Commencement Amusement : Will Ferrell’s 2003 Harvard Graduation Speech
Posted on June 26, 2003 at 10:24 am | No Comments
The fine folk over at Pure Content have posted the complete text of Will Ferrell’s recent speech to Harvard’s 2003 graduating class.
Not quite as much ha-ha as Conan O’Brien’s speech a few years back, but still a damn funny read. An excerpt:
So my gift to you, Class of 2003, is to tell you about the real world through my eyes, through my experiences. And I’m sorry, but I refuse to sugarcoat it. I ain’t gonna do it. And I probably shouldn’t use the word “ain’t” during this day in which we celebrate education. But that’s just the way I play it, Homes.
Graduates, if you will indulge me for a moment, let me paint a picture of what it’s like out there. The last four or, for some of you, five years you’ve been living in a fantasyland, running around, talking about Hemingway, or Clancy, or, I don’t know, I mean whatever you read here at Harvard. The Novelization of the Matrix, I don’t know. I don’t know what you do here.
But I do know this. You’re about to enter into a world filled with hypocrisy and doublespeak, a world in which your limo to the airport is often a half-hour late. In addition to not even being a limo at all; often times it’s a Lincoln Towncar. You’re about to enter a world where you ask your new assistant, Jamie, to bring you a tall, non-fat latte. And he comes back with a short soy cappuccino. Guess what, Jamie? You’re fired. Not too hard to get right, my friend.
(thanks for the heads-up, Heath)
Get In Touch With Your Metrosexual Side…
Posted on June 24, 2003 at 3:09 pm | No Comments
I’m quite comfortably able to report that while Matt and Jason may consider themselves budding Metrosexuals, I am clearly no such creature. I will not be categorized, Mr. Marketing Man.
I loathe shopping (fortunately Amie does enough for the both of us), and up until a couple weeks ago, the only hair styling products I’ve ever used were in my Robert Smith wig, on Halloween night, 1989. I’ve never picked up a pair of Diesel Jeans, I don’t even know what the hell those magazines are that those guys are talking about. Give me a good beer before a glass of wine any day of the week. (Seriously, give me one. Please? It’s been a rough day.)
Then again, I believe another indicator of Metrosexuality (or, as Jason says, “lady lovin homos”), is neatness. And I am, if anything, compulsively neat.
Matter o’ fact, the first time Amie ever walked into my apartment, she thought… “Oh my god, he lives alone, his place is incredibly neat, well decorated, he’s got a cat… and he’s not gay. I could marry this guy.” And so she did.
That’s besides the point, though. One symptom does not a metrosexual make.
Oh, wait, there’s the yoga lessons… and Trading Spaces on the TiVo. Awwwww crap.