The Flack Files, Vol. 16: On Pampered Publicists

Dear Fellow Publicist,

This morning, I was all set to write a diatribe on Coachella and the attendees wearing crotchless denim cut-offs and lace bralettes whilst humping inflatable swans. But then I read the gigantic ass-kissing profile about a colleague online, and the wheels on that rant came to a screeching halt. This glittering puff-piece that sings the praises of how you “beat the odds” to start your own business made me irate during my whole commute. While I’m all about supporting fellow flacks, if the second sentence of your profile piece suggests that you…

1. Are childhood best friends with Mark Zuckerberg
2. Have a father who owns a Hollywood production studio
3. Cohabitate with a rockstar or actor
4. Dreadfully, have all of the above

…then I’m going out on a limb and say IT WASN’T THAT HARD FOR YOU TO START YOUR OWN WILDLY SUCCESSFUL PR FIRM. I don’t actually need to digest your deep insights on how to be good at networking. If you frequently find yourself at casual dinners with Jennifer Aniston and Sting, then you’re probably all set for connections.

As I’m sitting here, suckling the teat of the newest junior assistant in the dire hopes of obtaining just one non-advertiser Mother’s Day gift guide credit, you’re dreaming up a new line of artisanal dining slippers made out of fair trade virgin goat fur. Of course, you’ll go on to sell these to all of your rich friends and subsequently land that lone non-advertiser placement that I’m desperado for, because you’re conveniently high school besties with the magazine’s deputy editor and you two just vacationed together in Positano. I have a sneaking suspicion that your pitch is always going to overshadow my creative “Non-Cheesy Gifts For Mom” graphic that I designed in an outdated version of Keynote. Sigh.

In short: I give up. I’ll just get back to scouring Coachella Instagram pics in hopes that my client’s gifting product ended up in someone’s feed. So far, all I’m seeing is that ass cheeks are, in fact, Spring’s hottest accessory.

Forlornly yours,
The Flack