Originally published by drfaustroll under Pataphysics February 15, 2009

I wrote a column for a little literary magazine 30 or 40 years ago that described in precise detail how to succeed in the world by accepting that Dale Carnegie was an asshole with a tiny dick. This was before I entered detox and retox and detox and retox for several rinse and repeat cycles. It was not a column that elicited much positive feedback. Apparently many of my readers had already perfected their own techniques for losing friends and alienating family members. Ain’t life a bitch?

I got to thinking about that column because I had another of those serial dreams last night where something is happening that Mr. Jones doesn’t quite understand and my own jones is quite satisfied, thank you, but I can’t escape the mundane nation of miserable fucks logic insinuating that after I get up and drain the prostate inhibited lizard I should return to the same boring dream state that made me momentarily glad to have a prostate the size of a Meyer lemon.

I’ve always been a dreamer, and many of my dreams come true, although I have never dreamed with any goal in mind. I often stew. I sometimes fester. I occasionally consider using the fissionable material in the garage on the Fourth of July to do terrible things to people who collaterally deserve them. I’ve met five or six people during my ludicrous lifetime who also are terminal dreamers, but dreaming gets no one anywhere. Take John Lennon.

Please.

Today I received a post from somebody associated with something that suggested that everything has a reason, which I could totally agree with if I wasn’t still alive. I have outlived so many people who really believed in things and really worked to make them realities, while I have never believed in anything or anyone, and I continue to do just fine. Does it bother me that the nation of miserable fucks into which I was accidently born through no fault of my own might be wiped from the face of the planet with a Swiffer? Of course not. I own shares in the company that makes Swiffers. Hell, I own shares in the companies that made the planes that were used to make George W. Bush into the war president in September, 2001, after he came out of hiding.

The best way to lose friends is to warn them of what is about to happen. The second best way is to alienate them by suggesting that the earlier warning has already resulted in the capture or killing of other people you both know. Another way to lose friends is to post pictures of yourself pissing on the graves of other friends who were too fucking stupid to respond to earlier attempts to explain why you now view them only with contempt.

Ultimately, you eventually come to realize that contempt is entirely too elevated an emotional response for these butthole surfers. Dig them up. Open the coffins. Relieve yourself.