Let's Juice This One, Team
Let's Juice This One, Team
Or do I have to say it twice now?
Pretend we’re in a classroom right now. Just do it. Please. It’ll make this all feel more vivid.
Pretend we’re in a classroom and you’re all tittering about. I walk in. Dead silence. I’m a teacher in this scenario. You slowly put your phones down, turn your bodies to me. You realize there’s something wrong; my facial expression is abnormally, let’s say, “crestfallen.” I’ve got my hands on the back of the chair, I’m tapping my foot, I’m sighing. My gaze is trained on the floor right in front of me. It’s all so dire. You’re waiting on pins and needles—what is he going to say? Is he mad at us? What did we do?
Well, I’ll tell you all this much. You should know what you did. You all should.
“But Nabeel—I’m confused. You haven’t told us anything. All of a sudden, one day, you come into this room with a completely different attitude, and we’re supposed to just interpret that flawlessly and find fault in our own actions?”
I pull down the little projector screen. It goes a bit too far down, so I have to jiggle it a little and pull it back down so it goes up, but it just kind of tops out and angles to either side on the right and left, so I tug it again, and then it goes back up too far, so then I have to slowly pull the handle back down and place it in the correct position, finally, after a minute or so. I’ve been cursing and saying “Fuck! Fuck!” the whole time.
I pull out a remote (it’s been in my back pocket the whole time) and point it at the screen. I click a button. An image pops up. And now, finally, you all see what I’ve brought you in for:
I’m not going to get mad, at this point. I’m not going to yell or scream or call you names. But to all of you fuckass clowns reading this right now (we’ve exited the imaginary classroom, keep up), all of our useless subscribers who never do anything to help us grow our investment portfolios and transcend our current class station, all of you supposed friends and family and fans who clearly don’t actually care about us—what the fuck?
This is a two-way street. This is a symbiotic relationship. We scratch your back (provide you with mounds upon mounds of weekly content, both devoid of originality and utterly sexless), you scratch ours (share this dogshit as widely as possible, so that we can use this as a potential career stepping stone later in life, because why else would anyone keep writing this for 3 years?).
🚨🚨🚨 AFFILIATE LINKS: If you purchase from either of these links (for Nabeel), you will receive a personalized email that says “Thanks.” 🚨🚨🚨
It just feels like—honestly—you haven’t been holding up your end of the bargain. For us to go almost twenty days with nary a new subscriber to show for it? That’s not our fault. Not at all. It’s not because of the relative dip in quality here. No. It’s because you guys haven’t been doing anything helpful or generous at all. If it wasn’t clear before, all we care about is growing this thing as fast as possible. We are in the market for hockey stick growth, nothing else, and once it’s financially feasible for us, we will ditch you all for people that will be willing to pay.
And before you hit us with, “Oh, but Nabeel and Ritam! Father Elon has made it impossible to share Substack links on Twitter—I mean, X, sorry—thereby castrating the one form of natural growth Low Lift Ask may have benefited from. What say you?” Before you hit us with that, just listen to yourself talk. Just for one second. Instagram. TikTok. Facebook. Strava captions. Roku City. Physical postcards. Receipt at restaurant upon which you normally would leave your number for the hot waiter. Think of all the other delivery channels we have available to us. Get out of here with that X shit…
🚨🚨🚨 #ErasTour Ramaswamy Iger Bad Bunny Critical Race Theory Indictment Prigozhin Alcaraz #SpiderMan2PS5 Barstool Smokeshow Zadie Smith Feinstein/McConnell Covid-19 Spike Taiwan Semiconductor Wildfire Refugee Crisis Cybertruck ACC Stanford Jacob Elordi Barbenheimer 🚨🚨🚨
So let’s all come back together for a second. We’re going to take this as a learning opportunity. And what we’re going to do, today, is blast this fucking thing to the moon. I’m going to riddle this bad boy with “Subscribe” buttons, virality-friendly images, SEO-friendly copy—anything to make this post as easy to share as possible. I’m going to make it genuinely unreadable. Just let it rip. Share it with a prompt, like, “What was the event at your high school?” That one always works. We are aiming squarely for “Planet of the Bass” numbers here. Nothing less than that will be tolerated.
Here we go, team. The next 48 hours will be crucial for us. Because if we don’t catch the right social media Venn diagrams, if our match doesn’t strike as quickly or burn as brightly, we are fucked. So quit scratching your nuts and get out there, pound the pavement, blare the megaphone. Godspeed, my friends. I’m praying you decide to make up for this grave lapse in judgment, and hopefully, when the dust settles and the piercing light of morning breaks through, we’re looking at a new reality.
Ritam’s Footnote
I bought one of those ads that’s the banner that trails behind biplane. It cost $49,000, is going to be up in 2028, and will be flying exclusively over the Mariana Trench