Advicesticles

CHIP OF WISDOM:

Proverbs 8, Verse 6

"Listen to me!  For I have important information for you.

Everything I say is right and true."

---

CHIPPED WISDOM:

A while ago, I wrote a blog that contained some pearls of wisdom that came before swine and left be bruised and battered like a buffalo from Ikea with shallots and a Bearnaise sauce for tuppence a bag.  And, because some folks said they enjoyed it (they didn't say it in the Comments section, nobody does, NOT THAT I MIND, MY SWEATY LITTLE FORESKIN-GATHERERS, NO, I DON'T!) and because I kind of like giving advice, I figured I would do that again.  These are some things that I want to tell you-- if not advice, then declarations about life that I've picked up from being alive for thirty-three years that I thought you might like to know about.  

Aren't I special?

POCKETS

If you're a man, and you own trousers that have regular pockets that you slip your hands into from a diagonal angle as well as jeans or jean-style corduroys, where the hands descend into the pockets at a directly vertical trajectory, be aware that, the day you change from one style to the other, your brain is going to tell your hands to do the wrong thing-- i.e., you're gonna shoot those hands straight down like you're settling into the pockets of a well-loved pair of Levi's and your hands are going to just smooth out the front of your pants.  And, when you do that, you're gonna look like a fucking idiot.  So, if that's something you're not okay with-- you've been warned.

BREATH MINTS

Hi.  I don't "do" breath mints.

Sorry.

I understand that I drink (decaf) coffee and that I eat garlic-encrusted rhino tongue and that plaque likes to cuddle up inside the little crevices of my knocked-about teeth and I don't brush after every meal or every quarter hour like my 11th grade history teacher did but, do me a favor-- don't offer me a fucking breath mint.  I will always turn it down with a forced little smile that says, "HEY!  I know why you're doing that!  And I don't care!"  You wouldn't offer to rub some rose petals and cinnamon sticks on the underarms of some sweaty intern at a board meeting, would you?  No, you'd sit there and pretend not to notice.  So... try that, and shove your breath mints up your ass-- CUZ YOUR ASS SMELLS LIKE ASS!

GAWKER

I remember once a little while ago we had a speaker come in to our place of business to give a talk about sex addiction.  Unlike most inservices, which are actually designed to make long for death and are, therefore, rather poorly attended, this one was packed.  The guy was a licensed clinical social worker I think, and from what I remember he managed to make sex addiction sound not terribly interesting, which, I guess, is a real knack in and of itself, but he shared some anonymous client stories and that was enjoyable.  One thing that struck me, though, was his tale of a client who came to him for help because, "He was a gawker.  I mean, he had this problem.  He gawked at women."

And I remember sitting there thinking, "Wow.  I didn't know you could bill for that."  

Not that I can remember specifically who was around the table at the time, but I was probably gawking at at least three different women during the course of that presentation.  I certainly wasn't GAWKING at the presenter, who probably needed a BREATH MINT AND CINNAMON DEODORANT.  

Look, I get it.  I realize that we live in a society where every moment you're alive is at the very least a faux pas and at worse a bombastic damnation of the highest order-- but, gawking?  If gawking at women is a symptom of a psychiatric disorder, then fine-- just put me in a fucking straight jacket.  But make sure the buckles are loose enough so that I can still-- you know.

SHORT MEN

I'm six foot tall and, therefore, I own this fucking cheese.  I didn't realize I felt that way about my stature until only recently when I've noticed that, when a particularly short man walks into the room, I furrow my brow and scrunch up my face GAWKING at the guy with a look that says, "Why isn't this Oompa Loompa getting me a danish and waxing my car?"  And it's funny, because I have no muscles other than the essential ones I need to turn my car's power-assisted steering wheel and step into and out of the bathtub-- I'm not particularly overbearing or intimidating, and yet, when the short guy walks out of the room, I shake my head a little and look up to the sky as if to ask, "Why did you bother making that?  He can't pick apples or help Mildred at the market reach the Sun Chips."

YOUR WIFE'S BIRTHDAY

I don't know about your wife (but I'm GAWKING at a mental image of her right now) but my wife's birthday is in two days and I'm so fucking excited I COULD SCREAM!

(Sorry.)

If your wife's birthday isn't your favorite day of the year, there's something wrong, and you should immediately look into that.

That's the end of that bit-- there's no joke.  I'm serious.

CHAIR

With $329 of my Bar Mitzvah money, I bought an enormous blue, crushed velvet La-Z-Boy recliner that could have provided shelter for a family of sixty-seven Mexican illegal immigrant field mice.  I loved that chair like I don't know what.  When you have enough disposable income that you want to shed some of it and don't know what to do it on: buy a nice chair.  Doesn't have to be some white trash recliner, it can be something from Dane Decor or Macy's-- something that fits your life and your lifestyle, but parking your sorry ass down on a nice, comfortable, well-made piece of furniture is always going to be worth the money.  

Particularly if it vibrates. 

And now, some pearllettes...

* If you ever get a chance to talk to a crazy Haitian guy, take it.  If possible and practical, record it.

* Just once, apply for a job with a resume that is 100% fictitious, including your name.  Keep the right phone number, though, just to see if their H.R. bitch calls.  Guarantee you she will.

* Donate a respectable money to a charity you know or care absolutely nothing about.

* Skip down a crowded hallway.  When someone confronts you or makes a comment, stop directly in front of them, grab their head firmly, and lick their eyebrows.

* Get rid of your iPhone.  It makes you look stupid.  It makes me look stupid, too, and I hate looking like you.

* Learn six banjo chords.  I did-- it's a hoot.  I think learning a 7th would completely spoil it.  Don't you?

* Watch documentaries, particularly ones where they interview old men.  Old men know EVERYTHING.

* What old men don't know, 33-year-old bloggers do.  Don't believe me?  Ask my mom.

* STOP GAWKING AT MY MOM, YOU SONOFABITCH!

Okay, I'm done now.  Go get yourself a breath mint; you fucking stink.