I delivered upon thee a speech I have long forgotten. But I shall recite it as best as I can recall. Be gentile.

So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition. In a sense we have come to our nation’s capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir.

This note was a promise that all men would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the common people a bad check which has come back marked “insufficient funds.” But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation.

So we have come to cash this check — a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of automobile justice. Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity to all of God’s children. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood.

The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges. But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.

Go back to Crevier, go back to Tully, go back to Princeton, go back to Pacific, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair. I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.” I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Bavaria the sons of former Honda owners and the sons of former BMW owners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood. I have a dream that one day even Fletcher Jones, a desert dealership, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice. I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their car but by the content of their character. I have a dream today.

When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old folk spiritual, “Approved at last! Approved at last! Thank God Almighty, we are approved at last!”

My brothers and sisters, ladies and gentlemen, that day is today. I received in the mail what I can only consider BMWs’ three year struggle, suffrage and final change of heart. I have been pre-approved for the BMW Platinum Visa Card.

Adieu. Navid.

Hmm. Economist and Mathematician from Stanford, Harvard and Princeton. You have on your hands one of the greatest trained minds imaginable. But Bradford died last week. No, he didn’t have a heart attack, nor Parkinson’s or any other disease or illness for that matter. Professor Bradford and I quote, “the fire was caused by one of about 10 lit candles on the tree, which had been in the house since December, police told the Trenton Times. Bradford apparently was upstairs when his wife told him that the tree was on fire. After he carried the tree out, firefighters quickly put out the fire, limiting damage to the house.” To recap, this distinguished Professor finds out his Christmas tree is burning and decides to carry it out of his house. This genius carries out the burning Christmas tree in the middle of February and dies from third-degree burns.

You may find me cruel or insensitive to humanity but I assure you I send my deepest condolences to his wife, two kids and four grandchildren. However, the fact remains that this pseudo-brilliant mind somehow decides it is A-OK to carry out a hefty tree which is on FIRE. Now, he suffered third-degree burns, so I would assume that maybe he misjudged the situation and thought he could handle it. But the question remains, after being burned INITIALLY by the tree, why would you not instantly drop it like it’s hot and attempt to contain the fire manually while the fire department was on its way? No, not Professor Bradford, he went out chivalrously, carrying out a Christmas tree in the middle of February despite his torso being burned alive.

If this was Texas you wouldn’t think twice. But New Jersey, Princeton’s Professor of Economics? Give me a break.

Adieu. Navid.

I jumped into my 2001 Toyota Highlander, sporting a duel wield inline 4, equipped with 2.4 litres of true Japanese manhood cranking out 155 horses at 163 lbs of torque — all encapsulated — within 4985 lbs of gross weight. Lander (as I call him) was a force not be reckoned with. Lander and I strolled past the residential neighborhood cautiously obeying all road signs and markings — avoiding rampant children and early morning runners. We made it past the speed traps, over the hills and stopped at a deserted traffic light. I was in a good mood and though my breath still smelled like burnt dead baby goats, it was getting better with each verse of “one, two step” I hummed along.

I casually looked over to my right and the events of that faithful Thursday morning would be forever changed. There, right there, in the lane next to me lay whom shall, from this day forth, forever been known as my adversary (that means “enemy” for my less studios readers, yes — I’m looking at you). He looked back at me for what I would consider the longest 4.23 seconds of my life and then we made the eye contact, right there on weekday morning on a public road. I peered at him intensely trying to decipher the movement of his eyes through his pitch-black Dunlop sunglasses, but like a fat dyslexic kid, I could not get a read on him.

side note: I’m not sure why the dyslexic kid has got to be fat in my story, but I somehow correlate dyslexia with sloth like laziness. That, and making fun of fat people is always a surefire laugh.

We’ll call him Armstrong; Lancer Armstrong. And no, not Lancer because he had Cancer but Lancer because he would fight Lander. You god damn despicable ragdoll! We exchanged glances while keeping an eye on the traffic light through our peripheral vision. The silent showdown had begun and a monumental race was going to be had. I dislodged my focus from his helmet shaped head and cracked all but one of my knuckles in preparation for the race. I neatly placed my beautiful olive colored hands confidently over the four speed automatic gear box. I checked out his ride one more time to ensure I wasn’t going up against a sleeper or some turbo-charged madness. What was I thinking? He didn’t have anything on me; I got 55.1 inches of front hip room and a ground clearance of 6.9 inches, who does he think he is? My 106.9 inch wheelbase would run circles around him.

The light turned green and we were off. He quickly took the lead and much to my disappointment I realized I may have under estimated my opponent. Now that he was in plain sight, I could see his “Cadence Performance” stickers and his slimline performance tires. I started to hyperventilate like a fat kid with asthma (side note omitted).

But not being the quitter I made myself out to be (for literary suspense), I put the pedal to the metal and smoked him and his punkass cyclist attire. Speedo Jumpsuits got nothing on my 87 Octane. I looked back over my shoulder — past my 81 cubic feet of cargo space — and shouted victoriously, “So long sucker!” And I could seat five comfortably, too.

Adieu. Navid.

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;

And by star-crossed lovers, of course, I am referring to my beautiful curly hair and sharp serrated scissors which took its life. I will attempt to recount, in vivid detail, the tragedy which became of me.

This misfortune fell upon me on a hot Tuesday, late-afternoon, while I was rummaging through the house cleaning out some desk drawers. I came to the bathroom, seeking the closest trash bin to discard some old papers, when I caught a glance of myself in the bathroom mirror. Although the light was unfavorable, I looked stunning by and large… if I can say so myself.

Towards the mirror I went, subconsciously, to get a closer look of my sexy ruggedness. I stood in front of the mirror, in a white wife-beater and soft Polo (c) pants (always stylin’ it even when bummin’ it). That’s when it happened — right then and there — I spotted what some may call the thread which unraveled an unhealthy obsession; I noticed a misplaced curl. Yes, it was just sitting there, hanging out and hanging on. Not only was this curl in the worst geographical region of my cranium, but alas, it also made way to wrap itself around and into my ear in an irritating and itching manner. It had to be killed. Offed. Executed. Finished. I had to kill that curl. It was now personal. I reached down for the second row drawer, where all my bathroom goodies are kept, including a pair of serrated-edge flaming vampiric dragon-slaying scissors (+2hit -3ac).

I reached down for the weapon, never moving an eye off the mirror, watching myself as though I was under citizen’s arrest. I latched my fat thumb up and under the scissors handle and slipped my thumb through the oval-shaped opening. Stabilizing my hand, I ensured I had a tight grip around the handle. I starred down my enemy curl. The curl starred back mockingly. It was infuriating. You know, that type of mockery you watch in Hollywood, where the villain glees, cackles and takes his sweet time explaining in detail his long-winded plan of world domination now that “our hero” is tied up and facing “imminent” death, all while giving “our hero” ample time to recover and/or escape to ultimately defeat the villain and his “flawless” plan. I fucking hate Hollywood. Why don’t you just kill the bastard the first chance you get, asshole?! HUH?!

Anyway, there we were, the curl and I in what I like to misnome as the battle of the century. A hush fell over make-believe audience as we danced with our eyes, each waiting to see who makes the first move. Considering the curl really, can’t do much, since it’s just a piece of fucking hair, I charged it with my weapon wielded in my off-hand (-3dam). SNIP! SNIP! And the hair fell down. BANG! BANG! And he shot me down.

KABOOM, I mouthed with my best Stereo MC voice, as the dark black curl hit the cold white counter top. I was victorious. May it be in the battlefield, on the race track, or in my case, in the bathroom; victory is glorious. Let me reiterate: victory is fucking glorious. With a fresh taste of confidence, among other things, in my mouth, I decided to examine the rest of my melon-shaped head for any other disobeying curls.

This was my downfall. Similar to other greats such as Caesar, Hamlet and Stalin, I let hubris get in the way. A SNIP! here and a SNIP! there, I was just snipping away like a madman in the bathroom with scissors and a lot of time on his hands. Actually, it was nothing like that. It WAS that. Although, all things considered in my defense, it did occur to me that this may not be a smart idea — snipping away at my own hair without any professional training or bet-money on the line. However, like most sound advice I get, I disregarded it completely.

The final result was manageable, surprisingly. I examined the aftermath repeating “it’s not so bad, it’s not so bad.” Enter: hair products. And a lot of it. I started to gel and spray my hair like there was no tomorrow. I was able to manipulate the uneven, misaligned hair in such a way that it looked relatively normale. You know, these days, people have such crazy hair styles, I assure you had I left it the way it was — it would be a fad come October. No doubt, I felt like quite the retard. I left the bathroom sweat drenched but relieved that this horror was to end.

Unfortunately, it was self-evident that I needed to, somehow, have all my hair “the same length” again. Specifically because I am not the type to wake up an hour early, simply to endorse a half-dozen hair products… which was approximately the extend of the damage. Cut to Yesterday.

I stood again in front of the ill-fated mirror ready for the second showdown. This time however, I was prepared and had brought along my guns. I was ready for battle. The cool crisp air of the bathroom under the blistering rays of the florescent lights made it the picturesque showdown location. The Western music hailed in the background as I exercised my spirit fingers in anticipation. I could handle it no longer, the sweat drop of fear was dripping down my brown face, momentarily to collide with my left eyebrow. I took one keen look, sized up my opponent, and as though in a Kubrik-style of classical explosion I charged my head with the trimmers (Set on Clip #4).

The melancholy of it all settled in once I stood before several pounds of my own black hair. The entire ordeal had been traumatic, but necessary. I stood there dumbfounded on how I was going to explain this rather pitiful event to my friends, girlfriend and random strangers whom eyed me keenly. And this entry, ladies and gentlemen, was the answer.

Well, now you know.

Adieu. Navid.

This is a tribute to one of America’s most cherished after-party dining facilities. With a peak rush hour of roughly 2:00am, it’s the place where all insomniacs, partygoers and avid rapists alike can go to enjoy a hearty meal at a fair price.

It’s late; you and your friends just got out of a movie, a club, or you simply have nothing to eat except plain cereal and no milk. You are all starving. But you know better than take them to the drive through again… because last time you had five people eat in your car, you couldn’t get that Del Taco aroma to extinguish even after 6 weeks. And what about that damn hot sauce you can taste every time you try and adjust your driver side seat? The crumbs in between your seatbelt gadget and those bits of dried chicken forsaken in those hard to reach areas? That whole bean burrito you swear is stuck somewhere every time you turn on the air conditioner.

Denny’s comes to the rescue. A place where you can sit, relax and play with straws. A place where you can order all types of food with the confidence of utmost quality and taste (usually). A place where you can leave your girl and waltz to the bathroom. A place where you can tell them to hold to the onions and bring on the ranch. A place where you can leave a $5 tip and still feel like a baller. With ingenuity such as “per seat billing” receipts and a cheesecake to die for, Denny’s has proven it’s integrity not only in our communities, by putting up some heart-felt posters (because really, have you ever seen them have another other proof?), but in our lives, by slowing down our fast paced nights and days with a little touch of heaven.

No matter what, why or where… everyone always finds themselves at Denny’s. It’s about damn time we salute not only the multi-billion dollar corporation behind those six golden letters, but also the man behind it who apparently has no name-relation to the joint.

In 1953, Harold Butler founded Danny’s Donuts in Lakewood, California. It pocketed a mean $120,000 in it’s first year which left plenty of room for changes and growth. That following year, entrepreneur Harold Butler moved sandwiches and other entrées to the, now renamed, Danny’s Coffee Shop menu. Five more years of successful business and profit, Danny’s Coffee Shop renames itself to Denny’s Restaurant for a pyraid of fame and success to follow. Denny’s is currently 1600 restaurants strong, while employing 27,000 lovely minorities to take our drink orders. God Bless Denny’s and their kind soul.

So, Dear Mr. Harold Butler, this is a tribute to you, the man behind our late night munchies and “Sampler” cravings. The man with a vision and knowledge that “Denny’s” was a better selling name than “Harold’s”. Although our country’s unity may be in doubt, our future uncertain and our stand against gay marriage still not straightened out, at least we have comfort in knowing that no matter the time or our race and ethnicity we have a place where everyone knows your name to eat.

God Bless you Harold.

Adieu. Navid.

I stood malnutritioned, pale and excessively hairy… in all the wrong areas. My Somalian ribs, Chicken legs and Molester mustache gave me the shudders. How could anyone love me?! The thought quickly vanished when I realized I was due up for a nice long warm shower, masturbation included. Almost giddy at the thought of punishing the tiles, I prepared to jump in. I adjusted the water gauge to the correct temperature and pressure. I took my now moist hands and patted my little soldiers; a shower ritual of mine.

I put one leg in and cringed. It’s too hot. The fucking water is too hot. I pull back. I look at the mirror as if it’s judging my every move. I shake my head, adjust the knob. I turn back at the make belief audience in the mirror and examine my thigh. God damn, it’s got to be the florescent lighting or something. Finally, I give up my pansyass inhibitions and get in. Lathering myself in the gluttonous joys of warm water. Those fucking Africans have no idea what they’re missing. Poor souls. In my high of joydom and happiness I remind myself I should donate more. I should volunteer or at least some sort of charitable work. I mean, I’m such a fortunate fool. I stop my irrational thoughts of genuine generosity when I realize they’ve put quite the damper on my little Johnson. I proceed to wet the little guy, close my eyes and go about my dirty little business.

Upon completion, I quickly wash the points of contact off. And scoop away the rest of the residue with my feet; sweeping all the evidence towards the drain. Sure I encourage my lady to swallow such incarnations. But for me to touch it in the shower with my already wet hands? GROSS.

I look at the colorful assortment of shower essentials which my girlfriend has so generously stocked. I quickly scan for the bottle with the word ‘shampoo’. I find a tall, urine colored shampoo bottle which smells like Honey. Why do I let her buy this garbage for $15 a bottle? Because it smells so nice, asshole.The real question is why am I smelling my shampoo? I’m a queerbait. Delighted by the scent of my shampoo, I grab another bottle and do the same. I enjoy myself for a couple more minutes. I cannot procrastinate any longer. My fingers are already prune and I haven’t even started. I grab a bottle and begin with my beautiful set of curly black hair. Being a Man’s man, I quickly wash and rinse. Being a total flame on what-chya-ma-call-it, I decide to read the instructions on the back of the bottle to ensure proper usage. Don’t lie. You’ve done it too.

To my shrieking horror, I realized I had used BODY WASH on my fine beautiful hair. What’s a man to do? The inevitable question lay before me. Do I now wash my body with shampoo or do I, tip the balance of shampoo to body wash usage and, continue using the body wash? This question left me perplexed and divided. Fortunately, thanks for the advancement of modern laziness, I realized it was probably easier to just lather up my hands and work with the bottle which was already open.

My homosexuality reigns as I come to my next ever-important question. Do I use conditioner? Most men don’t even know what conditioner is, but I’m above that. I actually know the main chemical compound in most conditioners. (I read the back for the fun little photos and the ever-slight possibility of seeing the nude outline, or at least the breast of a woman.) However, the dilemma lay before me. It’s okay to use conditioner after shampooing but what about BODY WASH? My past had come back to haunt me. What if I was the first person ever to do something so stupid? What if this was never tested in the laboratories? What if the use of conditioner and body wash on the human hair caused instant baldness? What about itching and irritation? What if that’s how they create NAIR? This question left me terribly troubled and baffled but, fortunately, with several choices.

I could wash my hair all over again with shampoo and then proceed to use conditioner. I could skip out on conditioner just this once and disappoint my tennis trainer Julian or I could take the big risk and simply attempt to condition my hair AFTER it was washed with body wash.

And wouldn’t you know it. I’m a mother fucking rebel. Fuck Julian and his tennis balls. I’m a dangerous man. A man’s man. And I’m going to condition my hair, I protested with a large manly growl.

Adieu. Navid.

This is how it works… as the name implies… it’s basically a baby rental business. However, it’s amazing since it’s a win/win from a business standpoint. There are two fronts to this business and this is why it’s going to be a big money maker:

1. The front-end: this includes general baby rental options and guarantees. Basically, we provide a baby for a family, a customer, a couple and whatnot for decided amount of time. Customers can browse through hundreds of baby pictures and select a premium baby of their choice. They can buy options of such as insurance and roadside assistance. They may do what they wish with the baby as long as it’s legal and poses no threat or danger to the baby. We will not rent to known cannibals.
2. The back-end: this includes the general baby-sitting services. A loving mother or father fill out several application forms and enclose several headshots to determine the baby’s going rate. Once this is determined, as well as, the timeline of the contract, the parents are notified if a ‘sitter’ is found. The parents of the baby are then paid for their services.

Therefore, not only are the parents happy because they are being paid to have their baby babysat, but also, the loving caretakers who desire to be short-term parents’ can, without the awkwardness of playing ‘koochi’ with a fat baby in the mall next to the fountain, enjoy babies in all their glory. We make this possible. We are Gods among men.

Imagine a loving couple that must pretend or desire a baby for a family or high school reunion. Imagine newlyweds wondering if they are prepared for parenthood. Imagine tired mothers who just want some extra cash to hit the mall or finish decorating the den. Now, anyone can enjoy the luxury of having a baby without the hassle of birth or maintenance cost.

Remember, you heard it here first.

Adieu. Navid.

I was walking in the parking lot and this middle-aged man, dressed like a know-it-all executive was dashing and weaving through, apparently in an odd hurry. I took one glance at him and mumbled “Beemer-Owner” to myself. Baffled by my own brilliance I set pace to follow him just enough so I could see if I had won this fruitful contest… against myself.

He approached a black Mercedes. My heart stopped. This surely was a mistake. Could I have been wrong? Could my senses be fooling me? At this prime age of twenty, am I already falling apart? If I can’t trust my metaphysical hokus pokus magical senses, what could I trust? This revelation left me on the fringe of mental disaster. However, fear not avid readers. He walked by the Mercedes. And we were back in business.

Now, as self-indulged borderline stalker, I followed this elusive man through parking lot to parking lot. Finally, the moment I had been waiting for. He reached his large masculine manicured, aggressive yet soft and gentle hands into his pocket and reached out his keys. I couldn’t make out the logo through the dirty fence and spider webs, but something gave me the feeling that I was going to win a $1. Almost delighted by this news, I held my breath. Partially because I was excited but mainly because I was standing in some parking lot vomit.

He approached a set of cars. A BMW, an Audi and a Civic. Right there and then, I realized the political significance of the automobile industry. What an epiphany, I’m talking Nobel Prize in Economics-style. But I was too captivated by this movie moment that I forgot to make a mental note, and by have forgotten it since. Regardless, he walked up slowly… and pushed that little button my girlfriend calls ‘open the fucking door’ and then.. silence erupted from the true unmistaken sound of “The Ultimate Driving Machine’s” Keyless Remote Entry. I could taste the victory now. Oh how sweet it is; sweat drenched and 2 miles away from home. Unfortunately, this was another BMW in the parking lot behind me, which completely threw me and my chi off. Also slightly distracted, my quasi-lover looked around, opened his car, threw in his briefcase and drove off in his diarrhea colored BMW 535i.

I was victorious. I walked back home frolicking and dancing like I normally do when I walk but, as though the city of Irvine was holding a victory parade in my honor, I cranked open a new bottle of Diet Coke in celebration. “Viva la Monde!” I shouted, pretending as if I actually speak German. And a home I went.

I know a lot of you are wondering if I can nail it down to BMW model, and the truth is harsh but simple: no, so please stop asking me. I am not a magician and I cannot teach you how to do this. This incredible feat is even more impressive since I am not a BMW owner myself. Maybe once I buy my first BMW it will, osmosisically, complete and hone my heroic feats down to model number and color. However, until then, keep trudging my little fellow fanatics.

Adieu. Navid.

There was only one thing bothering me, very much indeed, and that one thing was her younger sister. My prospective sister-in-law was twenty years of age, wore tight mini skirts and low cut blouses. She would regularly bend down when quite near me and I got many a pleasant view of her underwear. It had to be deliberate. She never did it when she was near anyone else.

One day little sister called and asked me to come over to check the wedding invitations. She was alone when I arrived. She whispered to me that soon I was to be married, and she had feelings and desires for me that she couldn’t overcome and didn’t really want to overcome. She told me that she wanted to make love to me just once before I got married and committed my life to her sister. I was in total shock and couldn’t say a word.

She said, “I’m going upstairs to my bedroom, and if you want to go ahead with it just come up and get me.” I was stunned. I was frozen in shock as I watched her go up the stairs. When she reached the top she pulled down her panties and threw them down the stairs at me. I stood there for a moment, then turned and went straight to the front door. I opened the door and stepped out of the house. I walked straight towards my car.

My future father-in-law was standing outside. With tears in his eyes he hugged me and said, “We are very happy that you have passed our little test. We couldn’t ask for a better man for our daughter. Welcome to the family.”

The moral of this story is: Always keep your condoms in your car.

Adieu. Navid.

There is nothing WRONG with masturbating. EVERYONE has, sometime in their life, masturbated. If you claim you have never masturbated, you’re lying and we know it. It is perfectly natural for one to explore one’s own body. ESPECIALLY when it feels good! How could something that feels so good be wrong? I could see if maybe my self-exploration led me to start shoving fingers, kitchen utensils and/or small mammals up my ass, it might be seen as a negative behavior. But all I am doing is PLEASURING myself! Pleasure. Nothing wrong with pleasure. It is my God given RIGHT to be pleased. Besides, there are many benefits to masturbation.

It relieves tension.

It builds strength in several major muscles, including biceps, triceps, and whatever muscle makes your wrist twist.

Orgasms has been proven to relieve tension headaches, even migraine pain.

The male orgasm is a natural sedative (as many of you ladies are already aware, sorry about that) so it helps me reach a state of complete relaxation and deep, deep sleep).

Masturbating before you engage in and act of copulation with a member of the opposite sex (or the same sex if you decided to defect to the other team) can stave off potentially embarrassing moments. All you guys out there with the nick name “minute man” know exactly what I am talking about.

A really fat and ugly chick asked me to have anal sex with her last night. This has nothing to do with this entry but I figured I had better get it down now before my mind’s automated defense mechanisms block the incident from my consciousness completely.

Masturbation provides release of excess sperm in males, which, if not disposed of can lead to the painful, and embarrassing explosion of the testicles. (Ladies, take note, disposal of excess sperm via oral induction can also prevent cancer, arthritis, polio, tuberculosis, and hemorrhoids in the man you love. Sperm is also low in fat and fights acne and wrinkles and sagging breasts. In some cases, large quantities of ingested sperm have actually increased breast size! So, get involved!)

So, I not only want to masturbate, I NEED to masturbate! So do you. Nobody has the right to tell me otherwise or try to prevent me from performing a perfectly natural act. So I will continue to masturbate whenever I feel the need.

I just wish they hadn’t kicked me off the fucking bus. I was 3 miles from home and had barely even gotten to the squinting eyes/grunting stage. Fucking Nazis.

FIGHT THE POWER!!

[note: this is not a true story and was written purely for entertainment purposes]

In 1900, before Little Willy had gotten a chance to compete, croquet ceased to be an Olympic sport. Deeply depressed, Little Willy turned to a life of drugs and prostitution, and died soon after of an opium overdose.

The point of that story was partly to distract you while I stole your wallet. But it also carries a very important message: Even if you work hard and make sacrifices, there’s a definite chance that you’ll fail to get where you want. This, of course, is very depressing. This also means, however, that if you’re making big sacrifices in the hope of achieving a long-term goal, you’re taking a huge gamble. If you apply this theory to school, it’s plain to see that anybody who’s busting their chops to get to the top of their class is not only an overachiever, but also a natural gambler.
Of course, the obvious counterargument to this is that to be successful, it’s necessary to take risks. Yeah. Tell that to Little Willy.

One would think that it’s better to relax and just follow the old saying: “Live each day as if it were your last.” This seems like a good way to live, right? If you answered yes, you’re a complete idiot (that is, unless you’re female and attracted to me. In that case, you’re still a complete idiot, but with a nice body and a great personality). I mean, think about it. If you lived each day as if it were your last, you’d be able to completely ignore consequence. You could do no work, break a million laws, and do heavy drugs, all the while thinking to yourself, “Hey, why should I care? Today’s the last day of my life!” So, if you meet anybody on the street and they tell you, “Live each day as if it were your last!” I personally give you my permission to smack them upside the head.

So, by using simple logic, we can deduce that it’s stupid to do no work, and yet it’s equally stupid to do a lot of work. Therefore, the smartest people are those who position themselves somewhere in-between these two extremes. “But where is this middle ground?” you ask. “And who are these people?” The answer is simple. This middle ground is known as mediocrity. These people are known as slackers.

Slackers are the masters of the ancient art of mediocrity. They recognize it as the delicate balance between effort and carelessness, and strive to achieve this balance. For these beliefs, they have been constantly persecuted. Throughout history, slackers have been labeled as “lazy,” “unmotivated,” “foolish,” or even “retards who would rather hang out at the local pizza place than study for Calculus. What idiots! I’ll rip off their arms and beat them with their own fists!” Of course, these are all false accusations (except for maybe the last one, minus the threat of arm detachment). Slackers are not stupid. They are hyper-efficient pragmatists. They are committed to doing only as much as they need to in order to succeed. Any more than that, to a slacker, is a huge waste of time and effort.

Many of you may be wondering exactly why I wrote this article, considering that no slacker is going to read it, since it would take too much effort. I guess that’s right, but perhaps I didn’t write this for the slackers. Maybe I wrote this for those hard-working individuals who thumb their nose at people that don’t “work to their full potential” and don’t “stay up all night writing reports on how processed pig lard relates to the American Revolution.” This article might be for them, so that they can see the error in their ways, and bring an end to slacker-related hate crimes.

Then again, maybe I wrote this article to try to convert more people to the slacker lifestyle. In fact, if I can get everyone to slack off, then in effect, nobody will be slacking off. We’ll have a state of educational equality, where nobody is smarter or harder working than anyone else. Perhaps that’s what slacking is all about: equality. Yeah, that’s it. Equality. And maybe Olympic croquet. I can’t get enough of that stuff.

[not written by me, but i love it anyway]