I don’t think so. Because one is lying, and the other is desperate for belief in at least one good thing in this permanently
stained, unforgiving injustice that is life. The fact that Mary J. Blige is associated with a community that enthusiastically
spends upward of 25 percent of their money
*
on useless (unless factoring respect-garnering or pussy-magnet abilities) vanity items like chrome spinning tire rims or
diamond-studded platinum mouthpieces makes it almost questionable as to why she felt the need to proffer such a lame, unimaginative
excuse for the ubiquitous ostentation that is commonly taught to be respected worldwide. Does it bring relief and peace to
those working with international organizations trying to raise awareness of the brutality and absence of any respect for life
that takes place in South African diamond mines, maybe even the mine partially owned by gospel-preaching and likewise wisdom
of God’s chit-chat recipient Reverend Pat Robertson? One would hope so. I like to imagine the latest rap artist making a video
in which a giddily objectified, big-titted, big-assed whore of the moment undulates in a rubber skirt and six-inch stilettos
while handing next year’s “Where Are They Now?” Award winner a silver plate holding different diamond fronts with his clever
pun stage name embossed in rubies or emeralds or whatever other useless and awkward foolishness he feels he needs to impress
the aforementioned cock dumpster.
I don’t know if Mary J. Blige’s God is the same as Billie Holiday’s God or Marie Antoinette’s God or Elie Weisel’s God or
Chief Sitting Bull’s God or Stephen Biko’s God. I don’t know. I do know that it’s not my God. My God likes those rope bracelet
things that you get on Martha’s Vineyard. I know that for a fact: He told me one time when I was sleepy and confused.
I
T’S BEEN SAID SEVERAL TIMES BY PEOPLE SMARTER THAN ME THAT
I “know a couple of things about a couple of things.” While some might read a cutting insult from this, I don’t. Which makes
me stupid and pigheaded. It is with this willful ignorance that I offer these unsolicited bits of advice to the world.
There are as many opportunities on a first date to either blow her away with your wit, energy, thoughtfulness, and overall
“awesomeittude”™ as there are opportunities to annoy, outrage, insult, and disgust that very same date. With that in mind,
let me help you out with the following advice. And please remember, I get
major
puss! Seriously! Soooo many hot girls have let me put my thing in them and wiggle it around, it’s nuts!
On your first date, refuse to tip even a penny. And make a big show of it. Then go into the kitchen and give the cook ten
dollars. Then go to a bar and tip 300 percent on your bar tab. This will show that you are frugal and cost conscience. And
that bartenders should be valued higher than people who memorize your dinner wishes and then bring you the food when it is
ready.
Well, first, you should capture the snake alive. This can be done by making a series of gurgling sounds as if you are underwater
*
and luring it with a plate of maple sugar candies. Once you’ve captured it, it is
extremely
important to keep it comfortable. You will need to negotiate with it later, and everything you can do to ensure its trust
in you will be very valuable. Trust me, I’ve been through this before. Once, I was on top of the sphinx in Egypt re-creating
that scene from
Jumpers
with some frat brothers of mine and I was bitten by an Alexandria Hamiltonya, which are not only poisonous but extremely
litigious. Two months to the day after being bitten, while sitting in an Imam in Turkey, I was served with a summons to appear
in an Egyptian court. I was being sued by the snake for libel. Libel!!! I was swearing because of the pain, not
at
the fucking snake. And it’s a snake, so calling it a “dangerous snake” is not an insult! I eventually settled out of court,
but it cost me a ridiculous amount of money. I don’t want to talk about it. Actually, because of the terms of the settlement,
I can’t. But if you are interested, meet me at Niagara on the corner of A and 7th next Tuesday night, and I’ll tell you all
about it.
First, you’ll need plenty of water, at least four oranges, a pillow case made from flannel, some red dye #5, itching powder,
two Frisbees, a pair of lightweight binoculars, a DVD from season four of
The A-Team
, a small mirror, a prism, and some acid. The ingestible, fun kind. Take the acid and leave all that other shit behind the
Port-O-Let over by the Giant Turkey Leg stand. Now walk around and make fun of people to their faces. If you need any of that
other shit while you’re coming down, it’s over by the Port-O-Let by the Giant Turkey Leg stand, remember?
Mormons believe in some crazy shit; they were the Scientol-ogists of their time. Now (just like Scientology will become by
around 2100, if it survives that long), Mormonism is actually considered sort of legit just by its rugged and often brutal
perseverance in the face of logic and honesty and people intolerant of dangerous culty nonsense. When a Morman asks you to
babysit for their child, it is nothing to fear, but you should rather see it as an opportunity to educate yourself to the
various tenets and practices of this fascinating religion that is sweeping the planet. Did you know that there are a number
(two) of people in the Senate who believe in Mormonism? It’s true, so let’s give it the respect it deserves. When first arriving
at the Mormon house, bow down and kiss the ring finger of the father’s left hand. Then, rise up and give the mother a “butterfly
kiss” on her clit. This is a way of showing fealty to the couple and dispelling any fears they might have that you might tell
their impressionable children about Joseph Smith’s (pre-prophet) time spent in jail in NY state when he pled guilty to fraud.
I don’t want to reveal all my secrets, but I can tell you my go-to, absolutely fail-proof “Secret Weapon for Totally Getting
Laid,” which is 100 percent guaranteed. Here it is, ready? Save a child’s life. Works every time. The only difficult part
is that you need to prearrange this to the letter. And it has to be set up far enough in advance so that everything falls
into line as if by happenstance (but you and I know differently!). The key to this is knowing where you’ll be going on your
date, the route, and the time all of this will occur. Long story short, have someone set an accelerated fire to an apartment
building within a public housing complex (these are notoriously shoddy since they are built for poor people usually by contractors
with suspect business dealings cutting corners wherever they can—they go up in seconds). Make sure to have the fire visible
from the street you’re driving along as you’re showing your date the “rough streets of the unforgiving urban jungle” that
you were able to claw your way out of. Make sure that she sees the fire first. Slow down and say something to the effect of,
“Oh, man, that’s terrible. I hope precious lives aren’t trapped in there. Where’s the fire department? This is ridiculous…
call 911! I’m going in!” Pull over and run in and find the child that was rented especially for this occasion and preset behind
the mailbox hut safely away from the fire. There should also be charcoal to smudge on your face and a matching outfit that
has been pre-singed for you. Change into the outfit, rub yourself with the charcoal, and run out limping and wheezing while
holding the kid. Throw the kid in the backseat. Rush to the hospital, tell your date to wait in the car, and take the kid
to room 113. Thank the parents, give them their fifty dollars, and go back to the car with a relieved but still shocked look.
Continue your date. Back at your place you should pour two big glasses of girly drinks (as long as it doesn’t have Baileys
in it). And if you’re with a lady who spends her free time scrapbooking, then Seagram’s Peach Fuzzy Navels are the way you
want to go. Trust me on this. Anyway, when you take your first drink, start to cry uncontrollably. Keep muttering about how
precious life is, “all” life. And how we really need to make the most of every moment we have on this earth because we never
know when it will end. Also, find a way through your tears to mention how long it’s been since you’ve had a really good, wet,
sloppy blowjob. You’re in! 100 percent guaranteed.
No Tevas! That’s rule number 1. Black is considered to be the first color (or lack of) you should choose in your wardrobe.
However, if you cannot find any black to wear and the funeral was given with short notice (sometimes a sudden death can come
at a very inopportune time, such as between games 6 and 7 of the World Series and you need to get that shit blessed and buried
in a hurry!), then wearing blackface is perfectly acceptable. Unless it’s a funeral for Cornell West. That fucker has
zero
sense of humor. Try not to get any on your teeth, though. That can be misconstrued as being offensive. As a side note, if
it is Eve Ensler’s funeral, you can do her no greater tribute then arriving dressed as a giant vagina. Bleeding through a
series of well-hidden tubes, if possible. Also, be stinky.
Okay, it’s the first really nice spring day after an exceptionally long, morose winter. It’s a bright, warm Saturday morning;
you wake up and look out the window. The streets are filled with joyful people. Nine thousand of the most beautiful women
(or men—whatever) on earth are floating through your neighborhood. Everyone is smiling and chatting. There’s an energy and
excitement that’s been missing for months. You grab a cup of coffee, brush your teeth, unlock your bike, and head outside—but
not before grabbing this mix CD that I made just for you to be enjoyed on this specific day (because I know how everything
is gonna go down, trust me).
Enjoy these first five songs as you’re tooling around on your bike, singing along, looking at everybody, and enjoying life
with a big, self-satisfied smile on your face.
“Revelation” by Jason Falkner
“Kissing the Lipless” by the Shins
“Good to Me” by Brendan Benson
“Velvet Roof” by Buffalo Tom
“Wonderboy” by Tenacious D
Hey, isn’t that Juliet and Emily and Jesse and Leslie sitting in the park? It is! You all decide to go to that new bar on
Ave. B that has the windows that completely open so it’s like you’re sitting outside. And you sit and have a few beers and
watch everybody. The next five songs are to be played while having your first two pints.
“Parallel or Together” by Ted Leo and the Pharmacists
“Dance to the Music” by Sly and the Family Stone
“Let’s Go!” by the Apples in Stereo
“Naked Eye” by Luscious Jackson
“Twiggy Twiggy Twiggy vs. James Bond” by Pizzicato Five
Now you’ve got a pretty good buzz going. Everything is great, and your blood is made of ecstasy and unicorns. Enjoy these
next songs during your next three pints along with the chili cheese fries you order after the fourth pint when it occurs to
you that you haven’t eaten yet.
“Sabotage” by the Beastie Boys
“Pounding” by the Doves
“Fox on the Run” by Sweet
“What’s Your Name?” by Lynyrd Skynyrd
“Waiting Room” by Fugazi
“Oh, my God! I fucking love those last three songs! They bring back a lot of memories. Fuck, I used to date this one girl
who was a photographer and she did this photo collage of Vietnamese punk girls—this was right when Vietnam first went all
capitalist—and she was in Vietnam for like a month and a half and she brought back all these super-cheap CDs of ’70s and ’80s
music that she got for like a quarter each. Her name was Heather… man, she was cool. Wonder what she’s doing now? I bet she
works for an ambassador or something. What if she has diplomatic immunity? Oh, man.”
Now you are starting to get visibly drunk, and both your appearance and speech becomes sloppy. Despite your best efforts,
you are becoming maudlin and emotional. You rapidly vacillate between sappy nostalgic and bitter nostalgic. Your friends decide
to take a break from drinking, which incenses you. You call up one of your drinking friends who you’re positive will come
down and meet you. While you wait for him and nurse your next few beers, listen to these songs and start overanalyzing them
and, while you’re at it, their importance in your life. Also, whatever happened to the photographer girl? She was fucking
perfect. Why did you let her get away? Maybe you blew it, huh?
“I Just Wasn’t Made for These Times” by the Beach Boys
“He’s a Whore” by Cheap Trick
“Blister in the Sun” by the Violent Femmes
“Clubland” by Elvis Costello
“Jealousy” by Liz Phair
Now your friend comes by and you have a few more drinks. The day and the sunlight drift on and eventually up, up, and away.
At some point you become curious about the time. You make a mental note that it’s probably around midnight. You find out its
7:45. You’re shocked but oddly impressed with yourself at the same time. You suggest that you and your friend get tattoos.
He of course thinks you’re kidding. Then your friend tells you about how he’s thinking (just thinking, that’s all) about asking
his girlfriend to marry him. You are outraged. You tell him he’s making a terrible mistake. Eventually you stupidly say that
everybody secretly hates her. You immediately regret it, but foolish drunken pride prevents you from apologizing. You end
up getting in a fight, and you both start crying. And when an old lady tries to break it up and in the process falls down
and hurts her arm you are both shamed. You are kicked out of the bar after the cops come.
You decide to go to that Vietnamese place near Chinatown and get some fishhead soup in honor of your old girlfriend that you
are now convinced you should look up, call, and try to get back together with. After several stumbling minutes of trying to
drunkenly negotiate your bike lock, you ride off into Chinatown with your scraped left knee dripping blood, which you love
the idea of. You find the restaurant, sort of lock your bike, and head in and order the soup. It seems to take forever for
it to come (actually only three minutes). You take a couple of bites and immediately throw up in your lap. You are so humiliated
that you can only laugh, which you do in the strangest, most maniacal way you have ever heard. You are beginning to frighten
yourself. You throw a wad of money ($17, which is too much by $14) on the table and run out with puke all over yourself. Your
bike has been stolen. You look around wildly, yell to no one, and start walking back home.