I used to think professionalism was the point.
I wrote crisp decks in measured language. Nothing was too weird or too loud. Every line survived a legal review. I built whole campaigns around safety, and each one landed with the impact of a wet handshake.
Then I remembered myself at 12, on the living room floor, lost in a cartoon. It made me feel alive, and it had no right to. A character tripped over his own feet and dusted himself off with a wink. That stupid, flimsy, gloriously unpolished moment pulled me in.
My heart raced. My cheeks ached. I felt it.
That's the thing nobody puts in the brief.
The missing thing is joy. The joy is raw, ridiculous, and unapologetic. It turns a stranger into a fan before they know your product exists. It makes a room lean in instead of check their phones.
I found it by accident. I danced like a fool in a brainstorm. I wove memes into a pitch I had no business winning. Everything I thought I knew about marketing cracked open.
Your brand is boring because someone told you to be professional, and you listened. Budget, industry, category, and audience have nothing to do with it. The revolution sits outside every playbook, in the part of you that remembers a laugh hard enough to hurt.
Social media and short attention spans killed the stiff, technical corporate persona. Audiences everywhere, not just consumer brands, want infectious, heartfelt energy instead. Alysa Liu, the American Olympic figure skater, is the clearest proof of that shift. Her routines blend pop culture references with raw enthusiasm, and they draw millions of viewers.
Samsung added her to its Team Galaxy roster ahead of the 2026 Milan Olympics, not for a stiff endorsement read but for the same energy she skates with. Her own words explain the pull. "Skating gave me something to be strong for. I love having willpower."
This goes past performative flair into a deliberate shift toward "flimsy, funny, floppy" authenticity, one that closes the distance between a stranger and a paying customer faster than any polished deck ever did.
Fill your outreach with creativity and a carefree swagger, on your own terms. Big brands already lead here. They trade boardroom blandness for memes and banter that read like a friend's inside joke, not a press release.
The tactic is not new. Old Spice proved it works over a decade ago. Its 2010 "The Man Your Man Could Smell Like" campaign pulled more than 40 million YouTube views within weeks, at the time the most-watched ad in the platform's history. Sales of Old Spice Red Zone Body Wash rose 60% within three months and 125% year over year by that July. By the end of 2010, Old Spice was the best-selling men's body wash brand in the United States. Digital noise makes that math even stronger today, because a stiff corporate tone now earns a scroll past instead of a lead.
Dollar Shave Club ran the same play on a shoestring. Its 2012 video, "Our Blades Are F***ing Great," cost $4,500 to make. It pulled more than 23 million views and 12,000 new subscribers within 48 hours. Four years later, Unilever bought the company for a billion dollars. A cheap, funny video beat every precision-engineering claim the razor industry could throw at it.
Wendy's built an entire identity on the same bet, first on Twitter, then on TikTok. Its 2023 National Roast Day campaign lifted ad recall 37.4% and brand awareness 28.1%, according to TikTok's own case study on the campaign. Nobody remembers a Wendy's press release. Everybody remembers Wendy's roasting a stranger's lunch order.
Ryan Reynolds showed how fast this can move. When Peloton's 2019 holiday ad drew backlash for its tone, Reynolds hired the same actress for an Aviation Gin spot three days later, the fastest major brand turnaround on record at the time. The ad drew 9.4 million views on Twitter and another 4 million on YouTube within days. Reynolds did not wait for a committee to approve the joke. He shipped it while the internet was still arguing about the original ad.
None of this is a fluke. Kantar's tracking data found only 33% of ads were lighthearted by 2022, down from a much higher share at the start of the millennium, and fewer than one in ten were fully funny. That is the exact decade Old Spice and Dollar Shave Club broke from, which is part of why they stood out so hard. Humor works best when a brand means it, not when a script forces it in. It lowers a reader's guard and costs nothing to share. It fails the moment it punches down or feels bolted on top of the actual message.
Start smaller than a week-long plan promises. Pull up your last ten posts and count how many would survive being read out loud to a friend without either of you cringing. Rewrite the three that fail. Then post the one you have been sitting on, the one that sounds like you and not like your legal team signed off on it. Watch the replies, not the impression count. Replies tell you if a stranger just became a fan.
I still remember the character tripping over his own feet at 12, and how it pulled me in harder than anything polished ever has. That is the brand I am trying to build now, one that trips in public and dusts itself off with a wink. Pick one post this week and let it be the flop. What is yours?
Related reading: 2026 Marketing Stack for AI Driven GTM, Content Flywheel Plan for 2026
