Turns out nobody cares about your footie.

By Andrew J. Pridgen

GoPro, the company started by the son of the founder of Silicon Valley investment bank Roberston Stephens, is about to be worth as much as the waterproof casing you bought for your 2011 GoPro model which you thought you were going to attach to the front of your kayak and take up to Puget Sound and make a sick viral video of fucking killer orcas NOT in captivity going underneath your kayak. But instead you figured out how much all that would cost — including all the gear — plus, when your buddy tried to mount his GoPro on the front of his kayak in Tahoe it fucking fell into the lake when the wind picked up and now sits at the bottom of the big blue along with a half-dozen Coors heavy bottles, a copy of the Marshall Mathers LP that some drunk chick from Rocklin threw over the side of her boyfriend’s MasterCraft comp. wake board boat (the one with the tribal tattoo-looking design on the side) and the Washoe County sheriff that Sinatra had killed.

Over the last two years, GoPro has pretty much gotten its ass kicked by people forgetting to replace their sunken cameras and opting to use the cameras on their (now waterproof) phones instead of being that Jerry of the Day #somuchfootyformyboys #virtualrealitysend with the fucking GoPro mount (mounted backwards) on his helmet walking through the fucking awful ski resort cafeteria with all his boot buckles undone the most they’ve ever been and his Dragon fucking goggles hanging off the back of the same helmet by the plastic snap thingy on the back — carrying three PBRs back to the table, because PBR bro.

GoPro founder Nick Woodman (btw, has anyone ever seen Nick Woodman and Jonny Moseley in the same room together? Didn’t think so) couldn’t convince 60 Minutes to do yet another puff piece on the fact that he and his cartoon teeth made it by only blowing a quarter of his annual trust fund take home on other, lesser companies, so he did the next best thing — he went to Squaw on a nothing Monday to showcase some new landfill-bound toys nobody fucking needs to film the shit they can’t do.

What’s to save the company… and pretty much humanity at the same time? The fucking GoPro drone, otherwise known as the world’s most spidery-looking clay pigeon.

Dubbed, (what else?) the Karma, (because apparently there’s another drone maker out there with the Namaste) GoPro’s first drone wowed everyone on the mountaintop by breaking the breezy fall afternoon lull with that why-is-my-neighbor-weed-whacking-before-8 a.m.-on-a-Sunday signature drone buzz.

Of course, when the GoPro drones invariably crash, fall out of the sky, fucking almost chop someone’s head off trying to pull a new trick you coined called a half-cork off the kicker at Northstar (“Sending…Did you get it? Did you get it?”) or someone else runs into a tree because he’s trying to fucking do all these sick butters AND pilot a drone… the inevitable “Karma’s a real bitch” will be a handy marketing headline for the company whose stock was valued at a high of $86.97 in 2014 shortly after it went public and closed Monday at just above $8.

This is in part because GoPro recalled Karma then re-released in February in time for anyone who potentially would have to not give a fuck which led Wall Street to throw the DOA “underperform” label on the stock (it’s the equivalent of your ex rolling over when you deploy your can’t-miss signature backrub move) and the company is girding for further devaluation and probably some kind of private equity firm parting out.

Hardgoods that break easily and are technologically inferior to your phone, tough stuff.

Woodman, who can barely unironically spit the shopworn valley bullshit that boy wonder billionaires should know to stay well away from since Silicon Valley premiered, claimed Monday that GoPro is “not a camera” company from atop High Camp.

GoPro is (ready?) “an experience-sharing company.”

I guess that’s true. Like how much experience-shared porn is gonna come from that big giant scary spider-fly tying buzzing overhead while a couple does it in a dorm bed until the thing fucking crashes in the fluorescent lights causing glass and light bulb to rain down on the poor girl’s back while the main prop digs into /the guy’s forehead, forearm (and foreskin?)

THAT …is going to be an awesome experience to share.

Andrew J. Pridgen is the author of “Burgundy Upholstery Sky” and never has felt like anything he has done was worth filming. Yes, even that.