The Tragic Life of Clippy, the World's Most Hated Virtual Assistant

Microsoft
Microsoft

When a large company stumbles, it’s major news. Coca-Cola infamously angered millions of soda drinkers when it tinkered with its recipe to produce New Coke in 1985. Netflix may now be the country’s biggest single source of entertainment, but it wasn’t long ago they tried to spin off their DVD and streaming services into separate entities, confusing millions of otherwise satisfied consumers.

Stationed somewhere in between those gaffes sits Clippy, the unofficial name for the bouncing, sentient paper clip introduced by Microsoft in 1996 in a bid to help people hone their word processing skills. When Microsoft Office software users began writing a letter by typing “Dear,” for example, out would pop Clippy with an unsolicited offer to help.

The first time this happened, users may have been amused. But as they grew more proficient, Clippy would redouble his efforts to interrupt, his roving eyes scanning documents in what felt like a gross invasion of privacy. In no time at all, he would be the subject of scorn and ridicule, an ever-present voyeur into your home computer navigation.

In order for Microsoft to continue to flourish, Clippy would have to die.

A screen shot featuring Clippy
The Science Elf, YouTube

In the 1990s, Microsoft had already revolutionized personal computing with its Windows interface. Taking navigation out of its sterile DOS command prompts and making it feel more like the welcoming layout of Apple's Macintosh line, Windows helped facilitate the PC boom.

The company wanted to take it one step further with Bob, an operating system programmed to resemble the rooms of a house. Going to the “checkbook” on the desk, for example, would open financial software. Released in 1995, the virtual domain never took off, with users and industry observers declaring it so purposely cute that it was nauseating. (Even worse, the hated typeface Comic Sans was created for use in Bob, perpetuating a cycle of user cruelty.)

Although Microsoft quickly abandoned Bob, it seemed stuck on one of the characters that populated the OS: Clippit, an energetic paper clip that injected itself into tasks to see if it could make the experience easier on users. According to Clippit illustrator Kevan Atteberry, Microsoft had developed over 250 characters for such a purpose: Clippit, which users later re-named “Clippy,” won out, and the company decided to keep him around for the 1996 release of its word processing software.

Despite Microsoft harnessing the knowledge of social psychologists from Stanford to develop these software assistants, there were early signs Clippy was destined to annoy users. Focus groups exposed to the character made frequent references to his “leering” eyes, which female product testers found particularly unsettling. (Though he lacked any genitalia, Clippy was labeled male by Microsoft.)

Failing to heed their criticism, Microsoft inserted Clippy into the version of Office released in 1996. Users opening a blank document were greeted by a jovial paper clip that offered advice on everything from spelling to saving files. Even if keyboard shortcuts and other operating commands were mastered, Clippy materialized from the ether, repeating himself until they could figure out how to shut him up for good. (For Office 1997 users, that meant manually changing his program folder name from "Actors" to "NoActors.")

Although Clippy received the brunt of criticism, he wasn’t the only Office mascot available to distract and annoy. The Genius was an Einstein-esque icon; Power Pup was a dog that could help you retrieve information. But Clippy was the pre-set helper, and his wiggling eyebrows and contorted paper clip frame burrowed into Windows users' psyches.

Clippy meets his maker
Stan Honda/Getty Images

Microsoft was not insulated from the Clippy criticism. Writing of his time working for the company, James Fallows reported for The Atlantic in 2008 that the excitable little stationery accessory was bemoaned by employees. Yet Clippy remained, getting a minor makeover in Office 2000 before being automatically turned off in 2002. (Microsoft poked fun at the user enmity, announcing the character was out of work and creating a game that allowed players to zap Clippy with a staple gun.)

Why the allegiance? Fallows said it was in part related to Clippy’s origin as a resident of the failed Bob operating system. That project was spearheaded by Melinda French, who later became Melinda French Gates, wife of Microsoft founder Bill Gates. While Fallows is quick to point out that it wasn’t the sole reason Clippy remained an uninvited guest, no one was particularly enthusiastic about getting rid of him, either.

Clippy eventually met his end in 2007, when the latest version of Office shipped without his grating interjections. Distanced from the pain of actually having to deal with him, a number of Clippy’s critics began to produce damning fan art, from Clippy being a general nuisance to engaging in lewd acts. In 2015, author Leonard Delaney self-published Conquered by Clippy, a 16-page erotic short story that was either a meditation on how technology is seducing us or just a weird story about a paper clip copulating with a human. (Delaney also penned Taken by Tetris Blocks.)

Clippy’s final bow—for now, at least—came earlier in 2017, when an anonymous programmer offered a Chrome extension that allows Clippy to pop up virtually everywhere you go. Like the original, he’s basically useless.

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Andrea Piacquadio / Pexels.com
Andrea Piacquadio / Pexels.com

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Bo Knows Everything: Remembering Nike's Legendary Bo Jackson Ad Campaign

Bo Jackson and the "Bo Knows" campaign helped Nike finally overtake Reebook in the early 1990s.
Bo Jackson and the "Bo Knows" campaign helped Nike finally overtake Reebook in the early 1990s.
Mike Powell, Allsport/Getty Images

It may have been difficult for Nike to conceive of any athlete being able to do more for its company than Michael Jordan. In the late 1980s and 1990s, the Chicago Bulls star was omnipresent, helping turn their Air Jordan line of sneakers into a squeaky chorus in school hallways and gyms around the country. Even better, the company had scored big with “Just Do It,” an advertising slogan introduced in 1988 that became part of the public lexicon.

There was just one issue. In spite of Jordan’s growing popularity and their innovative advertising, Nike was still in second place behind Reebok. No other athlete on their roster could seemingly bridge the gap. Not even their new cross-training shoe endorsed by tennis pro John McEnroe was igniting excitement in the way the company had hoped.

In 1989, two major events changed all of that: An advertising copywriter was struck with inspiration, and two-sport athlete Bo Jackson slammed a first-inning home run during the Major League Baseball All-Star Game. The ad man’s idea was to portray Jackson as being able to do just about anything. Jackson went ahead and proved him right.

 

Bo Jackson was an ideal spokesperson for Nike's new line of cross-training sneakers. The Auburn University graduate was making waves as a rare two-sport pro athlete; he was playing baseball for the Kansas City Royals and football for the Los Angeles Raiders. Early commercials featured Jackson sampling other sporting activities like riding a bike. “Now, when’s that Tour de France?” he asked. In another, he dunked a basketball and pondered the potential of “Air Bo.”

At a Portland bar near Nike’s headquarters one evening, Nike vice president of marketing Tom Clarke and Jim Riswold of ad agency Wieden + Kennedy were pondering how best to use Jackson going forward. Clarke wanted to devote the majority of their budget for the cross-trainers to an ad campaign featuring the athlete. The two started lobbing ideas about other people named Bo—Bo Derek, Beau Brummell, Little Bo Peep, and Bo Diddley, among others.

The last one stuck with Riswold. He thought of a phrase—“Bo, you don’t know Diddley”—and went home to sleep on it. When he woke up the next morning, he was able to sketch out an entire commercial premise in minutes. Riswold envisioned a spot in which Jackson would try his hand at other sports, punctuating each with a “Bo Knows” proclamation. Jackson soon realizes the one thing he can’t do is play guitar with Bo Diddley, the legendary musician.

It took longer to shoot the commercial than to conceive of it. The spot was shot over the course of a month, with the crew going to California, Florida, and Kansas to film cameos with other athletes including Jordan, McEnroe, and Wayne Gretzky—all of whom Nike had under personal appearance contracts.

Fearing Jackson might hurt himself trying to skate, the production filmed him from the knees up sliding around in socks at a University of Kansas gymnasium rather than on ice. But not all attempts at caution were successful. When director Joe Pytka grew frustrated that Jackson kept running off-camera and implored him to move in a straight line, Jackson steamrolled both the equipment and Pytka, who had to tend to a bloody nose before continuing.

In portraying any other athlete this way, the campaign may have come off as stretching credulity. But Jackson had already been improving his game in all areas, hitting a 515-foot home run during a spring training win over the Boston Red Sox. In April, he hit .282 and tallied eight home runs. Even when he struck out, he still stood out: Jackson was prone to breaking his bat over his knee in frustration.

 

After Jackson was voted into the 1989 MLB All-Star Game in July, Nike decided the telecast would be the ideal place to debut their Bo Knows campaign. They handed out Bo Knows pennants for fans and even flew Bo Knows signs overhead. Bo Knows appeared in a full-page spot for USA Today. Even by Nike standards, this was big.

There was, of course, a chance Jackson would be in a bat-breaking mood, which might diminish the commercial’s impact. But in the very first inning, Jackson sent one into the stands off pitcher Rick Reuschel. With a little scrambling, Nike was able to get their ad moved up from the fourth inning, where it was originally scheduled to run. In the broadcast booth, announcer Vin Scully and special guest, former president Ronald Reagan, marveled at Jackson’s prowess. Scully reminded viewers that his pro football career was something Jackson once described as a “hobby.”

A Bo Jackson fan is pictured holding up a 'Bo Knows Baseball!' sign at the Major League Baseball All-Star Game at Anaheim Stadium in Anaheim, California on July 11, 1989
A Bo Jackson fan shows his support at the MLB All-Star Game in Anaheim, California on July 11, 1989.
Focus on Sport/Getty Images

Jackson was named the Most Valuable Player of the game. That summer and into the fall, Bo Knows was quickly moving up the ranks of the most pervasive commercial spots in memory, second only to Jordan’s memorable ads for Nike and McDonald’s. Jackson turned up in sequels, trying his hand at everything from surfing to soccer to cricket. Special effects artists created multiple Bo Jacksons, a seemingly supernatural explanation for why he excelled at everything.

It was a myth, but one rooted in reality. After 92 wins with the Royals as a left-fielder in 1989, Jackson reported for the NFL season that fall as a running back for the Raiders. In one three-game stretch, he ran for over 100 yards each. Against the Cincinnati Bengals in November, Jackson ran 92 yards for a touchdown. He finished the season with 950 rushing yards. That winter, he was named to the Pro Bowl, making him the only athlete to appear in two all-star games for two major North American sports in consecutive seasons.

Nike was staggered by the results of Bo Knows, which helped them leap over Reebok to become the top athletic shoe company. They eventually secured 80 percent of the cross-training shoe market, going from $40 million in sales to $400 million, a feat that executives attributed in large part to Jackson. Bo Knows, bolstered by Jackson’s demonstrated versatility, was the perfect marriage of concept and talent. His stature as a spokesperson rose, and he appeared in spots for AT&T and Mountain Dew Sport, earning a reported $2 million a year for endorsements. A viewer survey named him the most persuasive athlete in advertising. If that weren’t enough, Jackson also appeared in the popular Nintendo Entertainment System game Tecmo Bowl and on the cover of Sports Illustrated in 1989.

 

In 1991, Jackson suffered a serious hip injury during a Raiders game, one that permanently derailed his football career. He played three more seasons of baseball with the Chicago White Sox and California Angels before retiring from sports in 1994.

Jackson's relationship with Nike was dissolved soon after, though the company never totally abandoned the concept of athletes wading into new territory. In 2004, a campaign depicted big names sampling other activities. Tennis great Andre Agassi suited up for the Boston Red Sox; cyclist Lance Armstrong was seen boxing; Serena Williams played beach volleyball. The Bo Knows DNA ran throughout.

Jackson still makes periodic references to the campaign, including in advertisements for his Bo Jackson Signature Foods. (“Bo Knows Meat,” the website proclaims.) In 2019, Jackson also appeared in a Sprint commercial that aimed for surrealism, with Jackson holding a mermaid playing a keytar and having a robot intone that “Bo does know” something about cell phone carriers.

The other key Bo—Diddley—never quite understood why the campaign worked. After seeing the commercial, he reportedly said that he was confused because it had nothing to do with shoes.