A night at Caesars

Most people arrive in Las Vegas with a system for gambling their way into a fortune. Some people have progressive-betting systems. Others have card-counting systems. Some bet on their kids' birthday dates, or perhaps the date their loved one(s) get out of prison. I conceived my own system for blackjack: bribing the dealer. I figure the dealer makes a better friend than an enemy. Plus he has access to the cards. Instead of beating the odds, why not enlist his help? Here was my foolproof plan. When I had an iffy hand, I'd offer the dealer a $1 chip to give me a peek at the next card. If I liked the card, I'd hit. If I didn't, I'd stand. Either way I'd toss the dollar-chip at my good man behind the table. We both come out winners.

Unfortunately the dealer didn't appreciate the genius of my plan. In fact, my proposition appeared to discomfort him. “Sir, I'm not allowed to do that.” “Sir, I can't reveal the cards before they're dealt.” “Sir, perhaps you'd like to try roulette or craps instead.”

What a putz this dealer was. What was he so worried about?

“Come on, Dealer. Why the worry? Nobody's gonna know. It's not like they've got a camera on you or something. Just give me a peek at th...”

Just then a gentleman in a suit emerged from behind the tables and approached me. He asked for a word. I quipped to the dealer, “Gee, the cocktail waitresses in this place are awfully butch.” Then I tossed the flathead in the three-piece suit one of my dollar chips and asked him to fetch me a Harvey Wallbanger. The Suit became indignant. He began asking me all kinds of questions. Did I have ID? How much did I have to drink this evening? Was I aware that cheating at a blackjack table was a felony in Nevada? Did I enjoy the tent scene in Brokeback Mountain -- I knew he was queer. I scoffed at his questions and advised him to stop shopping for suits at Dagos-R-Us. I returned to my game. “Let's see the next hand, Dealer.” Meanwhile, the dago in the suit gestured in the air with his hand, whereupon several uniformed security guards converged on our blackjack table.

I figured it was time to try a different casino. I gathered my remaining chips and bolted for the exit. The guards gave chase. Luckily I had a good head-start. I bobbed and weaved through the oceans of tourists at Caesar's Palace. In my haste I forgot where the nearest exit was. I charged onward and eventually emerged from the crowd to discover a large fountain with sculptures of Roman Gods. I paused briefly to think. I could hear the commotion of the guards in the distance behind me. I had to think fast. Inspiration struck. I jumped into the fountain, stripped down to the nude, struck a pose and established a flow of urine. I remained perfectly still and waited for the danger to pass. Hopefully the guards would mistake me for your average Roman God bathing in a fountain. I'll grant you this plan wasn't as foolproof as my bribe-the-dealer blackjack scheme, but still, I liked the odds for success. It wouldn't be the first time I'd evaded the law by posing naked in a fountain.

The dozen harvey wallbangers I drank made public nudity, remaining motionless and urinating easy tasks. I blended into the fountain. To onlookers, it appeared Michelangelo himself inserted me into the work. My alabaster skin matched the complexion of the statues. And also, I was naked. Like many of the statues, I had a steady stream of fluid flowing from me. The only blemish in my camouflage was that I was the only circumcised Roman God. I had to hope the guards wouldn't scrutinize the goods too closely. Hopefully they weren't queer like the pit boss who started this whole affair. The guards thundered into the atrium. They halted. They searched the area. Noone paid me any attention. Frustrated, the guards dithered about until a commander shouted through their walkie talkies to “return to base.” Ha! My planned worked perfectly -- and without a nick of time to spare; I was running out of urine! Also, several senior citizen ladies were taking notice of my circumcision. I overheard one remark that I reminded her of her late husband, Harold. This is no time to reminisce on your husband's junk, Myrtle! I leaped from the fountain, gathered my crumpled clothes and darted for the casino exit without further incident.

The rest of my trip was uneventful. I'm glad to be back and blogging again. Hey, can you spot me in the picture (above) that Myrtle took?


Blackjack, bitch.

Dear reader: I'll be in Las Vega$ this week and I won't be able to Snoop Bloggy Blog because I'll be immersed in decadence. I've left two posts. Eat one now and save the other for later. They're both highly offensive, so I'm glad I'll be out of town. You guys are the only things I'll miss while on vacation.

Girls, Boys and Parts

I feel sorry for girls. I feel sorry for them because they have to sleep with guys and it's very difficult for them to make an informed choice on whom to sleep with. Let me explain.

We guys have it easy when it comes to choosing a potential mate. We know what we're getting into. That is, we know how thin, shapely and endowed the girl is long before we score. We've already added it all up and have decided we want to hit it. And once we do, rarely do we encounter any surprises. It's not like a Demi Moore look-alike is going to pop into a Rosanne Barr once she takes her blouse off. With women, what you see is what you get.

But women don't know what the dude's packing until the pants are off, at which time it's too late. Of course, you always have the option of laughing and bolting for the door. But this is a major breach of dating etiquette. How many women have acutally told a dude, "I was into this, but your pecker is way too small for this to work for me. I had a wonderful time. Good-night."

It's a gamble going to bed with a guy. Women just don't know until it's too late. He can have a great smile, a cute butt and a wonderful sense of humor, but he can have a unit the size of a sweet gherkin. Conversely, he can look like the middle man on the evolutionary chart -- and have the manners and body odor to match -- yet have a magnificent member. Some lucky lady has throw herself to chance to find out. I've never thought of it before, but dating for women must be like that game show, Deal or No Deal. You just don't know until they open the package.

Bulldozer Road Rage

Nobody likes driving in traffic, but I think the guy most frustrated with it must be bulldozer operator. Imagine what driving home in a traffic jam must be like for him. He just spent 10 hours bulldozing through anything that got in the way, without consequence. In fact, the more stuff he plowed, the better. “Say, Hank. You mowed a lot of shit out of the way today. Good work.”

Imagine how difficult the transition must be from a bulldozer to a Ford Taurus. It's rush hour and you're stuck on a clogged highway. The traffic light has turned green, but you and the 59 cars in front of you remain motionless, locked in a grid of hybrid rice burners, SUVs and Winnebagos. Your patience wears. Your temper ignites and you decide to drop the scoop and plow through these dumb-asses. You put it in gear and... Damn! This isn't your bulldozer. It's a 4-door sedan. The problem is, you've already rear-ended the guy in front of you.

I feel sorry for the other guys at the construction site, too. Do you think the jack hammer guy is in the mood to masturbate when he finally gets home? It's fun and all, but if my hands vibrated back and forth for the last 8 hours, I might pass.

How about the guy who works the crane? I'll bet he gets really pissed when he sits down on the couch only to realize the remote control is on top of the TV, and he has to get back up and walk all the way over there. To hell with that. Might as well leave it on Lifetime for Women.

And all those poor construction workers have to use the outhouse. When they actually use their own crapper at night, they must feel like royalty.



  • Women: I've been wondering. Let's say you're on a date with a guy. It's Friday night. You arrived at the office early in the morning and worked hard all day. You left from the office to meet your date. The date is going well. He bought you surf and turf, a couple glasses of wine. Now it's midnight -- 18 hours after you awoke and dressed. You're wearing a Playtex 18-hour bra. My question is, do you take it off? Hey, it's been 18 hours. The manufacturer clearly states the bra is only good for 18 hours. Ignoring these instructions could be harmful or fatal. Maybe your knockers will turn into pumpkins or something. So take it off. Hurry, before something disasterous happens.
  • Guys: Here's some free dating advice. If you can swing it, make a date last until midnight. As long as she's wearing a Playtex 18-hour bra, I guaruntee you'll see some titty.
  • If animals instinctively lick their wounds, then I figure it can't be all bad to injure your genitalia in the animal kingdom.
  • In ancient Rome, soldiers and other employees were paid in salt, thus the expresion “worth one's salt.” If I were an ancient Roman, I'd open a potato chip factory. Then I'd pay my employees with a bag of chips. Cut out the middle-man.
  • Some people believe World War III will involve the Middle East and the USA. I predict it will be between feminsists and Black Entertainment Television. Have you watched BET? Whoa! Nothing but Mounds and Almond joy on that muthafucka. If you're a feminist, you need to check out BET after-hours. You'll forget all about the white, male executive who makes $20,000 more than his female counterpart. Chivalry ain't dead in the 'hood! Evidently, BET sees women as having two roles: wearing thongs and gyrating their asses for the camera. You don't have a problem with black culture. Do you?
  • Why name a baseball team the “Dodgers?” What are they dodging? The ball? The draft?
  • Once a city over-develops, they should name the newly constructed streets with cuss words. It would make navigation easier. “Fuck This Traffic Avenue.” “Dumb-ass Driver Street.” “Thirty-Miles-Per-Hour-in-the-Left-Lane-Dip-Shit-Highway.”
  • Why does the “CALORIES BURNED” meter on the treadmill climb so slowly and the TOTAL gauge on the gas pump move so quickly?


The folly of independent thinking

The most overrated commodity is independent thinking. Everybody thinks they think independently and everybody's proud of the fact that they do, which begs the question, how independent can independent thinking be?

Independent thinkers disdain those whose thinking is under the influence of cliches, bumper stickers and Fox News. But these people are the salt of the earth. Those of us who criticize independent thinking are rare, which makes us the real independent thinkers. But we take no pride in it. Instead, we promptly return to conventional thought where things are safe and easy. We're no fools. Let's discuss why independent thinking is overrated.

Let's first identify what is and isn't independent thought. Just because one disagrees with a conventional idea doesn't make one an independent thinker. Most of the time it just makes one a pain-in-the-ass, a malcontent, a person so in love with the idea of “independent thought” that no bit of convention escapes his pooh-poohing. This guy usually has wire-rimmed glasses, a black turtleneck sweater and a pony-tail. When confronted with a lit cigarette, this jerkoff can be identified by a series of sarcastic sighing sounds and eye-rolling. I invite smokers to extinguish their cigarettes on the aforementioned jerkoff's forehead. Ashtrays are so conventional.

Here's one example of independent thought that's really just hogwash: hating the president. Bush, Clinton, Reagan -- it doesn't matter who's in the Oval Office or what his party affiliation. Some people insist on hating the president. He's who all the conventional people voted for. So he must be faulty. By this rationale, all presidents are stupid. (The hater, by contrast, is a regular Einstein. Why didn't the rest of us have the good sense to elect him? Instead, he's pulling double-shifts at Foot Locker.) Hating the president is an independent thinker's hobby. Wallowing in the craze of Bush-hating, many forget that Clinton was despised in his day, too. We're getting downright nostalgic for Ronald Reagan, but in the 1980s, he was the 2nd biggest moron next to Tony Danza. Indeed, what a seductive thought to believe oneself more fit to run the country than the man who persevered the rigors of a campaign and won an election! I swear these people would hate Abraham Lincoln if only they lived in the 1860s. I'm sure they'd hate that “top-hat-wearing smirker.” Every time they discussed Lincoln's tenet of abolition at cocktail parties, they'd make sarcastic quote marks in the air with their fingers. Yeah, I'm growing tired of Lincoln's “War on Slavery” excuse, when really he's just in bed with his buddies in Big Emancipation.

And boy, do these independent thinkers know better than the rest of us bovine slobs how to spend government tax revenue. They can't balance their own checkbooks, but they're fit to superintend a 13-trillion dollar economy. I've endured the agony of their economic platforms, which they're all-too-happy to share. They usually call for diverting military defense money into hemp farms, acupuncture research and diversity training. Blaming the military budget for all our social ills -- what a choice example of independent thinking. Never heard that one before.

The problem with independent thinkers is, they've never independently considered the merits of conventional wisdom. That's the rub. They've wedged themselves into an egotistical sardine can: if it's conventional, it MUST be rubbish because I didn't conceive of it first. Self-centered jerkoff. Of course the rest of us readily see the folly in the independent thinker's premise. Toilet paper, Boy Bands, Zip-lock baggies, houses with right-angles and round tires are all conventional ideas that none of us had anything to do with, but they're still great ideas. New Kids on the Block were word, yo.

Remember the hubbub over the Ten Commandments residing on courtroom property? Remember how up-in-arms the naysayers were? Those were the independent thinkers. Their reasoning when something like this: The Ten Commandments are from The Bible. The Bible is conventional. Convention is bad. Therefore, the Ten Commandments will corrupt the justice system. Rabid with desire to prove themselves independent thinkers, these people fought to remove ideas like “Thou Shalt Not Lie.” “Thou Shalt Not Kill.” From a courtroom! I don't give a damn from where these ideas derive. They belong in every court in America. Thou Shalt Not Kill doesn't derive from religion. It derives from a great deal of us not wanting to fuckin be killed! It's conventional thinking all right. But I submit it's still worthwhile.

Ask yourself this. If independent thinking is so great, why do we cook from recipes? Recipes are the antithesis of independent thought. You let somebody else make all the mistakes and nasty dishes. Let them make messes and accidentally set the kitchen on fire a few times. Once they finally get it right, you borrow the recipe and whip up a culinary masterpiece the first time you try. And don't try to give yourself credit for the recipe just because you added a pinch of onion salt and a dash of liquid smoke to the recipe. The chef on FoodNetwork.com did all the heavy lifting on your Lemon Chiffon Truffles. Nice try.

Now ask yourself this: If independent thinking is so great, why do we obey traffic statutes? What a bunch of mindless robots we are, what with all the stopping at red lights and respecting rights-of-way. Why don't we “think different” and drive on the left side of the road once in a while? Or how about this: The goal is not to avoid pedestrians, but to collide with as many as possible. Now we're thinking independently. Kum Bai Ah, motherfucker. You know that guy in the left lane going 20 miles per hour under the speed limit and swerving over the line? That's the independent thinker on the road! He's living life on his own terms. He's sticking it to the Man. He's a rebel. And the rest of us are either dialing 911 on our cell phones or plotting his murder.

Think conventionally. You'll live longer.


Billboards, breakfast and beyond

My favorite billboards are the ones that talk to you. You know the ones? They break the message into parts and you get a little tidbit every couple of miles. Piecemeal advertising: the strip tease of road sign advertising.

I was driving on I-10 a while ago and had a one-way conversation with a series of billboards. The first one asked me, “Hungry?” I thought to myself, Yeah. I can eat. I drove a mile or so farther. Along came the next billboard. This one asked me, “How about a juicy steak?”

A steak would hit the spot right about now, I thought. Dreaming of a sizzling steak, I cruised another mile down the road.

“There's one grilling for you at the Iron Skillet at Exit 174.”

Bingo! I decided I’d stop at the 174 exit and order a couple steaks. The 174 was 6 miles away. In the meantime, the billboards kept talking. Another quarter mile passed. “How long can you fight the urge to stalk David Hasselhoff?”

“Even though you're in your car, you really should have some pants on. It must be really cold out.”

“Careful. That dead body in your trunk has a leg hanging out.”

My goodness! It's freaky how well these advertisers know us!

On that same trip I passed another billboard that read “We serve breakfast all day.” Well, that's tough titty to you, because I can only eat breakfast in the morning. If I eat at noon, it's lunch. And if I eat at dusk, it's dinner. Any other time, it's a snack.

The difference between breakfast, lunch and dinner isn't what kind of food you eat. It's when the fuck you eat it. By definition, you can only eat breakfast in the morning. And even in the event you could eat breakfast all day, you'd be one fat fucker. Get your shit together, Denny's!


Quick hits

  • Some people need to be seen. They go to clubs. Others need to be heard. They stay home and blog. Still others need both. They post half-naked pictures of themselves ON their blogs and then write about them.
  • Telemarketing trainers tell their employees that clients can “hear” you smile. Interesting idea. What I wonder is, when I'm talking on the cordless while taking a squeege, what can my buddy “hear?” Don't put that strained look on your face. The other person can hear it.
  • Ironic how anti-capitalist college kids blog their political tripe with $1500 I-books under their fingertips and $400 I-pods in their ears. Let me get this straight. Steve Jobs drops acid in the 1970s and sees the future colors of his I-Macs and suddenly he's above reproach for being a billionaire computer developer? If that's true, Sam Walton should have blazed up a fatty. WalMart would have a lot less headaches.
  • We men talk about are penises a lot. It makes me wonder why we don't have The Penis Monologues. “I love my penis...”
  • I bought two watermelons yesterday. It cost $6. That's $3 per melon. When did we become OK with $3 melons? Don't tell me melons are a commodity and that the price is simply a function of supply and demand. I blame Big Melons. Yeah, the executives at Big Melons are profiteering of the little guy. They've fixed the price of melons. We all need melons. We can't choose not to buy them. The Justice Department needs to investigate Big Melons. I've noticed the price of nuts and sausage going up, too.
  • Kevin Federline is the only man in America to get richer by knocking up a chick. The rest of us would be shopping for studio apartments above a bowling alley.
  • The only thing preventing me from buying the idea of intelligent design is the observation that the hairiest parts of our bodies are the ones we use to defecate, urinate and have sex. How intelligent is that?
  • There's an unusually high concentration of great bloggers from the state of Texas. I wonder if George Bush blogs. Or Ross Perot.


Respect your elders except for when they fuck up the remote

Anybody who believes old people do things slowly hasn't charged a senior citizen with the task of deprogramming a universal remote control. That's a job old people can do with the efficiency of an Indonesian sweat shop. What are old people doing to remote controls? Are they throwing them on the ground when we’re not looking? Cleaning their dentures with them? Whatever it is, I wish they’d stop. My grandparents can fuck up my entertainment center faster than you can say “geriatric dementia.” My grandparents recently visited. I came home from work the day they arrived. When I pressed the POWER button on my Cox Universal, my microwave started a DEFROST cycle. What the hell did you do, Arnold?

I know the World War II generation grew up without the technological toys we take for granted. I tolerate the differences across the generation gap -- after all, what do we young people know about self-sacrifice or long division. But I have to ask: What is so confusing about the all-in-one remote control? It's all-in-one. That's what makes it simple! Grandma, you have to press the CABLE button before you start channel surfing or you'll never catch that rerun of Murder She Wrote. Sometimes when my grandparents visit I'm tempted to turn on BET and remove the batteries from the remote. Dee Jay Wrinkles in da House wit Notorious Ben Gay, Boyeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I love my grandparents, but when I have to spend 20 minutes reprogramming my entertainment center components after a visit, I fantasize about beating them to death with an old-fashioned rabbit-ear antenna.


More weekend Bullet-ins

  • When a woman tells you she "needs some space,” what she means is, space in her vagina for another man's penis.
  • When I pick my daughter up from school, I cross the parking lot in a crosswalk. Dodging the crowds, I breached the boundary of the crosswalk. The loud, obnoxious crossing guard reprimanded me! I told her that I'm an adult now. I can eat cookies for breakfast. I can swim without waiting a half an hour first. I can run around the house with sharp objects in hand. And I could find out where she lives. Man, I love being an adult.
  • If you're angry, then at some point prior you've committed the cardinal sin of giving a damn. Corollary: in every relationship, the one who cares the least is in control.
  • If I have to choose, I'd rather live a life of leisure than a life of luxury.
  • If I were a woman, I'd marry and divorce the following men: OJ Simpson, Charlie Sheen, Ike Turner, Jose Canseco, Phil Spector, and a couple other assholes. Then I'd write a best-selling survival guide for the Barnes & Noble Gift Book section. Cha-ching. Then I'd have a book tour party and say things like, “Oh, you were in Viet Nam? Well I was married to Tommy Lee for 8 months, bitch.”
  • With all the illegal immigration prosecution going on here in AZ, I've had a custom bumper sticker made for my car: “No tengo Mexicanos in el trunko.”
  • I think it would be great fun to take a job at Greenpeace. Then, when the boss asked why I was always calling in sick, I'd blame pollution. When HR gave me static for wearing a tank-top and Daisy Duke cut-off shorts to work, I'd blame I'd blame global warming. When I got in trouble for calling all my colleagues "idiots," I'd say I just watched a George W. Bush speech on CNN. Touche!
  • Everyone's upset that we didn't find WMD's in Iraq. But I look at it differently. At least we deposed Saddam. The war in Iraq was like shopping at WalMart. Sure, they were out of what we came for. But we did find a lovely sale on patio furniture, and luckily, we needed that, too. Now, if we can just fight our way out of this shithole! Who's writing a check in the Express Lane?
  • I don't know if we should legalize marijuana, but I know that if we do, suddenly millions of pain pill prescriptions for “lower-back pain” will go into the trash.
  • I saw a Smokey the Bear road sign in the mountains last year that read “Fire Danger Today: LOW.” The adolescent in me wanted to stand beneath it juggling a blow torch and a gas can. When the ranger arrived, I'd point upward and shrug my shoulders.
  • The medical community obsesses with heart disease, cancer, diabetes and arthritis. But they should really focus on constipation and dysuria. Trust me. I work in a hospital. These are far worse problems for old people. Imagine being stuck in a traffic jam on the 405 after hitting a Jack-in-the-Box drive-thru. Now imagine that experience lasting the last 10 years of your life. It's tough having to go and not being able to go. I couldn't make it through study hall when I had to take a leak! Old people wait for weeks to take a leak. How ironic that they call them the “Golden Years."
  • I think it's wonderful that we're arming Iraq, training it's soldiers and giving them the financial aid they need to build a first-rate defense. Think how much more fun it will be to go to war with them the next time!
  • I hope aliens aren't monitoring our television broadcasts with some intergalactic TiVo. Because if there's any hostility in them, reality programming and The View will bring it out. Incidentally, I'd rather sixty-nine a skunk than watch The View with Rosie O'Donnell.


On Happiness

I'm sure you've wondered, heck, we all have, what makes for a happy life. You don't have to be a philosopher. You don't need to be a psychologist, therapist, or Dr. Phil. Everybody contemplates the way to happiness. Everybody has a strategy for attaining it. I've spent countless hours wondering. I think happiness is a recipe. And like any recipe, Happiness calls for certain ingredients. Here's my latest attempt at the ingredients to cook up some happiness:

An undemanding work environment.

Work sucks. I don't care what you do for a living. You wouldn't do it unless they paid you. It stands to reason that the less demanding the work environment, the less suck-titude. Jeans instead of slacks, part-time instead of full-time; the honor system instead of time-clocks, and preferably no random testing for illicit substances. I like a nice, subjective boss, too, who plays favorites. Let's face it, people. It's easier to play golf and drink with the boss for his/her consideration than to work for it. And if you're the opposite sex, a little tight clothing is much easier to wear than the chains of overtime, dedication and a commitment to excellence.

Regarding the workplace, I'm a firm believer in hourly wages. You can either get paid for the work you accomplish -- or the time you spend at the office. I log in a lot more time than productivity. If I got paid by the tasks I completed, I'd be sucking cock for rent money! But hourly, I do all right. Make sure you're getting paid for hanging out, not accomplishing something worthwhile. I know several workaday folks who get paid to blog from work! How's that for happiness?

A nothing-to-lose disposition

Some hippie chick whose name I forget once sang, “Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.” That's one astute hippie. First, consider houses. Our big, fancy house on the hill becomes a muse for the bank holding the note, the weed and bug guy, the cleaning lady (viva La Raza!), the taxman and your future ex-spouse who'll get it in the divorce, anyway. Meanwhile, you spend all your time hustling to make the mortgage and keeping the HOA off your back (Who cares if my garbage can is out after 1PM? Your wife was out past 1AM, Dale. Maybe you should keep an eye on her and forget about how tall my weeds are!) Anyway, you need a house or apartment that you don't worry about losing -- something you're almost happy to walk away from. A rat-hole apartment downtown, a single-wide mobile home, a spare bedroom at David Hasselhoff's place -- any of these will do. These places offer you peace of mind, which is what you're after when you're at home anyway. The house doesn't comfort you. It's the stuff in the house -- the sofa, the TV with cable, the fridge, the computer. You can fit these things anywhere. Hell, I'd live in a U-Haul if I could somehow skirt the zoning laws.

Like fancy houses, nice cars, too, are useless possessions. Here's a free tip: you have to wash nice cars, otherwise they don't look nice. I can barely muster the ambition to floss. I'm supposed to Armor-All the tires every week? They're tires, people. Do you wax the soles of your shoes? And don't think a cool car gets you laid. The few guys I knew who were knee-deep in cooter couldn't afford cars at all. The girls drove them around town! These guys had time to romance the ladies while I was at work like a schmuck.

You need a car. But you need a car that you don't have to worry about. Life is full of dust, pot holes, runaway shopping carts, bird droppings, hail storms and vandals looking for cars with a “W” bumper sticker. So drive a piece of crap. Again, you want something you're not afraid to lose. I almost hope somebody steals my car when I'm not looking. In fact, I leave a note on my steering wheel: “Dear Senor, por favor ayuda yourselfo to mi carro. Mi insurance agente will dame mucho dinero por el carro, y tu puede get muchos pollos y cervesas once you make it across el border de Mexico. Your Amigo, LBB.”

Adequate rest and a good night's sleep.

Everything sucks if you're tired. You can be at Disneyland, chock-full of ecstacy pills, riding Space Mountain while sucking Cristal out of a chocolate replica of Anna Nicole Smith's hooters. If you didn't get enough sleep the night before, you'll still be cranky and irritable. A couple of times a week, I don't get my full 9 hours of sleep. I'm 37 times more likely to commit a violent felony on these days. For example, once when I was tired I kicked an old lady in the stomach for asking me directions to Luby's cafeteria. What's more, I sprained my ankle on her wheelchair. As if I needed another reason to dislike old people -- or the handicapped. Anyway, get enough sleep or the following day is useless.

Several big meals every day

You don't want to go hungry. If you're hungry, you can't think about anything else. That one scientist, Maslow, proved it when he trained a salivating dog to run into traffic when Maslow rung a bell, and the dog usually got squished by a car. What a sadistic bastard Maslow was, now that I think about it. Anyway, when you're hungry and you're at work, for example, your workday becomes a covert operation to score a meal. One time I had this report due, but I was hungry. Plus I hadn't slept well the night before. I noticed a workmate, Joyce from two cubicals down, had a Pay Day bar on her desk. So instead of finishing my report, I made a phone call to to Joyce and explained that we had her father down at the morgue and could she please come and identify the body. She fell for it. Once she left I executed a recon mission and grabbed the Pay Day. Plus I got to hurt Joyce's feelings and make her use some doc-time for nothing. Two birds, one stone. The point is, none of this would have happened if I'd eaten breakfast, except maybe that crank call I made to Joyce. That bitch had it coming for ratting me out on the “Xerox incident.”

Here are some other things you'll need for happiness:

  • A really cool digital watch that does a lot of cool shit, like a Casio G-Shock
  • A nearby Circle K with a functional soda fountain
  • Liquor
  • A subscription to NetFlix
  • A punching bag, a medicine ball and your favorite fitness equipment
  • A great salsa recipe
  • A spouse whom you don't want to strike every time you hear his/her voice
  • A blog, broadband Internet and some like-minded bloggers
  • The knowledge that life is temporary, that death is permanent, and that once you die you cease to exist, therefore no God can seek retribution on you.