Hating on Dane Cook is obnoxiously pointless, sort of like complaining about the Teapot Dome Scandal or loudly announcing one’s love for peanut butter. It’s an unspoken you, a Promised Land of common ground for the enlightened, the elitists, and the salmon boldly swimming the other way. You might as well whine about Fall Out Boy or Hot Topic or the post-Johnny Carson Tonite Show. Those of us in the know already got those TPS reports. But, yet, here I am--penning another written harangue about Dane Cook. Send me emails about being unoriginal, about skull-fucking a wannabe frat boy inside the barrel. I don’t care. This nonsense is too infuriating not to rant about.

Dane Cook is getting kicked out of his apartment. For not cleaning up after his dog. And now he’s filed a lawsuit to try and stay. Why? Because he claims his heroes, Steve Martin and John Belushi, lived there back in the day, and their mere presence inspires him to create comedy. I think I speak for everyone when I say what the fuck? That’s like the dude-you’re-getting-a-Dell-guy freaking out about getting evicted from Marlon Brando’s old townhouse. Or Herbert Hoover bitching about not taking a shit in the same place as Teddy Roosevelt.

It’s not that I hate Dane Cook because, really, I don’t. He’s a talented storyteller who has an energetic stage presence. His acting is at least average for stand-up comedians making the transition to film, and I laugh every time I think about his griddle of justice in Mystery Men--but Steve Martin? John Belushi? They were visionaries who conquered the world on their own terms. Dane Cook is a decidedly mediocre compromiser who intentionally appeals to as wide of a base as possible through overusing catchphrases.

I endorse Dane Cook’s right to exist, but I will never willingly support comparing him to John Belushi. After all, you don’t see me trying to buy Hunter S. Thompson’s home in Colorado.

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