In the world of comedy writing, “clams” are phrases that do not originate from the writer. Rather, they are catchphrases that have circulated on the internet for years, or ones that have been heard a zillion times after originating from a sitcom or a movie. Here are a few clams:
You had me at hello. (Or good-bye, or tacos, or beach house, or whatever phrase some hack deems funny, and never is).
NOT!
Talk to the hand.
That’s what she said.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that…
These phrases are so hackneyed that any writer who uses them should be professionally assassinated, and any writer who is not offended by them should find a new line of work. They exist so far from their original origin that it would be akin to saying Funions are onions, or that Cheetos are cheese.
I avoid them at all cost, and as I write my screenplay that needs to be ready for, oh, OCTOBER (gulp), at the end of every page I look back and make sure there are no stinky clams on the page.
But allow me to indulge in one today as I discuss sample clubs:
I was today years old when I realized that sample clubs are just leftover crap that no one will buy. CEOs deliver them to you in a pretty box and call them a “club.” Let’s take a cosmetic delivery club, for instance. Here must have been the conversation:
Head of Merchandising: So Phil, we have six million samples left. What do you want to do with them? No one wants to buy one small hair oil sample, or one mini-mascara.
CEO: Hm. How about selling them as part of a club?
HoM: How do you mean?
CEO: We’ll package ten to twelve samples into a pretty box, and deliver them to “members” every month. Make it seem like a great deal. We get rid of our crap, they think they’re members of an elite club.
HoM: Brilliant, Philly. I guess that’s why you get paid the big bucks.
(That was another clam)
I fell for this trick four times.
Once was with the aforementioned cosmetic sample club, a failure I managed to turn into a success by keeping the hundreds of samples I received in my travel cosmetic bag. Every time I travel, I use about a dozen of the samples. The pile is shrinking considerably.
The second time was the J. Crew Shoe-of-the-Month club, where I received a new pair of shoes every month for one year. I never knew what the shoes would be, just that they would be “professional.” It was outrageously expensive, but all I wanted for Christmas. I still have some of those shoes, as they were Italian made, and therefore last forever.
The third time was a Healthy Snack Club, where you receive pre-portioned calorie counted snack packs every week with items like dried fruit, nuts, and dark chocolates. I liked this club. When my snack packs would arrive, I could just throw them into my school bag. Then I realized I could make my own snack mix much cheaper.
The last time I fell for this was Stitch Fix, a company that sent me a box of ugly sale clothing once a week, clothing that no one would even buy when it came out new. I was horrified by the cheap merchandise, and quickly shut down my account when in my second box I received boot cut jeans, a peasant blouse, and clunky cowboy style boots.
I had filled out the questionnaire, and I thought they knew me. No personal stylist working for me would ever think I would wear such a get-up.
Did I say that out loud?