erik fears it may have been heard on the other end, but he cools himself and hands the phone out to no one in particular at all. Erik then steps over and takes the role of himself, and immediately changes from fearful and tiny, to triumphant and gigantic. His chest puffs out like Hercules, his teeth gleam with a pure shine as Erik believes himself still to be young, and through every fiber of his being you can easily see it. And likewise when he's done, you can easily see how much it takes out of him. But now he's running along at full steam:
"Yeah yeah, hey buddy. I, Erik Estrada, have been good friends with you for a long time, ever since I, Erik Estrada, appeared on that hilariously great television show ChiPs. . . Oh you think its great too?! Yeah I hear that." Erik lies again.
Finally his efforts are noticed by a young twenty something and his equally young twenty something of a wife, strolling the aisle for some Rice-O-Roni. He's suspicious, as they appear too young to have been around during his hay-day, but then quickly his ego reminds him that the name 'Erik Estrada' is fucking timeless.
And that he's still in his hay-day, Goddamit!
"Oh my God, look, its Erik Estrada." The blonde wife says very nonchalantly.
Erik smiles, a warning signal.
"Yes, its me Erik." He stops, putting on that offensive horse smile full of pearly white dentures. "Yes. . . I'm afraid its me." He says, all smug.
"Wow. . . wait, is that who that is?" For even with a confirmation from the man himself, and even so much as an ID stapled to his forehead, people still struggle to recognize him. Most people just don't give a shit.
"Yup!"
Erik stands up straight, putting his arms out for what he figures is coming next: a photo op for two lucky customers who just went out to get the Sunday's groceries, but were lucky enough to stumble upon a star such as he. . . Clearly, a Facebook moment. . . He gets to thinking about how they will put the photo up and how all of their friends will comment on it and like it, and they would all be so damn jealous that they got to meet him, he! Erik Estrada! But to his dismay, the couple just laughs in his face and walks away. He begins to pout, for he had built himself up so high, and with a little bit of laughter the two had chopped him down, and with ease. The slightest bit of a tear graces his cheek, but before he can start a full on tantrum, his cellphone rings for real, and it shocks him so bad he nearly drops it.
What comes out of the ear piece is even more shocking than the notion that anyone would call him (he was starting to hate his cell phone for proving his lack of popularity,) for what comes out is a job offer. An actual real life job, paid with real life money.
His website would like to tell you different, that Erik is quite busy just being a celebrity, what with functions and dinners, and mini mall openings and all, but really, Erik does very little all day, except trying to get noticed. His website would also like to tell you that he 'captured the hearts of millions' with his performance on ChiPs, but that's a lie too.
But anyway, I digress.
Yes, the phone call was a real job, one which paid real money, and quite naturally Mr. Estrada was quite happy about it. In fact he ran right out of the supermarket, leaving his cart of goods forlornly left behind like some abandoned child; ran right out of the place into the waiting light of what he believed would be a more than earned (and in fact long overdue) run in the spotlight once again. A slight miscalculation however, in that this job wouldn't do anything for his career but further cement the fact that he was a has-been, and has been so for many years. But naturally Erik didn't see it this way.
Sometimes ego can do much for a person, and sometimes it can do nothing but set them up for one big let down, and in Erik's case, he's been setting himself up for one big let down, for years. He just doesn't know it yet.
The job?
Why to be a spokesperson for Butterfinger, along side two other washed up nobody's named Lou Ferigno and Charisma Carpenter, to be assembled together as a package under the title: The Butterfinger Defense League.
Look ma, failure in triplicate!
Now I was all set to write this phoney story about the Butterfinger Defense League, and how they had to go out on an assignment to track down a stolen shipment of Grade-A Butterfingers, and how all they had to do was just get Erik Estrada to waltz on in, because nobody would notice him anyway, and how he could walk out of the place with the shipment just as easy, because with Erik its almost like people unintentionally advert their eyes (just some natural reaction) whenever he walks by, almost as if he were a burning sun or a bright light. . . (Yes, epic run on sentence. Go me.) But upon writing it I gave up, because in all actuality, the whole fucking thing is stupid.
I mean really stupid.
At least when it was Bart Simpson hawking out the lines and saying all that cool rebellious kid shit he said, it made sense, because at least children watched The Simpsons. But with these three its just ridiculous. Do kids really know a thing about Erik Estrada? Nope. Certainly not Lou Ferigno either, nor Charisma Carpenter, so what's the point?
Whats the point of getting star power if those stars are lost in the eyes of children? They're hardly star power anyway, these stars died out long ago, all you're offering is dusssst. Is Butterfinger really advertising towards adults, the only people who could possibly know who these people are? And upon realizing, do they actually expect us not to laugh? Obviously you guys don't have any of the pull the Mars candy corporation has cause they actually have really celebrities to shove sugar down children's throats: you know like Patrick Ewing and Aretha Franklin.
All you guys can muster up is an Egoistical Nobody, a Half-Deaf Juice Head, and an Over the Hill Fitness Freak?
Why not lay down and die?
All three of yah? And the company too?
We can dig you all a big ole grave, and can put up your gravestone, and it'll say something real pretty too, something like:
Here lies mediocrity, may we bury it in the hopes of never seeing it again.
Sounds pretty right?
Well hop on in...
Erik Estrada, you are a nobody. Frankly no one cares that you were once in ChiPs, because ChiPs was lame and mildly gay. And its not even like you played a bad ass cop that went on crazy car chases and dodged bullets and always managed to come out of any scrape alive. You were a fucking high way patrolman on a souped up bitch bike. The most dangerous thing you ever tackled in that show was traffic, gridlock baby, and thats it.
Its real sad that you can't get over your stardom, especially since everyone else has.
But you could never really let go of being a CHP (California Highway Patrolman, for our international readers,) now could you? Certainly you couldn't, as these days you sometimes ride with a biker club made up of nothing but law enforcement officers called the Blue Knights International Law Enforcement Motorcycle Club. . . And you must think its really dandy huh, riding around in a 'pack' with your 'brothers' with a big snarling monster between your legs; ready to leap out at every flick of the wrist, huh Erik?
Huh?
Just listen to that rooooaaar.
Well Erik, sadly your little occasional rendezvous with your biker buddies don't make you anymore of man, no matter how big of a Harley you can straddle, just like you going around name dropping yourself and trying horribly to get noticed doesn't make you a star.
Or make anyone really remember you.
Or respect you.
Do yourself a favor and grasp it. Why most celebrities wish they had Erik Estrada syndrome. Most celebrities have to whack paparazzi off with sticks and sneak out of their homes under the cover of night. . .
But then again, you're to vain for that.
And it is for that reason alone, that iR declares Erik Estrada vainly retarded.
Erik Estrada got his start voicing a racist Mexican character called the Frito Bandito for the Frito/Lays corporation. The idea was that all this guy did was go around stealing peoples Fritos. Nice.
Erik Estrada was named one of The 10 Sexiest Bachelors in the World by People magazine in 1978. . . I'm sure he still holds on to that title with all his might.
Erik Estrada is actually a well known Latino actor. He's done shit tons of movies: fourty-nine of them to be exact.
Erik Estrada has also appeared in over thirty television shows.
Erik Estrada threw out the ceremonial first pitch at a Seattle Mariners' game.
Erik Estrada was on The Surreal Life, told yah he was a douche.
Erik Estrada is a full-time deputy sheriff in Bedford County, Virginia.
This about sums it up:
Oh I'm suppose to plug the show?
love,
iR
Wow - you're an idiot!
ReplyDeleteYou know it! Thanks for the comment
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