Jordan Klepper

Justin Timberlake, I want to hate you.  You have a pedigree that is filled with things that I find enjoyment in having an open disdain for.  You have a ton of money, are incredibly successful, and you were in a boy band.  You’re a true trifecta on my list of internally justified hatred. 

The thing is, as hard as I try I can’t do it.  Oooh, I want to.  I want to sooo bad.  I eagerly watch your live performances waiting to make a snide comparison to Michael Jackson, or praying to see a glimmer of doubt in your eyes.  But I don’t.  That is, I don’t see the glimmer of doubt.  I do make the snide comment about your skills being a faint recreation of the King of Pop’s, but I make that quip half-heartedly.  I kind of like your awesome fancy feet.  Ahh, I want to hate your dancing shoes!

You’re making this whole “being successful” thing look easy. It’s like life is a playground, and you can swing the highest, monkey bar the fastest, and win tic-tac-toe the easiest on one of those spinny yellow things you play tic-tac-toe on. What’s that called? You probably know, because it’s all so goddamn easy for you.

Your Budweiser commercial almost did it.  Selling crappy beer, and trying to make it look like a swank Sinatra drink? That’s super lame.  A guy like me, a jealous, spiteful, prick of a person, can really get behind judging an act like that.  But when that song of yours kicks in, I kind of like it. I don’t love it. But dammit, I don’t hate it.  And I want to hate it.

So, here’s what I propose. You, Justin Timberlake, steal, kill and then proceed to eat a puppy.  If you were able to do those things, I would have no qualms with thoroughly hating you. 

You’re probably thinking “Can’t I just steal and kill a puppy?” The answer is no. Michael Vick did awful things and I still find myself kind of excited about his football abilities. The last thing I want is to find myself impressed by the smooth hip-shakes of a dog killer.  I’d hate myself for it.  And that’s not what I’m after. I already judge my own life.  My happiness comes in the judgment of others.  Specifically, those who are successful.  And good looking.  And rich.  And talented.  And kind.  No, you have to eat the dog!  Puppy, to be specific.  If you want to really do me a favor, steal the puppy from a kid who really loves it.  Preferably, a sad kid who has no friends outside of this little runt of a dog.  Maybe the puppy is a mutt with a gimpy paw.

Give it some thought.  You’re probably too busy enjoying being good at everything, and spending all your time talking about the opportunities you have. But if you have half a second, in your fairy tale of a life, take the opportunity to be a real man and eat a puppy. 

I love you fancy Jamaican lady at jury duty. 

Are you always this fancy?

You seem to enjoy your lady suit.  Do you not get to wear it often?  Well, I think you look great, and I can tell it makes you confident- not that you need it, you’re a fancy Jamaican lady! 

Say that again?  Partially, because I want to hear those lovely Caribbean tones, and partially because I am legitimately having difficulty understanding your request.  But you’re talking to me!  Of all the introverted jurors sitting around this sparse table, you thrust your phone to me!

A picture? Of course fancy Jamaican lady at jury duty.  I’d be honored.  If I were wearing a power suit, nineteen stories up, I’d want a picture of myself in front of the window too!  That skyline!  You can see the bridge, most of downtown, and in the foreground- one fancy Jamaican lady!

Good, get a serious one.   Like a powerful attorney.  You could be a powerful attorney, fancy Jamaican lady.  Or a lecturer.  Or a Condoleezza Rice.  You’re put together, have fancy glasses and a haircut that’s just right.  You’ll be foreperson for sure.  I’d vote for you.  You tell me if he’s guilty or innocent and I will follow you.  You see clear when there is fog.  You shine bright when there is darkness.  You look awesome with the Freedom Tower in the background! Another with you looking pensive and away?  You got it!

You want to see how they turned out?  Of course.  If you don’t mind, I’ll go into your camera’s photos and show them to you.  Your nails are too long to be effective on this silly phone, let me do it for you.  Look at all these sad jurors.  They are missing out.  We’re bonding; we’re having a great time.  Me, a trusty sidekick to a backlit fancy Jamaican lady.  Fuck, you’re backlit.

I’m an idiot.  The rush of acceptance and the chance to be of assistance to the fancy Jamaican lady on jury duty, and I immediately forget basic photographic rules.  These pictures are useless.  Sure the background is fine, but it’s the foreground that’s important!  The room can sense my failure.  They were chosen to be fair and impartial, but I can sense their judgment rising.  Think.

Think!

Listen.

What’s that you say, fancy Jamaican lady at jury duty?  We’ll just take one with my back to the window, and this bland white wall behind you?  Of course we will.  Downtown was too busy a backdrop.  Just like the laser background when we were kids.  This is about capturing a moment.  This is about capturing a feeling.  This is about framing a fancy Jamaican lady who is at jury duty.  She’s majestic.  One looking at the camera.  One looking away.  Two more looking away.  Wild one for fun?  You’re right; this is no place for silliness.  Thanks.  It didn’t feel like a scolding because you did it with a smile.  I’m guilty of loving you fancy Jamaican lady.