Workplace DEFCON System

When I start a new job (and I've had to start quite a few) I resist the temptation to become a “company man.” I don’t acclimate to my new work culture. I don’t memorize the mission statement. I don‘t familiarize myself with the organization’s goals. And I don’t sharpen whatever skills my new job requires of me.

All of the above will forge you into a first-rate employee, but they require a lot of hard work and time -- neither of which I have in abundance. Luckily, I’ve found an alternative. When I start my new job, I scan the office for the jerks and nitwits who are on the verge of getting fired. Then I make sure I look a tad better than them. That's how I know the boss will stay out of my hair. He's got bigger problems than me! Basically, my workday is walking single-file behind a guy in a minefield: I’ll know just in time time that I'm headed for trouble! Let me explain.

Most people like and respect good workers. You know the type -- great attitude, award-winning work ethic, knows the job, willing to help you out, puts the company first. Personally, I have no use for these people. They're only going to make me look bad when I'm knocking them over on my mad dash for the time clock at 4:58.

You know whom I love? The deadbeat, I-don't-give-a-shit type who squeaked by a background check in HR and has done next-to-nothing productive since he started 5 years ago. I love his type because I know he's going down before I do. He serves as an early warning system for termination. He's the canary in the coal mine. If I show up to work and he's still there, conditions are safe. And if you have 4 or 5 of them in an office, you can use them like that DEFCON system the military has. “Whoa. They finally fired Bill for taking a dump in the coffee maker. Take us to DEFCON 3.”

I like to insulate myself with as many as these people as I can. It gives me a sense of security. I figure I'm never going to win Employee of the Month, but I can make myself look pretty good next to the cranked up ex-felon passed out on his desk in a puddle of his own vodka-laden drool. I'm Lee Iacocca next to this motherfucker.

Speaking of firing people, who escorts the security guard out of the building when they fire him? The cafeteria lady? And why do they need security to escort professionals out the door, anyway? What's a 42-year-old pussy boy software engineer going to do when he gets the axe? Control-Alt-Delete the email server? Questions like these are part of the reason I have to start so many new jobs.



  • I wonder about people with the “Free Tibet” and “End Apartheid” bumper stickers. “Liberate The Congo.” I’m skeptical of hand-wringers who fret over places 10,000 miles away. They don’t even care about their own cars. When’s the last time you washed that thing? Yeah, you’re worried about a drought in Central Africa but you can’t clean the ass-marks off your hood. Hey buddy, if you want to liberate something, start with the food particles between your teeth, or those 3-week-old, funky-ass dreadlocks.
  • People like Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton never really annoyed me. But then again, it might be because I only give what they say three-fifths of my attention.
  • Wouldn’t it be nice if it turned out your purpose in life is contemplating what your purpose was? I don’t believe one’s purpose is so hard to find. The problem is, none of us is prepared to discover how lame it is. Sure some people are here to discover a new planet, develop a new vaccine, or lead a country from despair to prosperity. But most of us are here to gain weight, work menial jobs, watch reality TV shows and die early. Think about it. Most great people in history discovered their calling very early in life. Whatever you’re doing right now, guess what. That’s your purpose. It’s much like those people who believe in reincarnation and who also insist they were somebody important and admireable. But you don’t hear anybody say, “Yeah, in my past life, I was Caligula -- either him or the Nazi who captured Anne Frank. I’m not sure which.”
  • My 2nd grade teacher used to ridicule us students when we copied each other. She’d recite: “Monkey see, monkey do.” She said it all the time, in a condescending tone. Contemptuous. One day I worked up the courage to add to her saying. She said “monkey see, monkey do,” to which I replied “scratch my balls, fling my poo.” How’s that for original thought, teach? Is that independent-minded enough for you? Cunt.
  • Here’s the difference between childhood and adulthood: Childhood is all about choosing what you like most. Ice cream or cake, a bike ride or rollerskates, Barney or Sponge Bob. But as an adult, you have to ask yourself what sucks the least. “Which career field will suck the least, yet still pay my stinking bills?” “Which of these lovely ladies will be least likely to be named on a restraining order?” “Which bill collector will let me slide another month before submitting my account to collections?”
  • Grey hair and wrinkles make a man look distinguished, but rust and bald tires make a car look old. It’s a man’s world.
  • Have you ever been eating food so good that you suddenly wish you had two stomachs? Or maybe a valve that could divert the food away from your belly and through an escape hatch. Some food tastes so good, I want to eat it alone. I don’t want anybody around who might talk to me and interrupt the mouth-loading process. Don’t talk to me. I’ve got a bucket of bite-sized cream puffs. Vocal communication will reduce throughput by 30%.
  • Why doesn’t the government give poor people lottery tickets instead of welfare checks? Why not fix the problem once in a while? Or at least cut out the middle-man at the Circle K.
  • I like that bumpersticker that reads “I’d rather push a Ford than drive a Chevy.” First of all, you’d probably have to. But back to my point: That’s some brand loyalty there! I wonder if they feel the same way about condoms. “I’d rather knock her up than use a Trojan.”


No toilet paper? Try US currency.

I read a news story about a guy who had to pay a traffic ticket and decided to get revenge. Let me summarize. I swear, this is a true story:

Evidently, this guy felt he didn’t deserve the ticket. So he registered his complaint by tainting dollar bills with his own feces and paying the fine with it.

Yep. He wiped his ass with the money and then mailed it to the municipality. I would have killed to see the look on Benjamin Franklin's face!

This gives new meaning to the phrase "tendering" money.

Think how pissed off you have to be to wipe your ass with dollar bills before paying a fine. That's undiluted anger, folks.

But that's not all. I found this tidbit interesting: the guy who did this is a fuckin' clinical psychologist. That means he's treating people with mental disorders (in between wiping his own ass with US currency, I presume). I wonder whether he specializes in anger management.

Imagine what his therapy sessions are like.

"Look, Bill. I understand how upset you can get while driving in rush hour traffic. But you have to breathe deeply and relax, get a hold of your road rage. And when you get home, wipe your ass with a $20 and mail it to the city. It's very therapeutic."

They're charging this guy with a crime. But what law did he break? In high school I knew this one guy who stuffed a roll of quarters up his ass. They didn't arrest him. Seems like a double standard to me.


Rationalization, coffee and candy bars

Rationalization is the American way of life. We want what we want, but our guilt gets the better of us. Americans feel very guilty. A history of slavery, an 11 trillion-dollar economy and the career of David Hasselhoff leave us feeling downright ashamed. Consequently, we don’t feel entitled to the things we want. So instead of seizing our desires, we inch our way discretely toward them as hyenas approach a lion’s kill. Stealthfully and ashamedly.

Think about coffee, for example. Coffee is a so-so beverage. It's just a step up from hot water. Just a few dissolved coffee beans. No calories, no fat or sugar. It needs help! So most people add cream and sugar, and by doing so approach what we really want: a milkshake. But milkshakes are bad so we can't drink them. Enter Starbucks and the designer coffee craze. The people at Starbucks understand human nature. We like things that taste good, and we enjoy spending gobs of money. Starbucks delivers on both. In go the sugars, syrups, creams, foams, flavorings, opiates and all the other crap we need to satiate our craving for a milkshake. We're drinking 47 teaspoons of sugar and as much fat as in a lawn bag of pork rinds -- but we still get to tell ourselves we're “only drinking coffee.”

Still not convinced? Think about it. How far away is Starbucks from offering the new Choco-Milkshake Latte? And tell me if this is a coincidence. Dairy Queen has just introduced a line of coffee drinks. That's right. Dairy Queen. I don't know about you, but when I'm hankering for a cup of coffee the first place I think of is an ice cream shop!

We rationalize with other foods, too. Here's a food product chain-of-evolution that illustrates human nature beautifully: Rice cakes. Remember rice cakes? Rice cakes became granola, which became the cereal bar, which became the health bar. The first was a low-calorie health food and effective dietary supplement. Each successive evolution masqueraded as health food, but was increasingly bad for you. And the final species in this evolution, the “health bar,” is just a Milky Way with a multi-vitamin crushed up inside of it and a picture of a wild animal on the wrapper.

You see? All we really want for a snack is a candy bar. We just can't admit it. We feel too guilty. Thankfully we can have all the tasty goodness and tell ourselves it's “health food.” Give me a break. If a health bar is “health food,” then Kia is a “luxury car” and David Hasselhoff is an “actor.”

Beware of rationalization when you see “hybrid” SUVs, “low-fat” brownies and Six-Second abdominal exercisers. That’s all I’m saying.


Mental clusterbombs

  • Every so often some rich jerk with too much time and money decides his next challenge will be to climb Mt. Everest. This feat has been done to death. It’s passé. Anybody can climb Mt. Everest with the entire Eddie Bauer catalogue at his disposal! If you want impress me, climb to the top without a jacket.
  • I exercise a lot, but not because I’m a fitness buff, and not because I enjoy it. For me, exercise is an apology to my body for all the jacked-up shit I do to it. It’s like giving flowers to your wife because you were a jerk all week long. “Baby, I know I’ve been pouring gin gimlets and Oreos down your gullet for the last 3 days. And then on Tuesday, I won that free dinner by eating a 84 ounce steak. Here you go, baby. Here’s 20 minutes on the stair-stepper. This will make it all better. That’s my sexy little liver. Who loves ya?”
  • If an unemployed guy owes a creditor, we issue him welfare checks. If an unemployed guy owes the ex-wife, we issue him an arrest warrant.
  • Why are corporations the enemy and Mother Earth the victim? I don’t see Wal-Mart creating any hurricanes.
  • How did they ever get Clint Eastwood to do those Any Which Way… movies? Clint is a huge star. He was the Leonardo DiCaprio of the 1970s, only without the sexual ambiguity. Anyway, how did they approach Clint with a script like that? “Mr. Eastwood, sir? I’ll cut to the chase because I know your time is valuable. Basically, you’re this redneck degenerate who will be trading lines with a hairy-assed ape for an hour and forty minutes. Oh, and have to get him -- the ape, that is -- laid. So of course we thought of you.”
  • Every once in a while I get the nagging suspicion we get exactly what we’re willing to settle for.
  • The greatest power in the world is the power to walk away.
  • You know what the worst thing about a policeman pulling you over is? Those lights! How embarrassing! They’re like big hands pointing the finger at you. Jeez. I failed to yield to oncoming traffic. That doesn’t make me John Dillenger. You know what they should do? Replace the siren lights with disco balls. Make the experience festive and fun. Make passers-by jealous. I’ll bet people would like cops a lot more, too. It would be like a 1970s retro party. Just don’t break out with the cocaine.
  • I think welfare recipients should have to write thank-you notes addressed to “American Taxpayer.” If you show up at a government office looking for a check, you need to thank those sacrificing part of their paychecks for you. Remind everybody where it comes from.


100% Angus BS

Grocers and restaurants advertise where their beef is raised -- and even what it ate before it went to the slaughterhouse.

“100% Angus beef, corn-fed, aged for 14 days, aerobized and massaged daily at the local health spa.”

Big whoop! I don't care where my cow grew up or what it liked to eat. It's bad enough I have to listen to my dates' life stories. Now I have to show an interest in the piece of meat on my plate, too? Hey, I don’t care what you slaughtered. Just serve me up a steak!

We justify eating animals by claiming we're more evolved, more sophisticated beings. I agree. Do you believe that if lions, bears and wolverines were smarter than we that they’d respect our “right to life?” Hell, no. What good is evolving upward on the food chain if you can't eat the poor, dumb species you climbed over? But we should be careful with that logic, because one day aliens who are more evolved and sophisticated than us might deem us a delicacy. If that ever happens, I hope people who grew up in the Midwest aren't considered “premium, choice-cut human.” I hope instead that the aliens prefer those fit, lean, golden-brown people on the West coast. Put those people on the menu. “Tonight's special: California-raised, vegetarian, hi-colonic Human baked golden-brown served with fruit.”


Cowboy bar tenderfoot

A bit on that absurd piece of Americana, the cowboy bar.

Cowboy bars are basically masquerade parties where everybody chooses the same outfit. Oops.

When I see a 41-year-old cell phone salesman pop out of his leased BMW in a cowboy hat, boots and Wrangler blue jeans, it reaffirms the notion that men will do anything to get laid, no matter how dumb it appears to onlookers.

Pretending to be something you're not (to get laid) can be an honorable tradition. I understand this tactic and subscribe to it. But something about cowboy bars offends my sensibilities as a realist. I'm willing to exaggerate my salary or suck in my gut when I talk to a lady, but I refuse to play cowboy. That and playing doctor. You've got to leave those behind with childhood. After all, you wouldn't go to a cops-and-robbers bar, or a hide-and-go-seek lounge. Would you? And consider this, if a bar is chock full of cowboys, wouldn’t it make sense for a few of us to come as Indians -- just to complete the motif? And every bar has the police show up eventually. Throw in a construction worker and you’ve got yourself a Village People tribute band. Pretty gay. But I digress.

Cowboy bars are pathetic clearinghouses of archaic, macho bullshit. Frankly, it's embarrassing to listen to a guy in full cowboy garb affect a southern twang and fake chivalry in the presence of a barfly in a tube top. This is the 21st century; there are no cowboys! We don't drive cattle across the desert plane. We drive hummers with mini-plasma TVs across town to the salon for a manicure and hi-colonic. Who are you trying to fool, Tex? I hope you accidentally two-step your genitals into a branding iron, tenderfoot.

If I'm going to a masquerade party, I'll do it in style. I'll sling a longbow around my shoulder and squeeze into a pair of tights showcasing my bulge and present myself as Shakespearian nobility. Why only go back 120 years?


Random Musings of a Spotless Mind

  • 90% of humor is daring to speak the truth. The other 10% is a spastic, outrageous fat guy with a proclivity to reveal his ass crack.
  • In most foreign countries, “prejudice” means execution, torture, or losing your life to a nail bomb. In America, “prejudice” means not getting promoted.
  • The Overstock.com commercial says “sometimes it’s all about the gold.” Evidently, sometimes it’s all about showing your box from underneath a tennis skirt. Ho!
  • How come we could build 30,000 nuclear warheads without much complaint, but we can’t build some more nuclear reactors to power schools and hospitals?
  • I recently drove through a construction site and saw a sign that instructed, “Keep Right.” Driving a bit further, I encountered another sign. This time I had to “Keep Left.” Why not just make one sign that reads “Drive in the Center, Dipshit?”
  • We could reduce violent crime by 95% tomorrow if we brought back the fine tradition of public flogging. It sounds crazy. But that’s how a criminal mind works: 20 years locked in a cage doesn’t faze these low-lives. Getting paddled with your pants around your ankles while school-aged girls ridicule your “genital minutia” scares the hell out of them.
  • I’ll never understand why potential employers will go to the ends of the earth to learn whether you smoked dope or shoplifted 10 years ago, but they overlook the 117 people you were an asshole to last week.
  • Every company swears they don’t consider race when hiring. Yet every company wants us to check a box that “best describes yourself.”
  • When a salesman tries to push an “extended warranty” on me, I immediately shout “A-ha! So you admit it’s a piece of crap!
  • I would never disparage a religious faith intentionally. But I have to ask, with all due respect, about these 72 virgins waiting for you in Heaven. Does it occur to followers that their peckers will still be down here on earth? That sounds more like Hell to me.
  • Some people’s positive outlook on life bewilders me. For example, you know that one friend of yours who describes each rotten episode in her life as “an experience?” They have no regrets, no complaints, no hard feelings -- just experiences. Hey Stephanie, remember that time your boyfriend stole all your money and spent it at the titty bar just before he left you stranded in Tijuana? “Oh yeah. It was an experience.” “It was something I had to experience.” It was an experience? Everything is an experience! The Holocaust was an experience. A major car accident is an experience. Racking your beanbag on the handle bars is an experience. That doesn’t mean it was good. Some things just suck. Admit it.
  • In elementary school teachers tried to impress on us that it was OK to make a mistake. If that were true, why did they insist we write in ink?
  • Here’s some irony: I worked as an office supply clerk. They subjected me to a random drug test. I tested positive for White-Out and Sharpie inhalants.
  • Cartoon violence does not cause violent behavior in children. Remember the Road Runner? Every episode had the Coyote attempting to kill the Road Runner. And thanks to the sponsors at ACME, he had an arsenal of guns and explosives that would envy Kim Jong-Il. Kids turned out fine. But you force these little brats to sit through the Teletubbies and Barney, and you create a legion of pint-sized Charlie Mansons.
  • I just read that committing suicide is illegal. I wonder if you could get the death penalty for something like that. It would save everybody involved a huge headache.
  • If America celebrates Independence Day, then Great Britain should celebrate Boston Massacre Day. And why do we celebrate Pearl Harbor Day? Isn’t that Japan’s chin-dig? We ought to celebrate “Fat Man and Little Boy Day.”
  • The chat room has replaced the CB radio and Internet porn has replaced the girlie mag. This is progress.
  • Remember Johnny Cochran’s poem at the OJ trial? “If the glove don’t fit, you must acquit.” Why didn’t prosecutors give the Dream Team a dose of their own medicine? “If the defendant bailed, he should be jailed.” “If OJ’s hand revealed a cut, let inmates pound him in the butt.” “OJ hacked them with his knife, first that one kid, then his wife.” “He gave the victim a black eye. That‘s how you know you‘ve got your guy.” Hell, Dr. Seuss could have convicted OJ easily.
  • It seems like every time we send up a space shuttle, we fret over the heat shields. Some fall off. Others break. There’s a gap in between them… Why not just reenter the shuttle over Siberia. It’s freezing up there. Of course it’s going to get hot over Florida. That’s why all those old fuckers live there.
  • The most overrated body part is the thumb. Sure it’s important, but it’s overrated. All your thumbs do anymore is work the Space Bar. And it takes both of them to do that!
  • If factory workers protest robots, why don’t fireman protest indoor sprinklers? Why don’t police protest neighborhood watch programs and kick the crap out of that McGruff crime dog?
  • I’ll tell you why the movie Alexander bombed at the box office. Not realistic enough. No gay man would leave the house with a hairdo like that.


A hurricane by any other name

I don’t know who’s naming our hurricanes, but they should try harder. Hurricanes can kick your ass. They’re the Samuel L. Jackson of atmospheric phenomena. They’re Shaft after he “befriends” the white woman and learns his trusted detective at the precinct just got clipped. Shaft! Hurricanes are that tough. And it stands to reason hurricanes are tough SOBs; they usually originate around Puerto Rico. And we all know how well Puerto Ricans fight! I’d rather douse myself in steak sauce and wrestle with Cujo than trade blows with a Puerto Rican -- even one half my size, which many are.

But back to hurricanes, we don’t name them appropriately. Consider the two most damaging in our recent past: “Katrina” and “Andrew.” Katrina and Andrew? That sounds like the yuppie couple who live in a Manhattan condo and tell everybody how Feng Shui changed their lives. No wonder nobody evacuated when they had the chance. Would you flee from Katrina and Andrew? I know I wouldn’t sweat it -- unless I had to attend their cocktail party fundraiser for Hillary. Incidentally, I think Hillary is a fine name for a hurricane. That name horrifies me.

Katrina and Andrew hurled lightning, dumped oceans and blew thunder onto our cities, exacted billions in property damage and left wakes of carnage in their paths. It looked like a whole gang of Puerto Ricans ripped through town after attending a rum-fueled cockfight. We do the public a disservice when we name our hurricanes after Ivy League pussies from New England. What’s next? Hurricane “Sol?” Hurricane “Eugene.” Run! Hurricane Eugene is coming. His mighty winds will disorganize your federal income tax documents just before April 15th!

How about “Hurricane Bruce?” “Hurricane Stretch?” “Hurricane Clint?” Something macho like that. Let people know they need to get the hell out of the way. I don’t know about you, but I’d change zip codes in a hurry if my city were expecting Hurricane Duke. I’d be scratching at the door like Kobe’s hotel dates (I know. I've used that one before. I just love it!). Let me the hell outta here!

Have you been following the politics swirling around Hurricane Katrina? Evidently, racism played a part in the destruction and loss of life. Yeah. Lo and behold, even hurricanes are racist! I don’t want to get controversial, but I have to ask. If hurricanes (and the Republicans who create them!) are racist, why don’t they head for the coast of Africa? That seems like a target-rich environment, as long as you avoid the South Side. Seriously, why would a racist hurricane target New Orleans? Applying the logic of political pundits, one could assert Hurricane Katrina is prejudice against crawdads, or drunk college co-eds with no bras! It doesn’t follow, people.

In conclusion, we should give tough-guy names to hurricanes. Puerto Ricans know how to fight and crawdads and sleazy co-eds need to go back to Mississippi.


Sending Flowers

Middle-class Americans dig deep into their wallets, sometimes more than $100, to send flowers to a loved one. But flowers die. Soon. Talk about a perishable item. Even a box of chocolate will last you a week! But flowers just sit there and die. What kind of gift idea is that? “Here’s a vase full of dying vegetable matter, honey. Happy birthday!”

I’m skeptical of the flower industry. I think they’ve hoodwinked us into believing a flower bouquet is a swell gift idea when really it’s lame crap. They’re almost as bad as Hallmark ($3.25 for a card?). The flower-pushers are the same people who insist you should “change your car’s oil” and “get a yearly prostate exam.”

Don’t get me wrong. I understand the thrill of being surprised at work with a gift delivery. What excites one more than knowing your loved one took the time? That he’s thinking of you this very minute? I see the romance in that. But why flowers? Couldn’t we be spontaneous and practical at the same time?

For my wife’s birthday, I’m going to have something really cool delivered to her office. Like a pizza. If I time the delivery just right, she’ll be really hungry and food would be a great surprise, plus she’ll be too stuffed to go out to dinner that night. The pizza will pay for itself. See? Practical. Or, I’ll have delivered some really trashy lingerie to spice up the bedroom. She can show that off to all her colleagues! Maybe even try it on, get a raise! Or, I’ll send her a really cool mp3 player. There’s a gift that keeps on giving.


Grade Point Averages... merely average?

Every once it a while you read about a study in the business news section that unearths a dirty little secret about successful CEOs: They didn’t do that well in college! Many were merely average. Some dropped out and others never even attended. I just read a study that found the average college GPA of a CEO is a C-minus! Gasp! That’s George-W-Bush dumb (and if you think about it, he’s just the CEO of America).

Of course the implication is, college isn’t that important. You might not need a college degree at all. And if you do go, don’t put too much stock into your academic performance. It’s a dismal prognosticator of your future success in business.

I call bullshit. There’s an important nuance that these studies fail to consider. If you got a C-minus average because you spent your college years running a company out of your garage designing a revolutionary computer chip, or an alternative-fuel automobile, or a room-temperature superconductor, then yeah -- you’re going to be a future Wall Street rock star.

If, however, you earned a C-minus average because you were doing keg-stands and bong hits at Sigma-Krappa-Chi and sleeping until noon every day of the week in a puddle of your own bodily humors, then you’d better hope daddy owns his own company. Or, be prepared to give the boss a “Monica” under the desk. Otherwise, get ready to dive into the pool of millions with next-to-worthless college degrees and no ambition beyond weekend drinking binges and Karaoke Night at the local titty bar.

I don’t dismiss college educations as worthless pieces of paper. Nor do I believe a degree is the ticket to success. Let’s be rational. Here’s what a college education will likely do for you: allow you be a salaried gopher weasel instead of just a clock-punching gopher schmuck. And that’s not a bad deal for 4-5 years of Humanities papers and chemistry labs. At least there’s a demographic of society college graduates can look down on -- clock-punchers. Vile creatures, those clock-punchers. Working-class rubes. The most productive thing clock-punchers do is vote for an American Idol. Clock-punchers are the ones keeping the Hamburger Helper makers in business. They’re the kind of people with life-sized nativity scenes in their yards at Christmastime -- with a Lynard Skynard soundtrack! Honestly, people. Isn’t there a NASCAR race you should be shirtless at?

But the high-school grads may indeed get the last laugh. They may ask, “Hey, how’s that student loan going? You ass-kissing, middle management, BMW-leasing GOFER! I’m already looking forward to your next stress-induced heart attack. Don‘t you have a cocktail party at which you’ll drown your soulless body with martinis at?”

Don’t let statistical studies dissuade you from college, and don’t let college recruiters hoodwink you with “proof” that college graduates make more money. They’re both full of crap. If you really want to succeed, lower your standards until it’s impossible to fail. What is success, after all, but fulfilling your goals? Who says your goals have to be lofty? My goal is to drink a lot of diet soda, eat a lot of burgers and sit on my ass watching TV. Mission accomplished!


Three rational questions

As many of you know, I’m on a quest for self-improvement. It’s much like that movie, Quest for Fire, only I don’t run around bare-assed in an inarticulate rage, waving a bamboo pimpstick, humping every female who bends over for a drink of water. Coincidentally, Quest for Fire is on TV right now and it's the scene where...wait a minute... that's just a news broadcast from New Orleans. Sorry.

What was with Quest for Fire, anyway? Two hours of cavemen thundering around the globe looking for a Zippo lighter. Jeez. Why not just sent the blonde with the big tits and a wholly mammoth-skin halter top into a local bar with an unlit cigarette? Problem solved! Anyway, back to my self-help regimen: When I unearth a gem from the 100s of books and seminars I check out, I share it with my readers with the hopes that they, too, profit from its wisdom. The great satirist Dr. Lawrence Peter offers a series of three questions which aid in making rational decisions. They are:

1) Where (or what) am I?
2) Where (or what) do I want to be?
3) How do I know when I’m getting there?

Genius in their simplicity, these questions have awakened me. I think I’ve stumbled on some life-changing stuff here. I’ve been toying around with these three questions. What do you think?

1) Where am I? Sober
2) Where do I want to be? Drunk
3) How do I know when I’m getting there? When Rosanne Barr becomes a reasonably attractive women -- and her twin is pretty hot, too.

1) Where am I? Living paycheck-to-paycheck
2) Where do I want to be? Wealthy beyond measure
3) How do I know when I’m getting there? When I have a servant whose job description includes cooking, cleaning, windows, and giving my Johnson its “finishing tap” after my morning leak

1) What am I? A blue-collar schmuck
2) What do I want to be? A white-collar fat cat
3) How do I know when I’m getting there? When I have an embezzlement scam that would envy Martha Stewart, a marble desk with one of those executive basketball hoops over the trashcan, and enough middle management underneath me to blame for all of my financial boners

1) What am I? A miserable, hermitic misanthrope
2) What do I want to be? The cock of the walk and the belle of the ball
3) How do I know when I'm getting there? When that cheap bastard Carl buys me a drink at the local Denny’s bar. Hey Carl, ten years is a long time to hold a grudge. I had no idea she was your aunt!

1) What am I? The “before” picture in an ad for diet pills
2) What do I want to be? A sculpted, glistening statue of muscle and manhood
3) How do I know when I’m getting there? When J-Lo tells me she’d kill to have an ass like mine -- only without Elton John epoxied to it.


The ganja's always greener...

Job dissatisfaction disturbs and depresses me, and we have a whole bunch of it in America. Select somebody at random -- in any trade or profession -- and more than likely, they're looking for a way out. But the new line of work they're trying to get into has other people fighting to get out of it. If the new thing didn't make those people happy, it's not going to make the new people happy either. So, the entire job market is just a game of Screw Your Neighbor -- everybody handing off their stink piles to desperate, unsuspecting job seekers on the other side of the revolving door.

It doesn't stop with jobs. The same goes for houses. One family's dream house is the current owners' gas station restroom. The shitter's filthy; the Protect-O-Covers just ran out and there's a glory hole in the neighboring stall. We're all trying to break into something new after pawning off our old, used-up crap on some poor, unsuspecting fool with a pre-approved loan.

The same goes for cars, too. How many times have you tried to sell your car to somebody and during the test drive, you're praying they don't press in the cigarette lighter because a piston will pop out through the muffler? And all the while, you've got your eyes on a sporty minivan with diaper stains and glued-in gummy worms the current owner hopes you won't notice in the upholstery.

The same principle applies to our love lives. When it comes to courtship, we're all just mate-swapping. So all of you out there knocking yourselves out, failing to attract your current love interest, take solace in the fact that your crush is somebody else's restraining order. After all, everybody is somebody's ex. Yet, how many of us would recommend an ex to a friend?

The moral to the story is: be happy with what you're stuck with. Otherwise, life will be an exercise in upgrading your problems. Let it go. You'll go a lot further.


Herpes medication... let's not get rash

A while ago I saw a commercial for herpes medication. It showed black-and-white close-ups of an attractive woman telling the audience how the medication has reduced the frequency of her flare-ups. Then the commercial cut to her dancing on the beach and cuddling with a man. And I kept yelling at the TV, “Run, you poor bastard. RUN!.” Later, she and the guy are riding bicycles -- and all I can do is thank God I'm not the bicycle seat. Hey, do you think this lady’s Spandex are considered a WMD? I digress. Somebody call Hans Blix!

Finally, the commercial ended with her saying, “now I can get back to doing what I love.” What is that, lady? Infecting unsuspecting men with weapons-grade crotch rot?

I think it's great idea that pharmaceutical companies can make medication to alleviate the symptoms of venereal disease. But as a public health service, they should add a chemical that makes the user's skin glow bright orange when they become sexually aroused -- give the rest of us a heads-up.