Things I Hate


In the gold old days, no one sent little Johnny to a colon counselor just because he grabbed Lumpy’s beans and frank on the Slip ‘N Slide. Instead, Pops would simply paddle Junior’s bare ass in front of everyone at the barbeque until the prepubescent pervert admitted what he did was sick and wrong. Ten minutes later, mom would bust out the ‘Smores and everything would be hunky dory. No Kabalahs, DaVinci Codes or Celestine Prophecies required. Tom Cruise and John Travolta have about two billion problems, and they’re all in the bank. If L. Ron Hubbard couldn’t pick the nuts out of those fruitcakes, what makes you think he can help you? There isn’t anything Dr. Phil, Deepak Chopra or Cat Stevens can do for any of us that can’t be done faster and better with a bottle of gin. If just getting out of bed feels like you’re crashing against the shores of Shit City on a turd tidal wave, do something about it. Call your mom. Quit your job. Sell all your crap and move to Montana. If that doesn’t work, give yourself a lead shampoo and put yourself out of everyone’s misery. But whatever you do, stop turning to Oprah in your search for enlightenment. She’s a billionaire with a book club and a sweet tooth, not the Messiah.

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