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:
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.