I am such a fuckin dope. For years I laughed at old people for falling for internet scams. How could anybody be that stupid? You’re a white sixty-two year old from suburbia New Jersey, how the hell could you have a distant Nigerian Prince relative that you didn’t know about? Oh and they left you millions? By all means, share everything about yourself. Well I now have a Nigerian Prince of my own and his name is @stoolpresidonte. Emphasis on the “onte”.
I’ve been blogging into the void for years now without so much of a peep of interest. So imagine my surprise on a random Wednesday morning when I got the notification that “Dave Portnoy liked your Tweet” in regards to a blog I wrote. This was it, this is what I play for.
Infamous mugshot and all. I clicked on the profile to confirm it was Dave and sure as shit the El Presidente/ 3 Time Bee Survivor bio was staring me in the face.
Vindication. It’s pathetic, I guess, but I called my little brother to tell him. I counted all the chickens. I started running scenarios through my head of how I’m going to gently let down my current employer. Where I would live. What my first blog would be. What I want to do with this opportunity. Telling my mom. Everything.
But all he did was like the Tweet. I wasn’t reached out to but it was at least some kind of acknowledgment. I started to try and make sense of what the “liked” post meant. Did it mean keep up the good work? Did it mean keep writing those type of blogs? What was this hit and run mind game of liking the Tweet with no further contact?
I went back to the profile. This is how fucking dumb I was being. I suddenly saw that I was now able to DM Dave Portnoy. In my head I convinced myself that because he favorited my Tweet that it created a Twitter loophole that allowed me to now DM him. Yeah, I don’t know. Made sense at the time. Afraid that the loophole would expire, I DM’d him.
I’m not even going to post what I messaged him. Too ashamed. I was being such a professional dork that I cringed myself into paralysis when there was no response. None of my personality was in my Hail Mary attempt at being hired.
Against the odds, I woke up to a response from Dave Portnoy. Holy shit, this is it. His message: “Are you registered to the Barstool Sportsbook?” Uhhh yes, but what the hell does that have to do with anything. My conscience ran through the scenarios in my head. Just go along with it, he’s testing to see if you’re a company man. Or maybe it’s because all of my contact info is on there. Yeah that’s it. “Of course I’m registered with the Barstool Sportsbook.”
After an excruciating forty minutes I got another response. Before we could talk shop, I was told I had to be some kind of premium member with the Barstool Sportbook. He even gave me the phone number to contact his personal assistant to set up my membership.
Lightbulb.
Wait why doesn’t his assistant have a New York area code? Quick Google search told me that it was an Iowa phone number. Not completely damning but it started to shatter my morale. I went back to his profile. Fucking @stoolpresidONTE. Cheeky bastard.
How did I not see it? I guess the excitement. The prospect of getting what I’ve been working towards blinded me to the obvious red flags. I was so concerned with how to articulate my case. It also wasn’t lost on me that on the night Twitter was convinced the world was about to end was the precise moment that I was about to land my dream job. I just chalked it up to my luck and pushed on. I was so consumed by my thoughts that I never even realized that this fake stoolpresidente only had 1,243 followers.
Luckily I caught it before I gave up any of my personal information for this premium membership. I sent them my email but, whatever. I don’t think they can get anything from that but I changed my password for good measure.
I had already mapped out my entire new life without even scheduling an interview. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.
Can hate the player. Stoolpresidonte was probably licking his chops like, my God look at this fuckin idiot. My DMs to him were so bad that I can’t help but imagine him laughing at them. What a dickhead.
The call to my brother was horrible. All I had to say was “I’m a fuckin idiot” and he started cracking up. Like uncontrollably. Can’t blame him, I would have had the same reaction. In his defense he was supportive when we thought this dream was a go. Even helped me plan my strategy to pursue. But when it all fell through he pulled the rug out from underneath me. He’ll hold this over me for awhile.
Only thing to do now is order Chinese food and blast some Shania Twain like a champion. HA damn, I really thought this was my big moment. Stupid idiot. Well, back to the drawing board.
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