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How to Handle Haters

I think it was Thoreau who said, “Be true to your work, your word, and fuck all the haters.” Or whatever.

Regardless, it’s great advice. And I wish I would’ve taken it recently when a friend of mine said something this past weekend that was, well, not friendly at all. I won’t get into the play-by-play details of what happened, but I will say that he belittled my career.

[Insert sound of knuckles cracking.]

Because I’m not a mean person and not a huge fan of confrontation, I didn’t say anything to hurt him back. In the moment, I wanted to say a lot of things. Like, “You’re nothing but a jealous, Komodo dragon-looking bitch." Instead, I closed my mouth, walked away from the situation and took time to cool down.

Were I to do it all again, I still would not have said anything for the following reasons: 

  • It’s better to take the highroad. Stay classy, folks.
  • Anyone who is cruel enough to say something that will hurt your feelings doesn’t deserve your time, energy or witty comebacks.
  • Just to further my point in #2: If a person is being cruel, it’s not because they hate you, it’s because they’re horrifyingly insecure. So insecure that they feel the need to take it out on you in an effort to make you feel just as badly as they do. It’s important not to give people like that the satisfaction of seeing you upset.

That being said, sometimes action is necessary and if you want to really bring it, here’s what you do:

1. Prepare for battle.

2. Get your bitchface on.

But, like, make it really bitchy.

3. Then say something short and sweet, like…

Because, in the end, you have better things to do than waste time with people who don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.

And the truth is…

4. So, walk away and flip your beautiful weave…

5. And try to remember that…

6. This won’t be the last time you encounter a hater. But just take solace in the fact that they will die alone, while sometime in the near future you will sit on George Clooney’s lap, sipping champagne and not thinking about them at all, because they are less than nothing.

xoxo

My Voicemail to Chevy Chase

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Since Chevy Chase has been in the news recently for his rants on Dan Harmon and Community in general, I’d like to contribute to the discussion with a rant of my own!

That Time Chevy Chase Performed in ASSSSCAT and Picked My Suggestion

Well, sort of picked my suggestion.

When I lived in New York (circa 2007-2008), every Sunday I went to this UCB show called ASSSSCAT. It’s a fantastic improv show where they have a guest monologist, in this case Chevy, and a group of performers who create scenes based off of the story that the guest tells.

Now, because the monologist’s story is supposed to be completely new, they start the show off by asking the audience for a one word suggestion.

That night I was feeling frisky and decided to offer up a word: Grasshopper.

In the flurry of shouts that followed my word, for whatever reason, it grabbed the attention of Amy Poehler. She was performing, as she regularly did because there was yet to be a Parks and Rec, and she latched onto my word like a cat onto a bowl of milk. Amy then hurled “Grasshopper” at Chevy so that he had something to base his story off of. As the audience clapped their encouragement for him, I smiled securely in the knowledge that I, Erin La Rosa, had just provided my idol with material for his show.

Only…he didn’t seem all that excited. There I was, clapping like a seal awaiting a treat, and there he was, snarling at me. Or, perhaps grimaced is a better word for the twist his mouth made in my direction? Whatever the case I could sense that he wasn’t pleased and that, in turn, made the backs of my knees start to sweat.

Holy shit, is Chevy Chase pissed at me? Did I just ruin the original “Weekend Update” man’s night?!? Can he smell that I forgot to wear deodorant?

The man was wearing designer jeans and fumbling through an almost completely nonsensical tale of how he hates the quiet and could never live on a farm. I felt mortified for him. There were funny moments, he is Chevy Chase after all, but for the most part he was wringing his hands, repeating words and occasionally shooting me scornful sideways glances.

After 7 or so minutes of this, his time was finally up and the talented UCB performers took to the stage to make comical sense of what was essentially an unfunny story.

I felt horrible. I still kind of feel like I’m to blame for that night. Had he gotten some other word, say “Cantaloupe” or “Dan Harmon” I’m sure he could’ve gone on and on for hours and had the crowd roaring. But alas, he got stuck with my shitty little word and was forced to try and tap dance for the peanuts we as a crowd could throw to him like loving life jackets.

I don’t know, maybe he was excited to be there and his resting face is just naturally old man grumpy, but for the most part it seemed apparent that he was less than thrilled to be at UCB. Which, as an audience member and lifelong Three Amigos! fan, was a huge let down.

I’ll never forget that night and the guilt I felt from all of those snarls Chevy gave me. Interestingly enough though, when news started to surface about his general dickishness, my guilt began to wane. Perhaps it wasn’t just my mere word ineptitude that had set him off, but rather his attitude toward life.

Through dating and loving comedians it has come to my attention that they are often some of the saddest lot in the world. While they may shine on stage, in their private life they can be nothing short of horrible beasts.

Perhaps Mr. Chase is part of this sad sack camp. It’s not that he’s mad at me or Dan Harmon or whoever else, it’s just that he’s completely inconsolable and so his constant state is one of miserableness.

Comedy is meant to cheer people up, obviously, but because of that as fans I think we often forget that these performers are not constantly laughing and rather spend a decent amount of time filled with hate and self doubt.

Look, I don’t really know where I was going with this rant, much like Chevy likely had no idea that his voice mails would be saved and played for whoever the fuck would listen. But in closing, I’d like to end in the now infamous words of Mr. Chase to Mr. Harmon:

I hope you [???] medicine, you fat fuck. You didn’t give us a script to begin with, so nobody knew what the fuck was going on during the week. Second of all, your goddamn bad writing, shit stinko fuck, was an abomination; and your writing is getting worse, so suck my cock. I don’t get talked to like that by anybody certainly not in front of my wife and daughter, you goddamn asshole; alcoholic, fat shit.

You’re gonna live to be about 57, if you’re lucky, the way you eat. I have nothing to say to you except you can suck my cock. Is that clear?