For Ariana, enjoy your youth.

Citizen Flintstone Goes To College

Good Lord I’m going back to school twenty years after dropping out. Tired and flabby, I’m about to immerse myself once again in the timeless American collegiate tradition: Gratuitous Fucking. Or in my case Gratuitous Attempts at Fucking. Sober and old, I’m about to surround myself with a bunch of drunken teenagers. At a state school no less. So stupid drunken teenagers, as if there were a need for distinction. Maybe with some serious surgery I could pass myself off as near mid-twenties. All I need is an acid peel and a lobotomy. Perhaps something to magically tighten my wrinkled, flaccid ball-sack and I just might get laid. Nothing gives away your age like a craggy nut-bag. I wonder if I could actually get someone to Botox my balls.

I checked out the grounds yesterday. Circling the perimeter in search of promising prey–looking like some aged lion ever watchful for wounded gazelle down by the watering hole. I tried not to overtly ogle the countless coeds descending on campus. Spring shorts tight; books, bags and lattes in hand. I always had a talent for picking out the bird with the broken wing. Which is what it’s going to take this time around if I want nineteen-year-olds to fondle my stinky twinky.

Even more amusing are the credits that transferred from Syracuse University; well actually, the ones that didn’t transfer. I may very well have to stand in front of a panel and take an oral competency exam. Since my English credits do not seem to apply at Northern, I believe I will be required to prove my competency in my native tongue. Here is an excerpt:

Part I is a 45-item listening exam that takes one full hour to complete. The exam (including instructions, sample question, stimuli and questions) is on videotape. Students view and listen to a variety of communication exchanges, including televised interviews, discussions of public issues, formal speeches and informal arguments, and are asked questions about those exchanges. The exam is machine scored by Testing Services.
For Part II, students must prepare and present a 5-6 minute extemporaneous persuasive speech. Students are provided a copy of the rating form used to assess the speech and a list of topic areas and prototypical audiences from which to choose prior to presenting the speech. Speeches are rated by a panel of COMS 100 faculty. Following the speech, each student is asked a series of brief questions about the speech. The student’s oral answers to those questions are also
rated.

Okay, so who out there would like a written transcript of my extemporaneous persuasive speech? I think best topic suggestion here wins. Here are a few off the top of my head:

1. Why I am smarter than everyone in the room. (PowerPoint presentation with color pie-charts, graphs, and XTC soundtrack.)
2. Why five to six minutes is not nearly enough time to exhibit the awe-inspiring, almost God-like intellect I possess, and my near limitless expanse of knowledge on practically every single topic imaginable–expertly demonstrated entirely through interpretive dance.
3. Why the guy that went before me was an idiot and why his speech sucked.
4. Why “ass to mouth” can be really good for a young woman’s self-image.
5. Why Women’s Studies majors should spend their weekends washing my penis.

What if, God forbid, I actually have to take freshman English? Oh the humanities…
Sorry, bad pun.
My new student orientation is next week, where I should have a clearer picture of what my graduation requirements are. Jesus, what the fuck am I thinking? Certainly I can come up with a better plan than going five figures into debt over the next few years just to surround myself with young girls? Sigh.

Citizen Flintstone…signing off.

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In honor of everyone out there looking for a job and willing to do anything. I present my first piece ever.

My Resume’

Work History

1968-1973

I was born a real go-getter. A real people person. I learned at a very young age that family and guests didn’t exactly appreciate the smell of poopy diapers, so I would hide behind the curtains to do my business. Now that’s a level of public responsibility that most infants cannot claim, and I feel that I have continued to be conscious of appropriate social behavior throughout my life. My first word would become my moniker, or more appropriately my call in the coming years. Much to the chagrin of my loving mother, one of my father’s degenerate artist friends decided to teach me the word “bullshit”, which I happily applied to all conversations within which I was included. Little did I know how important that word would become in my life.

1974-1975

Childhood was bullshit. I spent the first two years after my parent’s divorce living in some ratty apartments in the South Bronx. He married a Jewish woman who worked in psychotherapy. There’s a shocker. How come everyone even remotely involved in the field of psychology is so terminally fucked up? Just an early observation—anyway, if you aren’t familiar with the South Bronx, I was the white cultural influence there. I remember screwing up the “7-up” game on my first day in second grade and getting my ass kicked by Tyrone and Jesus after school. Apparently the “7-up” game was sacred to the denizens of the South Bronx, and I most certainly deserved a good ass beating for the sacrilege I had committed. But this experience taught me to be aware of the cultural mores and rituals prevalent in my surroundings, a character trait that will most assuredly be a benefit for me in the work force.

1976-1977

Culture shock is bullshit. I moved from the South Bronx to Norman Oklahoma in the third grade. I met my first friend, Ritchie, who apparently was one of many children in Norman that had a booger collection. Using the knowledge I had gained from my previous ass-beating experiences in New York, I praised his booger collection and all others that would come across my path. I was a big hit. And unbeknownst to me I was demonstrating a level of ass kissing that takes most men decades to hone. Once again, building my skills to eventually enter the work force. Norman was not a town full of highbrow intellectual stimulation, a perfect environment for me to develop the proper skills needed for a respected and valued worker in corporate America. I learned that when your father is drunk, just like when your boss is pissed, stay out of the way and look busy. Invaluable information for the young, ambitious corporate ladder climber.

1978-1979

Junior High was bullshit. We had a teacher in Wisconsin that had free reign to beat the shit out of us kids. He used to call you up to the front of the class, make you hold out your hands and smash them with a ruler with all his might. Everyone was too scared to say a word. We got him back though. Calvin had an attack dog that had a penchant for old white ass. We waited until Halloween, all of us in masks, and set the dog on him in the parking lot. When there was an investigation by the Principal I stepped forward being the “A” student, expressed my innocence, and exposed him for his violent behavior towards the children as the reason for the attack. Ms. Campbell turned out to be quite a pleasant replacement. I have read that the best in business learned at an early age how to handle difficult situations with extreme measures and inter-personal manipulation. I cannot think of a better example than this.

1980-1984

High school was bullshit. But I did learn another lesson that should assist me in my mission to be all that an employee can be in this country. Charisma is everything. Forget Algebra—learn to be charming. Charm, and if you are lucky, good looks, can get you into any door in the world. My freshman English teacher literally gave me an “A” because he liked my style. I didn’t even turn in half the moronic projects he had for the class, and if that isn’t a hard sell then I don’t know what is. I mean really, what the fuck is my haiku poem going to do for me? I’ll tell you what nodding my head in agreement during a political conversation after school did. It got me a free ride. Once again, demonstrating the art of schmooze that will propel me to fiscally abundant heights with whatever company realizes my lifelong dedication to the Art of American Business. I also learned to weigh my strengths and weaknesses. My father was on the board of deans at Syracuse University, so who gives a shit if my Spanish teacher thought I was an asshole? Know what your future is likely to hold. And know whose ass to kiss. Important lessons for a young, ambitious corporate ladder climber.

1985-1989

College was bullshit. All the drugs made me forget all the lessons I’d learned. By the end I almost had to start all over. Sex, alcohol, and illegal substances can cloud even the clearest of business minds. But I did learn yet another important lesson. Men judge other men by how fantastically good looking and charming the women they are with seem. And in all fairness, quite often vice versa. For all intents and purposes you could be the biggest schmucko on campus, but not with Babs on your arm. With Babs you get into all the best parties. With Babs you don’t wait in line at the most popular bar. With Babs you are the envy of every horny eighteen-year-old dorm room dork. And they fear and respect you. Gaining respect through fear is almost the most important business related lesson you can learn. I cannot stress this enough.

1990-1991

Art is bullshit. Resist the urge to explore your innate creativity. In my case it was music. Heading down the path of artistic enlightenment can only hinder your chances at financial stability. After college, I spent almost two years in Boulder Colorado. This town, and all like it, including Madison Wisconsin, should be avoided at all costs by any serious minded future businessman. Although while finding the rampant sex, illegal drugs, and trippy music quite pleasing, it was a hollow experience. Luckily, the lessons I had learned earlier in life were enough to get me through it alive. This is another point I cannot stress enough. At all costs, avoid people wearing tie-dye.

1992-1993

Retail is bullshit. I moved back to Chicago to begin my career in business. Taking what I could get, I enlisted with a fine young entrepreneur whose particular expertise was shoes. Once again though I learned an important lesson in economics. If you are going to be a small fish, at least be in a big pond. If you are one of only a handful of employees at a ma and pop business, you’re going to get blamed for an awful lot of shit that goes wrong. Take my word for it. Lock yourself into a long-term business relationship with a huge corporate conglomerate. At least there you can bury yourself in relative anonymity, and with the proper ass kissing skills, avoid any blame or responsibility for the majority of your career. And besides, how much profit can you make off of struggling to get some old smelly woman’s size twelve foot into the size six shoe she thinks should fit her?

1994-1995

Marrying rich is bullshit. I know what you’re thinking—don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Well I am here to tell you I learned a valuable lesson while engaged to a millionaire. Living vicariously through someone else’s wealth is not all it’s cracked up to be. Sure waking up at noon, eating a continental breakfast, watching the movie of my choice on our big screen TV, and then retiring to the computer room for a hard afternoon of computer gaming doesn’t suck. Sure eating out at the finest restaurants, buying tickets to all the hottest shows and experiencing all that Chicago has to offer it’s elite isn’t immediately stale. But when the love fades, and the music dies down who do you think is going to end up on the streets eh? That’s right. Very important lesson in business. Earn your own damn money, then you can treat people like shit all you want. Tired of your current girlfriend? Get a new one! Throw the old hag out; I’m sure she’s got family! Now some folks have asked me, “Why didn’t you use the lessons you had learned earlier in life, and kissed her ass?” Well for one, nearing the end of our relationship her ass was getting so fucking big I was afraid I’d get sucked into its gravitational field and never be heard from again. By the time we were through her ass, once two, tiny, quivering mounds of scented flesh had become twin peaks of Gouda and Brie, with rivers of cottage cheese running down her thighs. But that’s beside the point. The drive to earn lots of money is an important step for any young businessman. And never let anyone talk you into taking a philanthropic job such as helping abused children. It was an entire waste of my time; no one told me those kids had no money.

1996-Current

Mortgage banking is bullshit. I thought I’d finally found my calling. Here was the kind of ruthless, backstabbing, vicious, occupation I was bred for. Chock full of political subterfuge and voracious unrelenting greed. Oh daddy. There’s nothing like taking an eighty-year old woman to the cleaners, by charging her an arm and a leg for a loan that jacked her interest rate up so high she was in foreclosure within a year. And it’s still not enough. But hey what did you expect? I’m a product of my environment. I take no responsibility for my actions. I am going to take and take and take until there is nothing left at all. I am an American businessman, and I am going to squeeze every penny out of every sale I can get my bloodstained hands on. I’m going to bury every dream I ever had in pursuit of the almighty dollar. So whatever the job is, I am the man for your company. Whether it’s selling stocks or selling souls I have the skills. I….am a team player.

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For Vomhof. Breaking Down Stereotypes and Feral Children.

Well it was an interesting ride home from the first annual Bill Hicks day in Austin Texas. I, purely by chance, discovered a new and easy way to break down stereotypes while on the train back to Chicago. Attempting to sleep across two chairs, I found myself in that state just between dreams and consciousness, and much to my chagrin, for a brief second I thought I was at home in my own bed. And in that brief second, a slight grin came to my face, and I farted.

This particular gaseous emittance was a real go-getter. Definitely wanted to make the most out of its brief time on this world. I regained consciousness just as it said “hello!” to my fellow passengers.

“Ssslllpppbbbbtttt.”

Well I did what any sane man would do at that point…I pretended I was still asleep. At least there is some painfully small amount of dignity in the inability to control one’s bodily functions while sleeping. Unfortunately, listening to the four year old kid behind me vainly attempt to stifle his giggling, made me realize my subterfuge was all for not. Asleep or awake, I would no longer be the long-haired guy, or the liberal-looking guy, I was the guy who farted on the train.

If it weren’t for this child, a child I might add who at four, had yet to scream out an identifiable word, but was still intimately aware of the social ramifications of passing gas; it wouldn’t have been a big deal. I would’ve pretended to forget, every adult who heard me would’ve pretended to forget. Everything would have been peachy.

But no, little Jeremy knew he had me. I was his little plaything for the rest of the 30-hour trip, and he and his stellar lack of vocabulary, knew it. Jeremy spent the rest of his joyous ride sitting behind me kicking my chair, despite his mother blandly asking him to stop.

“The man is reading,” she said, but I know what she was really thinking, “Don’t kick his chair too hard son, he may fart again.”

So I sat in humiliation for the rest of the trip with Jeremy’s foot in the small of my back, listening to him make fart sounds for the amusement of the rest of the passengers.

The only thing that seemed to woo his attention away from torturing me was any unscheduled stop. Every time we had a delay, I would listen to him scream “Go Taaaaa,” “Go Taaaa!”

Which according to his mother meant “go train.”

I was so sure it meant “kill me Eric, I’m four, my mom is white trash, and I can’t even speak an intelligible fucking word yet,” but I guess I was mistaken.

Anyway, the real lesson here is the transcendental power of flatulence to overcome humanity’s brutish and common prejudices. If you are sick to death of being seen as the lawyer in the suit, the hippie with the hair, or whatever stereotype you may have fallen into, just find your way onto some means of public transportation and fire out a big one. Those people will never look at you the same again. Oh yeah, by the way, the kid as he got off the train in Chicago, walked by me, farted, and laughed. I shit you not.

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For “Greg” and “Inna.” Sex and Roommates. (from the archives)

This goes out to all the folks in the free world that have roommates. Roommates that have a lot of sex. Loud sex. Five alarm fire sex. Violating city noise ordinance codes sex. Explosive, bed-breaking, earth-shaking, Godzilla does Gamera sex.  In short, sex I wish I were having more often.

Now this all started when, and I will change the names to protect the innocent, “Bob” started dating “Carol,” his current love interest, about a year ago. Right around the same time that my last relationship was on, to say the least, a downward swing. I have since moved from the bedroom adjacent to the constant ruckus, to the room down the hall.  It was actually kind of funny to be sitting with Sue during the final stages of our relationship’s demise, and have those two in the next room literally knocking the wall into our bed.

 “So, uh..wanna play some cards?”
BANG, GUNSH, BANG.
“Parcheesi perhaps?”
CRASH, BLAM, “OH GOD,” BANG, BANG.
“I think I have some cards around here somewhere…”
“FOR THE LOVE OF GOD…” “URRRAAAAGGHH UUHGH,”CRASH, BANG, WHOOMPF.
Back then I kept expecting someone’s head to eventually fly through the wall and end up in my lap.
“Cigarette kids?”
“We’re watching nature programs and playing battleship, what were you guys doing?”
“Well it certainly sounded like fun, remember when we used to do that honey?”
“Sweetie, why are you packing, are we going on a trip?”

It was even more difficult at four in the morning when I was alone and trying to get some sleep. You see, Carol, in the throes of passion, sounds exactly like she is singing a song out of The Sound Of Music, with a sort of repetitive building crescendo.  Only it takes her a real long fucking time to finish the song. I’d be lying in bed and all of a sudden:


“Do, Re, Mi, Fa, So, La, Ti..”
And then it would stop. I’d roll over and put one of my pillows over my head. Sure enough only seconds later…
“Do, Re, Me, Fa, So, La, Ti……..”
Again and again, over and over for what seemed like hours on end.
“Do, Re, ME, FAA, SOOO, LAAA, TIIIIII……..nothing…”
Finally it was more than I could bear. I felt like screaming “Make her ‘DO’ already! The answer is ‘DO’! Everyone needs to ‘DO’!  For the love of God what are you stopping for? Get in there Bob and finish the fucking job!!! The end of the fucking song is DOOOOOO!!”
Finally, in a dual explosion that I’m sure can be heard anywhere within a four mile radius, they finish. Whew. Thank God.

Sometimes, when I listen real close, I can hear a smattering of applause from around the neighborhood. Seriously, when I was a kid I heard more screaming out of a street dog that had managed to get his nuts entangled in a barbed-wire fence. These two are so gloriously loud that whenever they are fucking, I pray for all of my dreams to come true. I have a sneaking suspicion that all eyes in the heavens must inevitably be turned to see what unearthly racket is going on down here.

As I’ve said before, it is a little embarrassing that when my roommate comes he sounds like he just came up with a new law of physics, and when I come lately it’s like I just put on a warm pair of socks. Not that it has always been that way, but I can’t even remember the last time I was really interested in having sex with someone.

Which all leads into my “Sex is better when its dirty” theory. Since I have accepted sex as being wholesome, clean, and entirely appropriate in just about every way, I’ve lost that “this is dirty, Eric is being a bad boy,” thing. That’s why Catholic school girls rock. Sure fundamentalist Christians and Catholics have views that suck, but get them into bed and they turn all of that repressed sexual energy into a cataclysmic shit-storm of fucking.

So, as with all of my problems, I blame my father. I blame him for letting my stepbrother and I at the age of thirteen have all night keg parties, and girls spending the night with us in the coach house. Sure we were popular then, smoking joints and sticking our hairless crotches into the hands of our wide-eyed, prepubescent, flat-chested neighbors, but now I have no solid “sex is dirty” base to build off of. Everything for which most children would get disowned, we got a pat on the back for, and full parental blessing. Ain’t it neat how I found a way to bitch about being allowed to drink, smoke and fornicate in my early teens?

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Seattle Thai

I was traveling around the country by myself recently, and I spent some time up in Seattle. I love Thai food so I am always looking for a decent Thai restaurant, and I found one in Seattle, which is no surprise considering the sizeable Asian population there. The first time I went in I was standing at the counter looking at the menu, while a tiny Asian woman stared at me. I would later find out that she was the owner and the chef. I noticed that my favorite Thai dish wasn’t on the menu, so I asked about it.

“Do you have Larb Kai?”

She stared at me for a second and scrunched her face and squinted a bit. I should mention that she has a really powerful presence for such a small person.

“You like Larb Kai?”

I was like, “yeah I fucking love Larb Kai. It’s awesome. Probably one of my favorite dishes in the world.”

“You like Larb Kai?”

“Well, yeah. That is why I asked. It is my favorite Thai dish.”

So she grabs me by the arm and sits me down, slams her hand on the table really hard. Hard enough to spill the water glass.

“I will make you Larb Kai.”

I went there several times during my stay in Seattle, and she always sat me in the same place. It was a tiny table in the corner as far away from everyone else in the restaurant as possible, facing the wall. I think she was actually pissed that she didn’t have a shittier place to sit me. I am pretty sure if she could have put me in the employee bathroom with a TV tray she would have. But the fucking Larb Kai was awesome. I mean fucking unreal awesome. Every time I would come in she seemed angrier. She would sit me down, facing the wall, and slam her hand on the table and ask me something like, “what you want to eat today that not on menu?”

One of the last times I went in before leaving Seattle, I ordered off the menu and I asked for a spring roll and a half order of the chicken curry. It should be noted that I was always by myself when I dined there. I shit you not, she had a pad of paper and a pen in her hand and said this while she was writing:

“One half order of lonely man chicken, and a solitary sadness spring roll.”

If I weren’t so terrified of her I would do an impression of her on stage. I am just worried that it would get back to her somehow and she would be waiting for me on the street one night outside the show. Ready to waterboard me with a can of soy milk.

“Oh you think you so bery bery funny…so bery funny.”

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For Lane

Some time ago I wrote a piece responding to an email regarding a Chinese Tantra Totem. I presented the piece unedited with my revisions point for point. I would once again like to offer my version of this advice for ”manners every kid should know” with the caveat that it is for exceptionally intelligent children. The rest of you kids can toe the line or fuck off, I don’t care either way.

Helping your child master these simple rules of etiquette will get him noticed — for all the right reasons.
By David Lowry, Ph.D.

Your child’s rude ‘tude isn’t always intentional. Sometimes kids just don’t realize it’s impolite to interrupt, pick their nose, or loudly observe that the lady walking in front of them has a large behind. And in the hustle and bustle of daily life, busy moms and dads don’t always have the time to focus on etiquette. But if you reinforce these 25 must-do manners, you’ll raise a polite, kind, well-liked child.-

Manner #1

When asking for something, say “Please.”

“Please” doesn’t always work my little, sharp-minded cherubs. Sometimes you have to appear intimidating especially to your peers. Words can be used in many ways. The next time you need to dominate a situation, try saying “please” while allowing it to ooze out of your seething face like acid. Pick your nails with a switchblade or a Pokémon card for added effect.

Manner #2

When receiving something, say “Thank you.”

This is assuming that you are pleased with what you have received. If you are receiving a beating from a parental figure for example, try something different. If “stop hitting me you cunt” doesn’t work, perhaps “I’m sorry I found your porn,” or “I love you” might do the trick. Then again, you are a genius… anyone beating on you should be dead already.

Manner #3

Do not interrupt grown-ups who are speaking with each other unless there is an emergency. They will notice you and respond when they are finished talking.

The majority of humanity wouldn’t notice a smoke alarm at a wedding reception until their fucking cummerbunds were on fire. Adults certainly aren’t noticing tiny, little you. In case of emergency, get out and let them burn. You are a genius, and therefore self-sufficient enough that you don’t need anything from those assholes. Seek out intelligent adults. They will recognize your genius. They will interrupt those very same grown-ups that are boring the shit out of both of you. Unless they are busy trying to get laid.

Manner #4

If you do need to get somebody’s attention right away, the phrase “excuse me” is the most polite way for you to enter the conversation.

Sometimes to get what you want, you have to weigh “polite” versus “effective.” This is about risk and reward. I hope as a young genius you are an accomplished poker player with a righteous stock portfolio. Everything is about risk and reward my little prodigies.

Manner #5

When you have any doubt about doing something, ask permission first. It can save you from many hours of grief later.

This is fundamentally terrible advice. If you have any doubt, then you are knee-deep in some potentially fucked up shit, genius. Ask permission? Why not saunter down to the police station and get fingerprinted while you’re at it.

Manner #6

The world is not interested in what you dislike. Keep negative opinions to yourself, or between you and your friends, and out of earshot of adults.

As a genius there is going to be copious amounts of shit you dislike. By the age of eleven you should pretty much hate everybody. Unfortunately, the world is not interested. Shout it from the rooftops anyway.

Manner #7

Do not comment on other people’s physical characteristics unless, of course, it’s to compliment them, which is always welcome.

There are only so many years during which you can get away with commenting on other people’s characteristics with impunity. Don’t waste them.

Manner #8

When people ask you how you are, tell them and then ask them how they are.

Once again, this is assuming you give a shit about this person. As a genius, you probably already know how to glad-hand someone. If the situation requires it, sure, tell them how great P.E. class was today. Then ask them what getting old is like.

Manner #9

When you have spent time at your friend’s house, remember to thank his or her parents for having you over and for the good time you had.

Once again, terrible advice. Never give any voice of authority an option to stop thinking about themselves for a second. Why would you want them to consider what kind of fucking good time you had? They are most likely miserable twats that hate all joy in the world; never show them any. Never let anyone tell you that there aren’t miserable twats in this world. Miserable twats tell you such things.

Manner #10

Knock on closed doors — and wait to see if there’s a response — before entering.

Unless of course you want some really great childhood memories.

Manner #11

When you make a phone call, introduce yourself first and then ask if you can speak with the person you are calling.

Screaming incoherently and then hanging up can also be effective. Everything has caller I.D. Microwave ovens have caller I.D. When pure genius is not enough to frighten the enemy, feel free to completely lose your shit.

Manner #12

Be appreciative and say “thank you” for any gift you receive. In the age of e-mail, a handwritten thank-you note can have a powerful effect.

This is old people telling you to embrace an age gone by that they refuse to let go. The first half of that statement has already been addressed, and the second half I have a story for. Unfortunately for you, the story isn’t true.

Manner #13

Never use foul language in front of adults. Grown-ups already know all those words, and they find them boring and unpleasant.

Fuck. Cunt. Twat. Insecure, bright people like words that make stupid people uncomfortable. These aren’t them. Geniuses understand how people move, and what motivates them. If you walk up to a crowd of adults and call them out on being a bunch of fucking hypocrites my righteous cherubs, I guarantee it won’t be the word “fucking” that they are miffed about. What they really don’t like is the truth. Neither will you my tender little geniuses, but turn as you may, there is no escape.

Manner #14

Don’t call people mean names.

If you have already celebrated your eleventh birthday, this will be difficult.

Manner #15

Do not make fun of anyone for any reason. Teasing shows others you are weak, and ganging up on someone else is cruel.

It’s unfortunate that young geniuses need ample time to figure out that being smarter than everyone else is actually an attribute. It’s one hell of a wrecking machine. Pick one bully. Destroy them with your mind. Standing idly by, as the previous statement suggests, is complicit.

Manner #16

Even if a play or an assembly is boring, sit through it quietly and pretend that you are interested. The performers and presenters are doing their best.

Bullshit. Every performance is everyone doing their best always? Even if it’s boring, pretend? As a young genius you should know by now that most artists suck. You will probably be very artistically inclined, and yet want to punch many of them in the face. It should take several, brilliant friends to drag you to a show. It could still suck; that is how lackluster the art world is out there. Time is precious. Geniuses do not have an afterlife to spend discussing crappy bands and their shitty songs, or theater performances that were completely destroyed by the talentless chick everyone wanted to bang in high school.

Manner #17

If you bump into somebody, immediately say “Excuse me.”

Try that in New York, Chicago, Tokyo, Paris…Et cetera. You are a genius. You probably already know how to teleport.

Manner #18

Cover your mouth when you cough or sneeze, and don’t pick your nose in public.

Little geniuses, it might also be a good idea not to pick your ass, scratch your crotch, or violently masturbate when anyone else is around. If Manner #18 were given the room to run, guys in vans providing free candy would be out of business.

Manner #19

As you walk through a door, look to see if you can hold it open for someone else.

This one is so close. I would change but one word.
As you walk through a door, look to see if you can hold it open for someone attractive.

Manner #20

If you come across a parent, a teacher, or a neighbor working on something, ask if you can help. If they say “yes,” do so — you may learn something new.

There is some truth to this one little geniuses. Only if you have exhausted every other conceivable, personal endeavor. You will definitely learn something new. That you will never use.

Manner #21

When an adult asks you for a favor, do it without grumbling and with a smile.

So some large, manipulative fuck is trying to play you? Destroy them with your mind.

Manner #22

When someone helps you, say “thank you.” That person will likely want to help you again. This is especially true with teachers!

A decent teacher definitely did not write this. Manner #2, Manner #12, and now Manner #22 are repetitive. Look for shit like this my brilliant, young, future visionaries. When you find shit like this on a regular basis, start drinking heavily.

Manner #23

Use eating utensils properly. If you are unsure how to do so, ask your parents to teach you or watch what adults do.

Yeah, you don’t want to do that. The watching what adults do thing. Stay off the internet for the most part as well. Read everything decent you can get your hands on and stay in your room. Find other brilliant people after you have learned some Karate. I have seen people eat whole chickens with their fists, so you go ahead and fuck up the salad fork thing if you want to.

Manner #24

Keep a napkin on your lap; use it to wipe your mouth when necessary.

Geniuses take notice. There are things you can wipe yourself with. When no one is looking it doesn’t have to be a napkin.

Manner #25

Don’t reach for things at the table; ask to have them passed.

Well, since this is a closer my beloved geniuses, let me finish with a word about table manners. It will have a larger meaning attempting to encompass everything.
Pretty much everyone else at the table, wants to rape you with whatever utensil they’ve got.

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Lost Finale Ruined By Local Catastrophe

Well Lost is over and I must admit, I am sad. It’s kind of like losing your hot, crazy, butt-sex loving girlfriend—that you could never quite figure out, but you didn‘t really care. She also drove you nuts sometimes, but once again you didn‘t give a shit ‘cause well…you know. Leaving you unfortunately with nothing but pale substitutes like V—that for example, sticking with this analogy, don’t particularly seem to enjoy anal. Even those are being taken from me! Flash forward is canceled. Happy Town and I never even made it to first base—two or three shows aired, then it was also canceled. These two were supposed to replace Lost damn it. Thanks a bunch ABC. Why can’t you cancel The View, or Dancing with the Stars, or Brothers and Sisters you octogenarian loving shit heads. Crappy shows old people are into run forever. Is Matlock still on?

To make matters worse there was another fire in the Bosque, which the fucksticks at KOAT News felt the need to either run a scroll, or a split screen or some such other interruption during the entire four-and-a-half hour Lost Extravaganza. I was so angry I scribed a scathing email to the KOAT News Director. It wasn’t pretty. I think I actually called them fucksticks. I waited six years for this. I don’t care if there’s a band of undead nazi pedophiles working their way up Central Avenue, swinging morningstars made out of  dildos, barbed wire and dead babies. I want my fucking Lost Finale untarnished with your crappy local news. It was probably that camera-starved media slut, Shelly Ribando that actually made the call to fuck with my evening. On a local side note, do we really need to hear about Shelly’s upcoming nuptials every single fucking day? Yeah, she’s hot, but jeez, shut the fuck up about it already. I hope her period comes early.

And yes, I watched all four-and-a-half hours. Then I watched the Jimmy Kimmel special. Then I watched the morons in the audience ask extra questions of the cast on jimmykimmellive.net. Then I downloaded some shirtless pics of Josh Holloway, masturbated and cried.

Ahh Lost, what ever will I do without you? During various bouts of depression over the last six years I always had a beacon of light ahead of me. Knowing your secrets was enough to live for—that’s how bad it got a few times there. What am I going to do now ABC? Start watching Grey’s Anatomy? Now they’ve got their hopes on the sure-to-be banal The Gates, a show about vampires. Way to swing for the fences. If it has an old dude that happens to be a crack detective, it will be on longer than I care to ponder.

Lost, you gave me six good years. It’s remarkable that a show that groundbreaking and that expensive to produce, was ever green-lit in the first place—much less allowed a full and glorious run. I hope one day I have children I can share you with, my beloved Lost. To experience it again as if for the first time—to live vicariously through them. Unless I have Alzheimer’s, and then I can just watch it by myself. That is if I’m not too busy watching some redeux of Murder She Wrote.

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