It’s an insulting proposition, since the first part should really go without saying. I mean, unless you’re a government worker, you shouldn’t have to be reminded to work hard at your job. So you cancel out the “Work Hard” part, and you’ve already dismissed one half of this westernized Confucianism.
As for playing hard? Really? What the hell does that statement even mean? Dripping hot wax on your nipples? Sumo wrestling in sandpaper diapers? It’s sadomasochism on a stick is what it is.
Play Hard? Do you know who Played Hard? The Nazis, that’s who. Sue me for not wanting to play right along with those Third Reich charmers, okay? Besides, I know what playing really means because the Merriam Webster bible tells me so . . . cool?
According to Merriam, playing is defined as frolicking and jesting and having sexual relations. Now, I don’t know about you but that is MY idea of playing. I’m going with Merriam over the ad agency putz who came up with “WHPH”. That genius probably needed a last minute slam dunk to save his love shack in the Hamptons. It was all about consumerism with his bad puppy motto. It fit on a T-shirt, so Work Hard married Play Hard.
This is reality I’m talking here. Playing is fun, it’s not hard. That’s why it’s called playing. If it was really truly hard, do you think most Americans would go anywhere near it? Hell? . . . meet No. American inventions include the recliner, the Hoveround and the Clapper. As a point of fact, Americans are not exploring uncharted territories with anywhere near the vigor of their ancestors. They’re barely capable of rolling up a half eaten bag of potato chips. Hence, the chip clip.
Work Hard/Play Hard is all about demographics. Young, hip, upscale consumers with too much money and not nearly enough common sense were the target market. You know, those No Fear t-shirt wearing bad asses who have to get their girlfriends to kill the spider in the bathroom so’s they can bubble bath on the sly.
Listen fellas . . . Real men have fear. The mark of a real man is to overcome those fears by reading up on Emerson and gulping Scotch. To have no fear whatsoever is to be a sociopath.
Someone should let these studs know they’re being used for their magnifique testosterone counts and we’re all paying for it. Because as things currently stand, I pay twenty seven times more than I paid just fifteen years ago for outdoor equipment.
As far as working and playing are concerned, I want a divorce.