My brother and I stay in contact most regularly on Facebook, where he had the audacity to share this meme the other day:
Not one to accept bullshit easily, I immediately responded with this: “This is in response to my demented older brother who prefers hockey to basketball.”
Side note: Here’s the real difference between my older brother and me. His meme was shared from someone else’s site. I made mine myself. Now that I know how easy it is to make a “Most Interesting Man” meme (and that it’s free), all bets are off.
His words carry weight that would break a less interesting man’s jaw
Every once in a while, Madison Avenue gets it right and an advertising campaign takes on a life of its own. When I was in my late twenties and early thirties, 
Miller Lite’s “Tastes Great . . . Less Filling” campaign went viral. This simple disagreement about what was more remarkable about Miller Lite—either that it tasted more like real beer than expected or that its reduced calories made it possible to drink more of it without feeling bloated—started showing up in the strangest places.
During the campaign’s heyday, I was studying for my Master’s degree at the University of Wyoming and never missed a UW Cowboys’ basketball game. During time-outs, the student section behind the basket at one end of the arena would stand as if on cue, point threateningly at the student section behind the other basket, and scream TASTES GREAT!!! at the top of its lungs. In response the opposite section would rise as one, point back and scream LESS FILLING!!! Back and forth the challenge would go, louder and louder, soon involving every one of the several thousand fans in a competition that for the moment was more intense than the game on the court.
When opportunity knocks and he’s not home, opportunity waits.
One of Jeanne’s favorite ad campaigns over the years, now in mothballs, was the talking baby on E-trade ads—“I guess that riding the dog like a small horse is frowned upon in this establishment!”—who never failed to cause her to laugh uproariously. I found those ads occasionally amusing, but personally find talking babies creepy. My own favorite campaign, one that also unfortunately has run its course, is Dos Equis’ “The World’s Most Interesting Man.”
In a past life, he was himself.
The picture of suaveness and refinement, perfectly dressed for every occasion, sporting the perfectly groomed salt-and-pepper beard I wish I could grow, surrounded by gorgeous women, various ads show The World’s Most Interesting Man saving babies from fires, playing polo or cricket, and generally excelling at everything he does, as the voice over reveals various remarkable facts about him.
His mother has a tattoo that says “son.”
Some ads include life advice from The World’s Most Interesting Man.
The World’s Most Interesting Man on Skateboarding: “No”
Or
The World’s Most Interesting Man on Boxers or Briefs: “What comes between a man and his pants is his own business”
Each ad concludes with The World’s Most Interesting Man at table in a mahogany-paneled room, flanked by beautiful people, lifting a glass of beer toward the viewer. “I don’t always drink beer, but when I do, I prefer Dos Equis. Stay thirsty, my friend.” The World’s Most Interesting Man is every man’s best imagined self, the man whom he would like to bring into the world every day but who is never available.
Napoleon is a central character in Tolstoy’s War and Peace; he is one of the few human beings ever—along, perhaps, with Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, and a few others—who actually was able to for a number of years to not only believe that he was The World’s Most Interesting Man but also to have millions of people agree with him and to see events bear their collective opinion out. One of my favorite chapters in Tolstoy’s novel is at the Battle of Borodino , where Tolstoy gives the reader access to Napoleon’s inner dialogue as he slowly realizes that, on this day at least, he is not The World’s Most Interesting Man.
There is a Napoleon in each of us convinced that we are the center of the universe and undoubtedly the world’s most interesting and important human being. It’s just that for most of us this inner World’s Most Interesting Person never seems to show up except when we are alone.
He once had an awkward moment, just to see what it felt like.
My position directing a large academic program for four years in the middle of the 2010s often required me to act as if I had more confidence than I actually do, as if I was the academic version of The World’s Most Interesting Man (and Most Effective and Intimidating Program Director). Sometimes props help. When a favorite coffee cup at work, a cup for which I paid forty dollars because a monk made it, was shattered while director when I dropped it on a particularly stressful day, I was forced to consider which coffee cup to bring from home as my replacement Director’s coffee cup. The top candidate was this one:
I imagined that it could do double duty as the Development of Western Civilization version of a speaking staff, and I would allow each faculty member at meetings to hold it as they speak. Of course that never happened–probably because I’m not the world’s most interesting man.
But I do come closest to letting my internal “Most Interesting Man” out at work. On the door of my philosophy department office for several years was a take-off on “The World’s Most Interesting Man” that I found on-line. There he is, perfectly coiffed, manicured and dressed, holding a glass of beer and saying
I don’t always hear from God, but when I do, He sounds like me
What I suspect made this ad campaign so amusing to me and many others is that it actually hits very close to home. We really do frequently believe and act as if we are the world’s most interesting human, usually to discover in short order that not only are we not that interesting, we’re not even that important in the larger scheme of things. The Psalms are particularly effective at pricking balloons of self-importance. Consider Psalm 62, for instance:
Common folk are only a breath,
The great are an illusion.
Placed in the scales they rise;
They weigh less than a breath.
“Placed in the scales they rise”—as my friend Ivan once commented, that’s the ultimate description of a lightweight. Psalm 62 closes with a solemn reminder:
For God has said only one thing;
Only two do I know:
That to God alone belongs power,
And to you Lord, love;
And that you repay us all
According to our deeds.
God’s coffee cup, which I’m sure is as vast as the Pacific Ocean outside my retreat room on Big Sur a few years ago, undoubtedly says
I AM a BIG fucking deal . . . and you’re not
Good to keep in mind. And yet . . . this is the same God who invites me to intimacy and friendship. It is probably best to keep my inner “World’s Most Interesting Man” to myself—except on those rare occasions when I just have to let him briefly see the light of day.
He wouldn’t be afraid to show his feminine side—if he had one.
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