When I'm about to commit suicide with a cocktail of Jack Daniel's and Mr. Clean and / or register to school for chimney sweeps, while never having to intoxicate people with tall tales and fraud reports like "A Diamond is Forever" (and if you fall in the toilet?), all in all I think about what is more miserable and debilitating life art director than the copywriter. The art director, who despite the title the only thing they have is the power to direct the flow of their urine and if women are not even that, look a bit like 'the sad clown. Apparently
always smiling and ready to be broken with the spirit T-shirts - in the most tragic cases designed and made in person, the Seven Nation Army and Coldplay all day at the ball and the air with a playboy any gnugna under 65 walking through agency.
In fact, Donnette hominids and perpetually bent on Mac (many art boobs are, since they are gravitationally favored to retain that position as well as in personnel selection) to destroy the eyeballs to look for images, logos and layout enlarge shit, under the whip of accounts that require changes every half hour to two hours, nights and weekend days spitting blood on ads for which we pray is not made their name in the press release. This
when junior senior once, besides continuing to waste the existence of hacking a graphics tablet, sometimes come into contact with photographers and directors, increasing the their inferiority complex towards what really makes a creative work without working like a cock.
But the main difference is that the copywriter's art have ten times less time to lick your ass and dc, and this explains why, in Italy on 8 AD, 10 are former copy, except for those which are paired with a copywriter who has raised them compassionately with themselves: as a rule, these copy boys with big tits art.
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