I am contemplating a book. Writing one. A New York Times best seller. Because, candidly, I wouldn’t know how to write anything less.
You see, dear friends, I am awesome. And I believe that revealing my ostentatious splendor to the world would be a gift akin to god sacrificing his only begotten son for your sins.
Consider this a gift. From me to you. All of you except maybe that fucking idiot reading my work while watching midget granny porn. Walk away, shit bird.
Yes, it is a sacrifice of my valuable time to produce a book imparting such profound wisdom. So, for now, I am simply providing you a sneak peek at each chapter to gain some initial buzz.
I am supremely confident you will find value. How could you not? I look very forward to receiving your overwhelmingly positive feedback and unfettered encouragement in the Comments Section following this essay.
The book’s title is 10 Reasons I’m Better Than You. Namaste.
Reason #1: Fat is temporary. Ugly is forever.
When I was younger, a so-called friend would tease me and tell me I was fat. While thin, this guy was fucking ugly – aka fugly. The kind of fugly that makes you question why his parents didn’t hit him with a shovel and bury him with a crucifix when he clawed his way out of his mother’s womb. Wearing the moniker of pudgy or husky or chubby hurts. You know what hurts more? Knowing that fat is temporary. Ugly is forever.
You see, in terms of cuteness, I am fucking adorable. A solid 8.5. I can lose weight when I choose. I can diet. I can exercise. I can have surgery. None of those options fix ugly, because ugly is incurable. So, while my heft might collapse a folding sports chair at Timmy’s soccer game, I won’t crack a mirror when I stare into it longer than 10 seconds. And you will discover soon why the mirror is so essential for me.
Reason #2: Don’t be stupid. Money can buy happiness.
Money can obviously buy happiness. By its very nature, money buys things. Why not happiness? People who argue money doesn’t buy happiness fall in one of two camps – lazy or Commie. Laziness sickens me. I buy things with the scads of money I make because I bust my ass 80 hours per week to earn it. Nice house, nice car, nice exotic trips. Yup, all titillate my chubby man titties.
Lazy people? Bitch and whine about their hard life, knowing they are working a dead-end, low-income job but too lazy to work a second or third job. My grandfather was a bus driver, a janitor, and a bartender to make ends meet. Worse, Lazies are covetous. They denigrate wealthier people like me out of petty jealousy instead of the commensurate deference they should show their Betters.
And Commies? Don’t get me started. They would rather squat in their equal huts in a dirty Siberian alfalfa commune, subsistence living off what lichen they can grow or vermin they can kill. Like John Lennon (note the similarity to Lenin) once wrongly challenged us, “Imagine no possessions.” Commie. Total pinko. The hard reality, comrades, is equality in personhood does not equate to equality in contribution. Without innovators and producers like me, who do a lot more, and therefore earn a lot more, your fucking Prius would never exist.
Reason #3: Sleep is flawless for an unburdened mind.
“O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!” Shakespeare’s Richard III laments over the murders he committed in his ascension. His nightmares wake him. What does that feel like? I sleep like a baby, unmolested by this so-called conscience thing. What a horrible burden! Out of fairness, to the best of my recollection I have never murdered anybody, let alone ten people like Dick III.
There was the one time I hit the kid on his bike. Came out of nowhere. Startled the ever-loving shit out of me. Through my rearview mirror, it looked like he was moving. Hard to tell at such a high rate of speed and with so much alcohol in my system. But I distinctly recall seeing no noticeable blood stains on the car hood when I hosed it down. And that cracked windshield was certainly the byproduct of some windblown debris or errant pelican. A child would have caused a lot more damage. I’m not a physicist, nor an oddsmaker, but I’m 90% sure that kid survived.
Reason #4: Drummers are the highest form of musician.
I am a drummer. Factually speaking, a humble drum god. Little known fact, but on his deathbed, Neil Peart had a tear-stained picture of me sitting at my drum kit hidden under his pillow. Respect. Peer superiority aside, drummers in general are the highest form of musician for three distinctive reasons.
Firstly, only drummers (and gods) control time. Bands implode without the steady beat laid down by drummers. It’s a known fact that guitar and keyboard players would recklessly meander into artsy, self-adulating chaos without the firm, guiding pulse of their drummer.
Secondly, drummers are athletes. Musicians are generally nerds. Not drummers. We’re cool. Jocks, really. Playing the drum is a full-body muscular experience. Keyboardists sit for hours. Guitarists pace around and only exercise their fingers. Singers? Do they even count? Next!
Finally, drummers are the life of the party. Find me proof that every woman (and some men, too) doesn’t fantasize about having sex with a drummer. Rhythm, baby. But it’s more than that. It’s that bad boy persona. Drummers die from excessive drugs and alcohol abuse more per capita than any other rock instrument. Ask Keith Moon or John Bonham if they were smiling when they drowned in their own vomit. Too cool.
Reason #5: “Humor is mankind’s greatest blessing.”-Mark Twain
I am thankful every day that I am so funny. It’s yet another reminder of how much better I am than other people. Think of what humor does for you. Humor leads to laughter. Orgasms aside, can you think of any release better than laughing so hard your laugh muscle in the back of your neck starts to seize? Laughing so hard you cough up pieces of your lung in a choking fit from your last bong hit? Laughing so hard you go temporarily blind and nearly rupture that undiscovered aneurism in your cerebral cortex?
Laughter, in turn, leads to happiness. If you hate happiness, you hate puppies and candy. Think of that warm bliss cascading around your body like some rare hemorrhagic fever. Much like a yawn, smiling is contagious. And that dumb, shit-eating grin you get from being happy is transcendent. The network effect of smiling takes over and can change the mood in a room. Nay, it can alter the course of history. I am funny. And you are welcome.
Reason #6: Friendship is worth the wait.
All my life, I have combed the world like a doctor for pubic lice to uncover that one rare person worthy of my friendship. The search continues. My wife is awesome, so I guess you could count her as a friend, though I don’t recall fucking a lot of friends. So maybe we share something different? Who knows? Life’s mysteries, right?
The moment when I think I have made a new non-wife friend, that I have found a worthy cerebral and spiritual compadre, they disappoint me. They wear the wrong clothes or say something irretrievably stupid or stop calling me back. Even when I text them hundreds of times, they give me the cold shoulder. Worse, they often respond with the standard navacancha like, “you’re such an asshole.” With comments like, “never contact me again, I hate you,” their jealousy of me is disgustingly apparent, proving once again, they are not worthy of my superior sodality.
Reason #7: The Law of Self-Attraction: My Abraham is Balaam.
The Law of Attraction is simply another bunch of bullshit sold to gullible, sad people. According to channeler, Esther Hicks, it relies on an unseen, alien collective intelligence named “Abraham” to help you get what you want. That’s just fucking stupid. Instant loss of credibility. Follow my inimitable lead here.
I practice the Law of Self-Attraction. My spirit guide’s name is Balaam. Well, Balaam and his talking jackass. (Yeah, literally. Not figuratively.) The Law of Self-Attraction begins by looking into a mirror, admiring the splendiferousness that is you. In this case, me, ogling myself. If I repeat donkey, donkey, donkey three times, an incorporeal seer named Balaam appears in the mirror astride a large, grinning donkey. The strange part is that the donkey does the talking, and he sounds identical to Eddie Murphy’s Donkey from Shrek. Or maybe I imagined that?
Either way, the talking burro reminds me of my daily affirmations, plagiarized from self-help guru, Stuart Smalley, I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.
Reason #8: Parenting is unnecessary with good genes.
My sperm is genetic gold. With its Midas touch upon my wife’s ovum, our zygotes experienced rapturous mitosis. Twenty-three perfect little chromosomes each to create two perfect little beings in my daughters. So why bother parenting a goddess? They were born with sufficient hereditary advantage and white privilege to ensure their dominance in life.
I feel so bad for my Lessers. They give so much of their lives to their kids when they could be napping or tweeting or watching Tiger King. The conundrum is their imperfect progeny require teaching, and mom or dad barely qualify to instruct their child how to punch its way out of a paper bag. So, they rear their kids so utterly flawed that they next require proxy parents in schoolteachers to further develop their children. And when the asinine system of those mediocre intermediaries finally shits their kids out into society’s stained toilet bowl of a job market, managers assume the role of surrogate parent.
When your full-grown children returns home from a day of meaningless, unfulfilling work, they interact with their final substitute parent – the television – killing whatever remaining motivation, inspiration, or imagination was left in their uncultivated brains. Damn, that’s dark. Listen, for $50 you can have my sperm. Call me.
Reason #9: Experience trumps education.
Either you have natural intelligence like me, or you do not. It’s science. Formal education is a massive social experiment in Nurture. Nature vs Nurture has been debated for eons, and according to science, Nature wins every time. Imagine a world where we all learned as we did stuff. The mean streets of hard knocks, taking your lumps, and pulling yourself up by your bootstraps are your classroom.
By directly engaging with life at an early age, you will develop the survival instincts and skills necessary to contribute as best you can to the world, in your own intellectually limited way. Look at these PhD and MBA toffs who hang their reputations on their ability to master specific topics. Smart? Sure. But to what end? What does all their ivory tower, elitist years of thinking and studying and ideating meaningfully contribute?
So, I propose disbanding formal education and putting everyone to work. Real work. Let your natural inborn intelligence guide your ability to thrive. If everyone became a producer, the takers would eventually go extinct.
Reason #10: God believes in me.
I listen to religious people tell me all the time about their belief in one god or another. Their faith in their god helps them compartmentalize their dull, pointless lives into bite-size, digestible chunks. Because the promise of something bigger to follow this life makes suffering through this existence more bearable. How nice. Fucking shoot me now. I am so thankful to have a radically different worldview. Shit, more of a different cosmic view.
You see, God believes in me. Not only because Balaam’s talking ass says so (although he most certainly does). But also because my life is so full and perfect that I am content. I have no need to pine for an eternity beyond this world because I am a god here. I sleep flawlessly because I have led an unstained, unvarnished life, give or take possibly killing one kid. On Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, I am the tip of the triangle, a little-known space called Fucking Awesome. Comes way after self-actualization.
All I ask from you, dear readers, is to appreciate that I am further evolved. Born with one foot in the afterlife, connected to divinity. Your dad has bad sperm, and your mom was a shitty parent. That’s not your fault. You were raised by some obscene village, so why would God believe in you yet? Your day will come. You just need to die first.
Having read this introduction, I am sure you are confused on “next steps” for you. PS! You’re so awesome. How can I ever try to be like you?
In short, you can’t. Don’t try. It won’t work. Leave a reply in the Comments section telling me how much you enjoyed this revelation.
Like Dr. Manhattan from Watchmen, accept my benevolence and tolerance. Do what you can with my mythical mysticisms and carry on with your run of the mill lives.
Perhaps the next life will hold some higher purpose for you.
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