Just don’t. How the Nike slogan ruined my life. By Cedric Bigglestone.

We’ve all heard the words. Just. Do. It. They inspire us to reach beyond ourselves and accomplish more. They hold us to a new and higher standard—one defined only by how far we decide to go, how high we want to jump, and how big we want our penis to be (for example). 
 
It’s one of the most powerful messages in the world. It tells us simply that we should turn off our brains and turn on our hearts. That we should stop thinking and start doing. But it’s also a message of deadly deceit and treachery. It’s a message that ruined my life.
 
 
Part one. I hear the slogan.
 
I still remember the first time I heard the words. I was sitting on a couch and couldn’t remember if I was there to sleep or there for something else, but I was there. And the t.v. was on. So I watched it. And then it came. Some athlete doing something athletic. So cool. So super cool! Because as I sat there on the couch, I kept thinking that I could have been a professional sports player at something if I just had supportive parents and a coach of some kind. And a uniform. And maybe steroids? I don’t know.
 
Anyway, I loved the commercial. And right away I decided I would follow its orders. FOREVER. That means I made a commitment to Nike that no one has ever made. I was the most dedicated of all their followers, to the point at which I knew I would start bar fights with people after I would randomly ask them if they were into Nike and then attack them whatever their response was. 
 
But what began as an innocent fascination with a shoe company quickly turned sinister and dark. 
 
 
Part two. I just do it.
 
Like most people, random questions and orders enter my mind and they sound like they’re spoken by some Eastern European dude who’s really pissed off at me. The day after I made my Nike pledge, the voice was louder than usual. And it kept saying: “Just do it.” 
 
“It worked!” I thought to myself as I raced down the yoghurt aisle at the grocery store and tried to empty the entire shelf into my cart. As I did this, I noticed a very worried looking store employee watching me. I continued to stack yoghurts and thought about maybe kissing him, even though I’m not gay, and even though he looked like he didn’t want me to kiss him. 
 
Then the voice came back. Just do it. “Yes, master,” I said internally and grabbed the man (is a sixteen-year-old considered a man?) and forced my lips on his. He acted like he wasn’t into it and I’ll just say that I didn’t get to buy any yoghurt that day.
 

Part three. I do more.
 
After the store, and some lame threats from their manager and some random people, I started my daily wander down the streets. On a normal day, I would wait for traffic signals and lights and pay attention to signs that told me to stop or be cautious. But as I approached a major intersection the voice kept telling me to just do it. So I ran into traffic and caused a major accident or four. And a car clipped the side of my body, so there was that too. 
 
I ran off, a little embarrassed that I had been injured, but also happy that there was probably no internal bleeding because in my mind I’m also a doctor and cleared myself immediately. At this point I saw a dog I liked and decided to just do it and steal him from his yard. That didn’t go well either. Apparently, some dogs don’t like to be picked up or something. And they bite the shit out of you.
 

Part four. I begin to question Nike. 
 
After several incidents of me just doing it, I began to question what Nike was telling me to do through the Eastern European man’s voice. So far, I’d been hit by a car, bitten, chased out of several stores, and filmed several solo masturbation scenes on my iphone. As I pressed “send” to distribute them throughout Southeast Asia, it suddenly occurred to me that maybe just doing it was not such a great idea.
 
This could have been because I had “just broken into” my neighbor’s apartment and “just peed all over” his walls. Then I had “just left my signature” in his girlfriend’s lipstick on his bathroom mirror before I “just took a dump” on his floor and “just ran away,” back to my place. 
 
I heard him coming home and saying something like, “What the fuck?” And then he knocked furiously on my door as I “just hid” in my closet. 
 
I only had one question at that point and it was this: How could a huge mega company like Nike be so irresponsible in its messages to the public? Surely they bore most of the blame for all the incidents of the day. 
 
​
Part five. The aftermath of Nike totally fucking me. 
 
As you can imagine, when I figured out how Nike tricked me, I was unbelievably angry. I was even a little mad at myself for not figuring it out earlier. Then I thought about all the people in the world who probably did the same thing I did when they heard that eerie slogan, encouraging them to let go of all their inhibitions and do whatever they wanted, all the time. 
 
Today I live in fear of dogs, traffic, yoghurt, and running into my neighbor at my apartment complex pool. And it’s all because of Nike. 
 
How much should they compensate me for what they put me through? Probably something like eight billion dollars. That’s what I calculated in my mind and I believe is a fair price. But, knowing Nike, they will never give me anything, unless it’s accidental, like a manufacturer’s coupon that gives me like ten percent off something and they try to claim they’ve paid me off. That would be bullshit.
 
 
 
Cedric Bigglestone is a self-taught journalist who exposes things through exposés. Contact him at [email protected].