By David Rothfuss Fireworks and Sex! Is a New

Home , All That Cube, Betsy Ross (character), Blow Up the Moon, But Anyway, Dream a Dream, Fireworks (30 Rock)

ABSTRACT

FIREWORKS AND SEX!

by David Rothfuss

Fireworks and Sex! is a new religion I’m launching so I can get rich without paying taxes. The religious document that follows, which you’re probably not even allowed to read on account of copyright restrictions, is pretty standard as religious documents go, providing you, the religious consumer, with 205 pages of morally ambiguous poems, fables and doodles to base your life upon. It is by far the most American religion out there, and a sure-fire path to a shinier existence, with the average follower experiencing 74% more happiness, 93% more freedom, and 87% more American Dream than those in other religions. If you were allowed to read it, which you’re not, it would provide you with an inside track to God and eternal salvation.

FIREWORKS AND SEX

A Field Study Guide to America’s Shiniest Religion

A Thesis

Submitted to the faculty of Miami University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Masters of the Arts Creative Writing/Poetry Department of English

David Alexander Rothfuss Miami University Oxford, Ohio 2011

Keith Tuma, advisor cris cheek, reader David Schloss, reader

David Rothfuss

2011

Table of Contents:

Book 1: Concerning this Book, its characters and the partial revelation of truths……………………………………………………………….………...p.1

Book 2: Concerning your new religion and how lost you would be without it…p. 52

A Brief Interlude: Poems upon which you shall base your life…………..p. 88

Book 3: Big Time: in which Our now famous characters hash out their differences with God and mortality………………………………………………………p. 115

Appendixes - explaining that which had not yet previously been explained…………p.158

iii

A Field Study Guide to America’s Shiniest Religion

Please note: I threw away all my beliefs as soon as I finished using them to write this Book.

Fireworks! Fireworks and Sex! A Field Study Guide to America’s Shiniest New Religion

The honorable Brian can accomplish anything he sets his mind to, thanks to his good looks and can-do-positive attitude. The same cannot be said of Cous and whats-his- name.

As for you, dear reader, now would be a good time to Rejoice!!!! For the Book you’re holding in your two American hands is the most important thing you’ll ever read. It’s a sacred text of a brand new religion that most Americans already follow without even knowing it. Like any religious text, it is stylistically inconsistent and contradicts itself throughout. 98% of the world isn’t ready for it yet, but that’s how it is for any new religion when it first hits market. Reading this Book is like going to a dance party, and man can this great American novel dance! It will foxtrot. It will tango. It will German technoslamdance to the beat of a Polka. It will dance like the drunk girls at the bar who fall down on the dance floor and throw up but still come home with me. It will dance all over your moral code while jerking off and hocking lugies. After the dancing there will be fireworks and then We’ll provide solutions to the universe’s problems and have sex, depending on who you are and what you look like, and maybe you should buy Me dinner first. This hot new religious brand contains all the morally ambiguous poems, doodles and fables you’ll need to sculpt your life in its image. Your soul will become 32% shinier

just by properly following1 this guiding beacon of light, which will lead you down the one true path to salvation2, fixing all your problems, making you better looking and better smelling, better at sex and more beautiful and powerful, with larger sex organs, unless you don’t want larger sex organs, in which case you may keep your sex organs at their current appropriate size. After you sign up for My Religion, people will like and respect you more and you’ll start accumulating the material items you need to live a fulfilled life, like jewelry and cars that are faster than your neighbors’ cars, and more pimped out, also your diamonds will be a shinier and more plentiful, you’ll be able to afford flatscreens for every room in your house, your sports team(s) will start winning more Superbowls or Championships or whatever, your stocks will go up – in short, you’ll enjoy all the perks that come when God loves you more than others because you had the wisdom to pick the correct religion. This is the Book you need to become a less horrible person. “Why am I so horrible?” you ask, after I put this thought in your head. A good question I have made you ask. There’re plenty of reasons, but the main one is that you haven’t signed up for My new religion yet. That would put you in a category that We in God’s inner circle like to call “fucked3.” Fortunately, you’ve just taken your first step toward salvation by purchasing this Book. And ye shall be rewarded with fireworks! Fireworks and sex! “Fireworks and sex are fun!” you say, “I want to be a part of the new religion!” Well great, We’re glad to have you. Have some punch. Signing up for Our new religious cult is something you won’t ever regret, not even in your wildest nightmares. Just think about how good you’ll feel when you can know with absolute certainty that God is personally smiling down upon you in a favorable manner, which is what He’ll start doing after you sign up for My new religion and pay your registration dues. Once the check clears We get to work making God love you much more than He previously did. With dedicated effort you could become one of His Chosen Children. And you’ll even have a Certificate to prove it.

1 Not responsible for improper following 2 as verified by tax code 501c3 regarding tax exemptions for religious entities 3 Disregard this if you’ve already signed up for the religion and are just re-reading this Book again for the 3rd (or 43rd!) time for your own personal gain and enrichment, and are up-to-date on all membership fees. 3

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The honorable Brian always compliments himself in the third person. If he didn’t, it might come across as conceited. We introduce him first because Brian always comes first,4 and if We didn’t, he’d throw a fit. Someone5 once said you can tell the most about a person by the kind of watch that they wear. Brian wears a diamond studded Rolex with platinum hands; it sparkles with all the grace of God. In no way is Brian fucked, which is more than can be said for most of us. If you play your cards right you can be just like him. Brian is rich, tall, good looking and the ultimate embodiment of the American Dream. Like any good American, his hobbies are watching TV and shopping! Please note that shopping! is the #1 most important thing you as a patriot can do to keep the American Dreamscape shiny; I follow it with an exclamation point because it’s exciting, and I want to be crystal clear about that. Shopping! makes you who you are, and the things you buy shape your personality – from your trinkets and fashion come your sense of identity. That’s what’s so great about all the branding work Our friends at Corporate America do – their products stand for things, so you don’t have to. But what to buy? This is the major existential question facing most Americans today. Brian knows cuz he watches EmpTV, which used to have the hottest music and the coolest, most beautiful people, before dropping the music part, because who needs music when you have beautiful people? From this network the young Brian learned to talk, look, act, dress, and purchase the trinkets you need to live a fulfilling life.

In the beginning, I wanted to write an epic novel. It was to be an emotionally riveting journey, with the lives of My well-developed characters weaving and intertwining

4 If a woman tries to come before Brian does, he will pull out and beat off on her face. 5 A watch company 4

in ways that, by the end, could only come to be described as “fate.” It was to be a reflection of our times, right here in America, the greatest nation in the history of the universe. I began My Great American Novel in earnest, showed it to some people, and learned that nobody cared, and it didn’t really have a plot, so I put it down for a while. Later, I picked it back up, because someone once told me that persistence pays. I’m not sure if they’re a reliable source. What if your persistence is misguided energy directed towards inevitable failure? How are you supposed to choose what to be persistent about? Where was My motivational speaker, cheerleading squad, and drill sergeant to tell Me to stop asking questions and get back to work? Then I got a God complex and everything worked out just dandy. A Messiah’s art will actually mean something. When Messiahs write bad poems, small children die. This one is for Melvin, or whatever his name is, that third character of Ours whom We know exists but never really bother to look at:

*The melancholy rose Sat in the dim sunlight, Waning and stretching, Forevermore, effervescent.*

HA! Take that, you little bitch! Now trip over your own feet and take a neck- snapping tumble down the stairs.

Melvin?

Thanks to that poem and the natural order of things, melvin is fucked. On top of being a sad little orphan We’re giving him just about every handicap imaginable, including a tendency to enjoy poetry. He also has a budding hunchback, the black lung and a rare disorder known as melvinitus, which causes its sufferer, melvin, to be permanently trapped

in the mid-pubescent stage of life, with voice cracks, acne, and wet dreams all persisting conditions. About that hunchback: let’s go ahead and make it full blown. Yes, melvin’s hunchback is now bigger than the rest of his body. And his spontaneous ejaculations are to occur at the most inopportune moments, like during job interviews or spelling bees. God finds it hilarious when Melvin busts a nut in the middle of a spelling bee. His speech impediments certainly play a role in the uncertainty surrounding his name. These include stuttering issues, a lisp, and a cleft palette, which give him difficulties pronouncing syllables including but not limited to r’s, s’s, q’s, p’s, th’s or s’s. This goes over great when he gives poetry readings. H-h-histhhhh- l-li..lithp and hi-histh st-t-t- thhtuttering d-disthhhhohdaais mmmm…mmmnnka…mma m-mmmmakes c-c-c- communtication di-di-difficult. timmy or melvin or Malcolm or whatever it is would be happy to tell you his name, you just won’t understand it. He walks with a crutch, or more accurately, hobbles. His hobbling is slowed down by his oxygen machine, which frequently malfunctions. On occasions it will stop pumping altogether until melvin turns blue from a lack of oxygen, at which point it turns on triple speed, inflating him into a big, pink balloon. God and I find this hilarious. One time We started laughing so hard at the big pink melvin balloon that God spilled bong water all over the couch. I told Him to clean it up. His response: “Do you know who the fuck I am?” God made some extra special modifications in his design of melvin, installing the heart on the right side of his chest so he couldn’t even say the Pledge of Allegiance without being different, so great was God’s desire to alienate him. On top of that were sensitive, emotionally triggered, hilarious bladder control problems, resulting in puddles of fear, and joy, and excitement, nervousness, etc. – pretty much any emotion could bring about a pee stain. And so melvin wore big, padded diapers that stick out of his pants and make him the butt of many jokes, which are hilarious. This is a textbook example of God in His divine kindness spreading joy to everyone else. All in all, melvin is so pathetic that We don’t even capitalize his name. His one redeeming quality is that he holds in his lopsided, oversized head a genius capable of developing the Plan for the Universe, which, if enacted, would solve all the world’s

problems, making it better place with more sunshine, ice cream, and happiness for everyone. Unfortunately, he wrote the plan as a poem, so no one will ever read it, and even if they do, they won’t get it. In conclusion, he’s fucked, and no one will even remember then name of this person who is fucked. Perhaps after he falls down the stairs he’ll get mauled by bears. It does have a nice rhyme to it. Kill someone for the sake of a rhyme scheme? As good of a reason as any.

Drum roll, please.

Our third and final character, Cous, is a legendary, inspiring, and enigmatic character you will love and connect with. In these times of globalization, he shall be ethnically mixed, to reflect the highly diverse nature of the American dreamscape. He shall be tall and slim and ambiguously ethnic with dark curly hair and bright green eyes that burn with all the Pain of the Universe™, which is the greatest and most legendary pain that has ever been felt, ever. Perhaps I should feel guilty for creating a character who is destined to suffer, but his sacrifices are needed by Our New! Religion6, and I must bow down to its whims, for it is a juggernaut that cannot be opposed. On top of the Pain of the Universe™, Cous is also in possession of the one original thought in the entire universe, with every other thought having already occurred. You shall root for Cous, love him, and feel his pain. Which is unfortunate, because there’s an epic amount coming his way.

Now for a Setting.

Our story shall begin with a family on an estate that is either in Middle America or on a Hollywood set made up to look like Middle America. Scholars are uncertain, but all

6 To get a new religion off the ground, someone must go through a great deal of suffering. It sure as hell isn’t going to be Me. 7

will agree that families are a key part of American society, now that Jerry Falwell has made them so valuable. You’ve already met Our characters. Cous and the cripple, whatever its name is, both orphans, were adopted into Brian’s family because Brian’s Daddy, before becoming a vegetable, was running for office and needed a boost in the polls, which could only come from adopting a cripple and an ethnic child. Like most things, the family is based on a poem I wrote:

**This is the family: ** The vegetable father drools and pouts. Mama wears fur and drinks the finest champagnes, but don’t call her Mama - she finds it classless. The aborted children sit in glass cases on the mantel. An angel sits atop the Christmas tree; pine needles scrape its rectum. The non-aborted children give their mother flowers every Mother’s Day and Valentines Day and Christmas and Thanksgiving and Labor Day, she says that’s all? and smacks them with their bouquets. They slobber we love you Mom and preorder one for the next holiday. ***

The family lives in a very diverse suburb, with many different types of investment portfolios. They are a good Christian family. At dinner, they always set a place for Jesus, and pile food high onto the plate of the Lord. When He doesn’t touch it, they throw it out, which is good for the economy. Wait a minute! A good, God/Jesus/Holy Spirit loving/fearing Christian, with aborted fetuses on her mantel? That can’t be possible, says the discerning reader. Ah, but it is. You see, before each abortion, Mother would convert to Islam, get out the little red prayer mat she stored in her closet, kneel down, face Mecca and praise Allah. Then she’d head to the clinic to get the job done. When the bleeding stopped, she’d rediscover Christ and place the glass-encased fetus on the mantel to remind her of the sins

of Islam. Christianity increased its lead in the universal competition for goodness7. A good Christian she is, but mother also believes in diversifying her investments, religiously speaking, and with this in mind made sizeable contributions to the Fireworks and Sex! religion Brian’s name upon his birth, ensuring his favored status with God and giving him a Certificate to prove it. Brian’s excellent hair and charming manners didn’t hurt either, as far as his universal standing went, and his looks were getting closer to perfection with each procedure. On top of that, Mommy took him to church on a weekly basis, which would at least help him win the votes of middle Americans in future elections. In the early stages of the adoption, Mother actually brought the young Cous to church, before realizing that the orphan smell far outweighs the chic’ of adopting cute ethnic kids, which was wearing off fast. She’d already proven she wasn’t racist by adopting him, she didn’t need to haul his little sad face around everywhere she went, she had other kids and everyone could be reminded of how not-racist she was when she sent out the Christmas card with Cous’s sad little ethnic orphan on it, right next to the retard. His soul wasn’t her responsibility anyway, especially considering the scuff marks he’d left on her floor by running through the house with his shoes on. While at Church, Cous paid attention for just a moment before his a.d.d. kicked in. In this moment he learned that one should not judge. This aspect of Christianity appealed to Cous – we are all what we are, so we might as well accept that and let it be. While the preacher went over the exceptions, which include faggots, Muslims and communists, Cous’s mind was off in a magical fairyland filled with candy canes and gum drops, or whatever it is that sad little orphans dream about. If you’ll notice at the beginning of the last paragraphs, I referred to Cous’s adoptive mother as “Mama,” a word she resents because it sounds classless. Mama didn’t buy the biggest, best and shiniest of everything on her block to be classless! Mama is very angry, but there is nothing she can do to me, because I control her every action. Still, her wrath must be satisfied. This is why she extinguishes her cigarettes on Cous, which is ok,

7 in the meantime, when she was a Christian, she was an extra good one because she respected the Christian virtue of not using birth control. And why should she? It didn’t feel that good, and besides, she could afford having lots of children and abortions. 9

because she does it in the spirit of good Christian fellowship. It’s also ok because Mother is very tidy, and has the shiniest house in the neighborhood. The family’s P.R department insists that they are living the American Dream.

The American Dream Brian lives and dreams the American Dream. It used to be thrifty with a Protestant work ethic, but fortunately it’s been upgraded with blinky things and neon signs and beeping gizmos and hot chicks and hot cars with platinum rims and bling that shines with all the grace of God and it’s all getting filmed for reality TV so you can watch it all day long and learn what to dream for, look another blinky thing, keep on staring til you find the A.D.D you need to ignore the Bible verses that aren’t convenient to your lifestyle. Buy seven and get one free! Buy three more and get the next six for half price. Don’t pay anything until next February. And don’t forget to accessorize! Act now and get your American Dream on layaway at just 19% APR, isn’t life swell?

The American dream is a major theme, and even comes with a rhyme scheme! While the American dream seems to be the dream of dreams, to maintain its high esteem in the international hierarchy of dreams, the American dream must ream other dreams, ream them until they scream, “Ouch, yes! You are the dream of dreams, you big strong American Dream!” Then the narcissistic American Dream beams and dreams up schemes of creaming in other dreams while the Mexican Dream cleans up the semen of the American Dream’s reamin’s. Yes, my furry little reader friend, you’ve read correctly: We have just accused the American dream of committing sodomy. The American dream is also represented by ponies. Brian has 53 (4 more than his last pony count!) while Cous and the cripple have none. However, ponies have nothing to do with sodomy, because ponies are asexual beings. They are far too pure and innocent to have anything to do with sex. Ponies reproduce because of wishes, or maybe it happens when children blow bubbles. Scientists

have not yet reached consensus.

I Learned All About the American Dream in Finance Class Like God, financial markets are powerful and mysterious. This is why they deserve to be worshipped.

By the end of finance class I’d learned how all things are guided by the benevolent invisible hand of the Free Market, but I still had some unanswered questions:

Excuse me for speaking in metaphorical gibberish, but what rate of return on high equity investments is required to achieve the American Dream?

If the American dream settles for a hotdog stand on the corner, with ketchup and relish but no mustard, will it be devalued to junk bonds?

If we bond while you sell me high yield bonds, does our bond survive the collapse of the bond market? Or is our interest in the bond merely a result of the bond’s interest?

If our bond’s interest no longer interests me, are you legally bound to allow me to bind you? Or does our contractual agreement contract before the bindings contract around your wrists?

If our agreement is contingent on the contingencies of the bond, can we make circular arguments until both of us agree to disagree on the degree of our disagreement?

And if money has a calculable time value and clocks tick and tickers tick doesn’t that mean that time reverses every time the stock market goes down?

Before I had the chance to dominate class discussion with My questions, the teacher drew an economic pie on the chalkboard. It looked like this:

Four equal slices!? I wondered if she was some kind of communist.

The pie looked delicious and I wanted a slice. Yes, I thought, I’m a good American and I deserve a slice of economic pie. But then I looked at the kid sitting across from me. He was also eyeing the pie and salivating. Hmmmm, I thought. He obviously wants some pie, but judging from his unsubstantial triceps, he could bench press no more than 175 pounds. Why should he get as much pie as Me?

After class, I confronted him. I saw you looking at My pie, I said. What are you talking about? he asked. Don’t play dumb with Me, I said, shoving him against the wall. I saw you eyeing My American Dream Pie. If you want a piece of it, you’re going to have to get through Me first. He looked at Me like I was crazy, so I started shaking him. My American Dream Pie! I shouted, IT’S MY FUCKING PIE! His head was vibrating along with My shakes. Then the teacher came over and pulled Me off of him. What’s going on here, she asked. I started to explain, but there was a lot of saliva frothing out of My mouth and the teacher cut Me off. I think you owe Andy an apology, she said. Oh, Andy is his name, huh? That’s very egalitarian of you to proclaim that even someone like him deserves to have a name. What are you talking about? she said.

Someday, I said, you’ll be in the Book I write, and then everyone will see what idiots you guys are. The whole world will see that you’re nothing more than a couple of fools.

Family Hierarchy

When the father became a vegetable, it brought an end to his political career, and with that went any use the family had for orphans. Cous and what’s-his-name fell out of favor and were banished to the garage, where they more or less raised themselves in isolation while the rest of the family worked on the paperwork that would hopefully someday annul the adoption. The real part of the family resided in an exclusive, gated community, where they lived as equals, with the exception of Brian, who was more equal on account of being born first, and Mother, because she ran things with a drunken, iron fist. Brian was special, her little King of the Children, born before the novelty of having babies wore off, and thusly showered with gifts and signed up for the proper religion upon birth. He was the only child allowed the privilege of calling Mother “Mommy,” which is apparently a pet name of sorts that children use when referring to their mothers. The other children came second to Brian, and from a young age, were trained to serve him in any way possible. They referred to their mother with the more formal phrasing “Mother,” as in, “Mother, what should we do for Brian today?” The orphans were only allowed to address her via properly formatted memo. Mother had no time for memos not in proper format. Mother calls these children “children” and there’s never any confusion about it - they don’t have separate identities; their actions and personalities are all more or less the same, and synchronized and arranged towards serving Brian, altruistically, like a pack of prairie dogs. Or ants, or wasps, bumblebees, or even termites, mindlessly swarming at the whims of their Termite master. Later, these beta Children will attend law school, where

they’ll learn to manipulate the law for Brian and anyone else who can afford $400 an hour. Mother has the tendency to be very honest and talkative while drunk, and she’s always drunk. ALWAYS. Mother stays drunk because otherwise beating your kids would be inexcusable. She’s always honest with her children about whom she loves the most, which is Brian. Mommy loves Brian most because he has the All-American quarterback looks that allow him to fornicate with cheerleaders, sometimes without even using force. On average seven Christmas’s per year are held for Brian, and at last count he had 49 ponies, because Mommy can’t express her love for him in a sexual manner without hurting Jesus.

A Revelation You’re fucked8. Sorry We had to break it to you, but it’s best to be crystal clear about it early on so you can be aware of your situation and start fixing it vis-à-vis the close study of the Words and Pictures in this Book, while committing yourself to the arrangement of your life according to the crystal clear set of ideals laid forth in this Book, while also not forgetting to grease the religious wheels that need to be greased, financially speaking9. But why are you so fucked? Because everything is circular. Why is everything circular? So you can be fucked. Please lead yourself to the next logical question like a good little reader-pawn. Fortunately the Salvation™ you need can be found in the doodle below. All you have to do is stare at it for hours straight while drinking punch and

8 pay this no mind if you’re up to date on religious dues 9 As in contributing to Our Church, to be crystal clear 15

accepting

Me as your personal savior while transferring funds to your new religion via convenient payment options such as Pay-Pal, credit card or personal check This art piece, valued by some appraisers at over $714,000, was drawn in a notebook during an English class, cut out along with some words, scanned, mirror and color inversed in Photoshop and then Whamo! – some of the greatest f***ing art you’ve ever had the privilege to lay your eyes on. Upon closer inspection, you’ll find the solution to all the problems of the universe. If you don’t understand how, We’ll explain it to you at Fireworks and Sex! Church Camp, over some punch.

But Who Is God? Perhaps the great poet Donald Rumsfeld described God best, at a Defense Department news briefing10, when he said:

10 he wasn’t talking about God but it’s quite applicable 16

There are known knowns. There are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns. That is to say We know there are some things We do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns, The ones we don't know We don't know.

Similiarly, with God, you know that you’re not going to know everything, and there’s also a lot of unknown stuff that you don’t even know about as well as the stuff you know you don’t know about, the thing is a good lot of it could come your way if the proper hoops are jumped through, religiously speaking. Like, if you didn’t know what you now know about what God knows and doesn’t know, do you expect Him to keep up on your daily paperwork? No. It’s important to complete your paperwork on time and to always include payment. As for what you know you don’t know about God, you’ll experience revelations as you continue reading this Book. The unknown unknowns, which you don’t know about yet, and don’t even know that you don’t know about, will similarly be revealed, through religious doodles and poems and chants and ceremonies with punch11 as well other multi- media means of religious revelation, such as Our Asian webcam prophet, who reveals body parts while revealing divine revelations, just so you can get a sense of the things you hadn’t known were unknowns.

Another thing about God: you’re either with Us or against Us. The choice is yours to make. And the punch is really really good, I promise.

To get deeper into God’s infinite nature requires a poem.

***** God is ***** The water-logged carrot chunk stuck in the scum-filled drain of my kitchen sink.

11 it’s very important to always always always drink your religious punch! 17

He emanates heavenly energy so intense, it would blow your mind if you could only detect it.

No, you heathen, God is not the half-digested kidney bean floating in my bile, or the dustball in the corner. He is not the Brooke Burke poster, the girl in the bikini next to her, or the lint between my toes.

He is definitely not Captain Kirk, from Star Trek, Deep Space Nine. Oh wait, Captain Kirk wasn’t in Deep Space Nine?

Well I don’t give a fuck, he’s not my God.

*************************************

Am I saying God is a carrot chunk? Of course not, that would be ridiculous! God isn’t a carrot chunk unless you believe God is a carrot chunk – and why the hell would you do that? There are much bigger, grander, more mysterious things out there for you to worship.

************************

The Birth of Cous

From the beginning, a number of signs seemed to indicate that Cous would turn out fucked. Legend has it that the doctor who delivered him muttered “Poor kid, so fucked,” under his breath. Besides the Pain of the Universe™ radiating out of the baby’s bright green eyes, afterbirth had splattered on the birthing table, spelling out these words12:

This baby is fucked. Yes, this one right here, who will soon come to be known as Cous. Cous is completely, utterly fucked, which I’ll state one more time right here so we can be crystal clear that this is not some kind of coincidental dripping of afterbirth. COUS IS FUCKED.

One nurse, Sandy, who is obese, having gained about 60 pounds after she quit smoking, at which point she began satisfying her oral fetish with pork rinds, was the first to burst into tears. Giant fat person tears poured out of her eyes, mixing with makeup to form streaks of blue and red and purple. Sandy wailed for the pain of Cous, and she wailed because her makeup was getting into her eyes and it stung. Cous wailed right back, because Sandy was wailing and he could feel her pain and also because he felt the Pain of the Universe™, which was going to take some getting used to before he could stop crying. The rest of the hospital staff saw Cous and Sandy wailing and also began wailing. They couldn’t help themselves, Cous’s sadness was just that powerful and divine, all they could do was huddle in the room, bawling and whimpering. Others came in to see what was going on, and they too join crying. Four hours later, they all stopped and never spoke of it again. Such is the power of the Pain of the Universe™.

Mother, Version 1.0 In the original version of this book, Cous’s mom was a hippy who made her living selling vegetarian meals to other hippies at hippie concerts. That draft even contained some delectable descriptions of the delicious dishes that she cooked, many of which

12 A miracle! 19

contained cous-cous, from which Cous got his name. In this upgraded version, We no longer care about any of that. It’s a great American novel, not a menu. The thing of note is the hippy upbringing which instilled in Cous the tendencies to love freely, share too much, and dream an idealistic Utopian Dream, a dream that gets its ass kicked by the real American dream on a fairly regular basis. Cous’s Mom loved freely, which is a nice way of saying she was a slut. She slept with a man from just about every ethnic group, and the conglomerated hybridization of all their semen, which had been collected and incubated in her cervix over the years (let this be a lesson to hippy sluts about vaginal hygiene!) was what made Cous both so ambiguously multi-racial and culturally transcendent. Yes, We realize that “science” books will say that one (1) egg joins with one (1) sperm, to form a zygote which later progresses through the embryo stage to become a fetus, which is birthed approximately nine (9) months later amidst heavy vaginal dilation and a waterfall of bloody placenta. While that may be the generally accepted standard of child- birth, God had Cous’s mother impregnated by sperm of every man she’d ever had sex with, which is somewhere between seventy-six and four-hundred sixty-two thousand, but who’s counting? God did this to teach you a lesson about believing in science, and to make Cous more legendary and enigmatic, and also more universally relatable to people of all races, thereby generating more emotional impact later when We kill him. At the age of four, Cous was separated from his mother so that he could experience heartbreak. He got lost in the crowds and chaos of their hippy concert or abducted or whatever, the point is he would never see his beloved Mommy again. Cous’s heart broke in a glorious explosion of fireworks and suffering, triggering the onset of the Pain of the Universe™ from its dormant state. To make this event more significant to you, My flamboyant little reader, a platoon of midgets shall now march through our Tragic Heartbreak Scene™, which they’ll do sometimes, when We need to make something seem more significant. The midgets marched by and released little black balloons (also so symbolic!) while Cous cried, utterly alone, hopeless and fucked. We’re sorry, Cous, but it had to happen, for the good of My Book. It’s important to

note that four is the perfect age for heartbreak to occur – it’s young enough that it can become an ingrained personality trait, leaving vague memories of better time to allow for the development of an unclear yet constant sense of something missing in life. In that earlier draft, Cous’s mother was very distraught about losing her son. After he wandered off or got kidnapped or whatever it is that happens to stupid little orphans who can’t keep track of their parents, she desperately searched the campground, and later, the country, without success. The hole in her heart would not be filled. Now, however, in Our updated version, she is happy about losing her son, because she has completed her duties to My Great American Novel. She’s no longer useful, so We’re tossing her aside. We told you this Book reflects American society.

Winning is a core America Value, and therefore it’s a core value of Our religion. You can join Us or go on hating America, it’s a simple choice if you ask Me. The infinite question: do winners win more because God loves them, or does God love them more because they’re winners?

Like Brian, America has a long tradition of winning. First, America beat the Indians, then we defeated the British, then we were the victors over even more Indian tribes, one after another we tallied up victories, then we defeated Mexico, Spain, then Germany/Austria, then Germany, Japan and Italy, until finally getting involved in some wars in Asia that some say we lost, though I don’t see how that is possible with the score being something like 316,00013 to 58,236, or we may have won by even more, if you count Vietcong civilian deaths. Now we’re off winning wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, thanks in part to the poems of the great wordsmith Don Rumsfeld.

As kids growing up, Brian tallied up victory after victory in countless competitions, building a track record destined for greatness. One weekend, a grand series of events were held, with much fanfare and press, to see who was the best. It started with Brian lining up next to melvin on the racetrack. The rest of the family and the adoring American people14 looked on. A 44 magnum was to be used as the starter pistol because Brian is a real man. One of the beta children fired it into the air, and the racers took off, except for the cripple, who had a cinder block tied to his leg15. The two continued competing at everything from baking to knitting to sports and academics. Brian won every event, becoming an exalted hero with high self-esteem, while melvin was rightfully shamed and emasculated, so much so that We will continue to leave

13 Estimates vary 14 Adoring of Brian and only Brian. 15 Perhaps literary scholars should make note of this when writing a Marxist critique of this great American novel. 22

his name un-capitalized, if We’re even getting it right to begin with. Brian even won the artistic-self expression contest, even though he doesn’t know what art is, or why someone would waste their time with crap like that. When the starter 44 magnum went off, the cripple got to work writing a beautiful lyric poem. Its rhyme scheme aligned perfectly with its imagistic veneer. He decorated the area surrounding the writing with an expressionist painting that reflected the general sensibilities of the poem while connecting them to a dreamy sense of abstract reality. It all made perfect, beautiful sense in the context of the whole, you’d find, if you were to dig it out of the dumpster it ended up in. Brian laughed when the nameless crippled poet started reading his poem. “Nice poem, fag,” he said. A beta child dutifully hit a cymbal. The crowd of beta-siblings and frat brothers dutifully laughed. Then Brian got started with his artistic expression. He wheeled out his 47,600 watt stereo system and cranked up a rap album. While he hadn’t exactly written any of the lyrics or made any of the beats, Brian could still take credit for it because he had done his part by oppressing black people so they’d have hardcore shit to rap about. Brian bumped his rap album and nobody could hear the cripple stuttering his poem, and so Brian was declared the winner of the Artistic Expression contest. The airwaves went crazy as the rest of the media echoed the story like an empty chamber, everyone doing their part to build the Legend of Brian.

My Universal Truth, Your Uncertainty

Cous is among the most indecisive individuals in the universe. He realizes that every time he makes a decision, he runs the risk of disobeying the absolute, universal truth that he knows for certain to exist. He knows it for certain in his heart, his loins, and deep in the back of his head. Cous knows that truth exists because I told him, and he realizes more than anyone that I’m the Messiah, so the words I speak are some serious shit: they aren’t fucking around. The words, that is.

Cous was probably in second grade when I first paid him a visit. Among other things, I told him about the Absolute Universal Truth™ that I own, and how groovy it is. His eyes lit up to an even brighter shade of green. “Can I see it?” he asked. “Abso-fucking-lutely not,” I said, walking away. Then I pulled out My Cell and put in a call to God to make arrangements for Cous’s best friend at that point in time to get run over by a bus. We argued for a bit - God wanted to use a yellow school bus, while I suggested a Greyhound. “Think about the children,” I told Him, “the homeless people who ride Greyhounds see people get run over all the time, it’s not even a big deal to them anymore - no need to be a Dick and upset the children.” God responded that if those kids had to ride a bus to school instead of getting rides from their chaffeurs then they’re obviously going to grow up to be Greyhound riders who see people get run over by buses all the time anyway, so We might as well start them young. He does whatever He wants more than even Me, and thusly a big yellow school bus rolled over Cous’s best friend Jeremy Witherbee while the school children looked on in horror. Before he got run over by the bus, Cous and Jeremy, both sufferers of the ADD, had played a game called “My Pencil” during class, in which a pencil was placed on the floor between their desks, and the two would fight for control of it with their feet, like in a hockey face-off. It had been one of the few sources of amusement in Cous’s life, but now it would be no more. Still, the stuff I’d made up about universal truth made quite an impression on him. He became a seeker of the truth, and so he was lost. Furthermore, with an abstract sense of real, universal truth in mind, it becomes difficult to say much of anything, as your words are likely to contradict this “universal truth” one way or another. Good luck finding truth, Cous!

However, We did share Our Universal Truth™ with Brian, and now We’ll share it with you too, since you’re becoming a member of Our new Religion, whether you like it or not. Universal Truth™ is this:

Universal Truth is what you say it is, as long as you stick by it and never back down and use any means necessary to support your version of Universal Truth while destroying (physically or in reputation) anyone who opposes it.

When Brian got his Universal Truth™, he became a great decider. Decisions are much easier to make when you know for certain that whatever you decide is right. This is an important leadership quality - noone follows the uncertain. Judging became Brian and Mommy’s favorite hobby - their thing, if you will. They figured that if you own universal truth you might as well exercise it on a daily basis. One evening they saw a woman with ugly shoes walking down the street. “Those shoes are wrong,” said Mommy, pointing at her scuffed, brown Klogges. “Indeed, what a terrible person she must be,” said Brian . “May God have mercy on her soul, after He sends her to Hell for an eternity of fiery pain.” “Not too much mercy,” Mommy said. “We wouldn’t want to cut into His mercy reserves.” Being wise in the ways of spirituality, Mother knew that all forms of energy, including God’s mercy, are in limited supply. Then she whacked the lady behind the knees with the cane she carried teaching opportunities such as this, and gave her some advice: “Change those ugly shoes, bitch.” Brian and Mommy walked away feeling good about themselves because they helped her.

American Dream-O-Meter Ratings At this point in the Book, Our characters scored the following readings on F&S American-Dream-O-Meter16: Cous: 0%. Brian: 100% melvin: -49%

Get your own American Dream-O-Meter reading at your nearest Fireworks and Sex! Religious SuperStore.

Like any religion, this one functions on its own logic that works perfectly as long as you don’t question it. We bought Our Logic from some guy at a flea market a few years back, and it works flawlessly. The salesman told Me so himself, and if that’s not true then capitalism is flawed and the American Dream is dead. But the American Dream is not dead – it’s alive and well, right here in the pages of this Book, as well as in the Religious Zealot who accosted you on the street to make you buy it17. Our Religion has the can-do American spirit, and if you don’t like it, leave. Go move to Lichtenstein, they’d love to have you over there, you can strap on your lederhosen and dance the polka, or whatever people do in countries that aren’t America. As for Me I’m sticking with the U.S.A and My can-do-positive attitude and brand new religion, which will spread like cancer and make me richer than God. With a little elbow grease and the can- do-American spirit, anything is possible. That’s how I know for certain that I am the great I am, the Messiah, the savior of mankind, the One and only One who can hook you up with surprisingly affordable religious solutions for all your spiritual needs.

Great American Novels This Book is also a Great American Novel, and it will stop at nothing in its quest to become a great American novel. If there is a wall that must be climbed in order to gain entrance to the Land of the Great American Novel, but there is no ladder near this wall, no ladder at all, only babies, this Book will pile up the babies and use them as a ladder to get

16 One of the latest technological innovations Our religion has that others don’t! 17 If you’ve had the pleasure of meeting a member of Our Street Team 26

over that wall and into the Land of the Great American Novel, as shown in Diagram 1. And when this Book gets over that wall, We shall rejoice, for We have arrived in the Land of the Great American Novel, as was destined.

Diagram 1:

“Wow!” thinks you, “Salvation from hell, spiritual enlightenment, a great American Novel with three (3) characters and over forty (40) poems upon which my life will be based, resulting in great improvement, all for the remarkably reasonable price of just $14.95? Should I go buy 10 more copies this instant so I can begin indoctrinating friends and family, or just send all my credit card info over to Dave and let Him do whatever He wants with it18?”

Infinite Bliss Brian, as well as everyone else who remains up-to-date on their religious views and dues, will be 100% happy, 100% of the time – no need to let some scrawny starving ethnic starving child on TV ruin his sunny day. Have you ever spent a night hungry and without food? Me neither. I’m assuming it’s not that bad.

*****Children Starve*****

Not my problem, I have toenails to clip.

18 For the Lord 27

Somewhere, a man writhes in agony, saliva foaming from his lips as 14000 electric volts shoot through his testicles.

Doesn’t bother me, I have bigger worries. You see, I have this little cuticle-thingy hanging from my second toe. I’m trying to pick at it, but I’m afraid that, in a worst case scenario, I could possibly lose a piece of hardened, yellow callus.

Children slave away in sweatshops until their fingers bleed. Then they get fired for bleeding. I wouldn’t want blood on my clothes.

Wives are beaten, puppies eaten, baby seals clubbed, midgets kicked, little, fat, smelly kids taunted and excluded.

A PIECE OF MY TOENAIL JUST LANDED ON THE FLOOR NEXT TO MY TRASH CAN AND NOW IT’S JUST GOING TO SIT THERE, A NASTY

MESS, UNTIL SOMEONE COMES AND CLEANS IT UP.

Something needs to be done about this. *********************************************

Super-Size Your American Dream Pie!

Some people, like Myself, Brian and everyone else God loves most for picking the right religion, get to eat super-sized slice after super-sized slice of American Dream Pie without ever getting fat.

While the American Dream is unarguably the greatest collective dream in the history of the universe, Brian still has a few recommendations for its improvement. Here is a poem he would have written, except that Brian doesn’t write poems because poetry is for fags. *******What we really need.******** What we need is wings. Superextrafiery hot wings. 18 of them, so we can be single-handedly responsible for the deaths of nine chickens in one sitting Skip the celery, that’s for rabbits and faggots. We need a side of sportsexbeer.

We need cheesefries and cheesesticks and polish sausages, and extra veins to loop around our hearts. We need V-8’s under the hood of every car, with the mufflers removed so we can hear the muscle,

pumping like the steroids we also need. We need more Ninjas and Hitmen, and we need them to serve as role models in our schools.

We need mail order brides with a money back guarantee. We need good ol’ fashioned American pride and quality coming from our Bengali sweatshops.

We need a coliseum where foreigners hit each other with sticks for our pure-blooded American amusement.

We need more get rich quick schemes, and they need to make us richer, quicker.

We need prayer in school, and we need to focus that prayer on making more cash.

We need a way for me to take an un-proportionately large slice of the pie, so large, in fact, that it takes away from your slice of the pie, but I still won’t have to hear you complain about it.

We need world-conquest flavored JellyBellys. They would taste sweet and bitter and sour at the same time. Their flavor would be all consuming.

I need a big, red “we’re #1” foam hand, to beat you until unconscious you realize it’s true. *******************************************************

Families Have Conversations.

The family would often have conversations, which I hear is typical of families. Everyone who mattered participated, except for the vegetable father, who was content with watching cartoons and pooping himself. Here is a brief snippet from a typical family conversation:

Children: Mother, can we have Christmas again? Mother: I don’t know, children, money has been tight since your father became a vegetable. Children: Can’t we just spend the orphan’s lunch money? Brian: Mommy, I want a pony!

Mommy could never refuse Brian’s sexy brown eyes, so another Christmas was held. After all, one can never be certain of the exact date of Jesus’s birth, so it’s best to celebrate it often by shopping! The family loves Christmases. The Beta children would buy toys and give them to Brian. The act of giving to Brian makes them very happy; this is what they live for. At the grand finale of the festivities, Brian would unwrap his present, which was a pony. He insisted that his ponies be wrapped, on account of “It’s not fucking Christmas unless you wrap things.” Often, the ponies would pass out or start foaming at the mouth, because wrapping paper doesn’t let in much air. That’s the main reason his current pony count isn’t higher than it is, although fortunately it continues to grow.

After the holiday and the budgetary cutbacks on the orphan lunch money fund that followed, Mother received a properly formatted memo from the orphans with the following subject line: “We’re starving. Please feed us.” It went straight to the recycle bin, and Mother felt good about saving the environment.

I Like Ponies

Before we get any further into this Book, I’d like to make it perfectly clear that My favorite animal is the pony. By the time you’re done reading, they’ll be your favorite animal, too. Did you know that ponies will replace baseball as America’s most dominant metaphor by the year 2037? Here is a quiz to test your knowledge of The Pony, according to My understanding of them.

The Pony Test19

1. If you look deep into a Pony’s eyes you will see: a. an apple b. the fountain of eternal youth c. the American Dream d. an impressionist painting of yourself

2. If Daddy doesn’t buy you a Pony, you should: a. call your lawyer b. throw a fit c. make cupcakes d. all of the above

3. Ponies are going to replace which pastime as the dominant American metaphor? a. celebrity watching b. pro wrestling c. bowling

19 Answers underlined because this is a religion, I make the answers, not you. 32

d. baseball

4. Ponies are pertinent in today’s society because: a. America is essentially a nation of 12 year old girls b. we like horseback riding c. they were Plato’s favorite animal d. they came over on the Santa Maria

5. Ponies reproduce: a. through sexual reproduction b. through wishes and when children blow bubbles c. by emo music d. by following the recipe

6. Pony poo is to be cleaned up by: a. your parents b. your maid c. anybody but you d. the gardener

7. When your Pony kicks you in the head and craps all over the place, it is symbolic of what? a. the disappointing nature of dreams b. the unfortunate itch on its back leg c. your own insecurities d. soap opera drama

8. Ponies should be loved how? a. in a purely non sexual manner

b. with all your heart c. without questioning d. all of the above

9. When drawing a Pony, it is imperative that you include: a. a rainbow b. skull and crossbones c. its flowing mane d. an army of submarines

10. One Pony plus another Pony is equal to: a. two Ponies b. three Ponies c. a barrel of monkeys d. this is impossible to calculate due to the infinite nature of Ponies

11. When you finally get your Pony you will be: a. totally satisfied b. content c. ready to take Daddy’s credit card and buy a new Pony d. in a state of emotional upheaval

12. As a metaphor, ponies can represent: a. diamonds b. luxury cars c. boats d. all of the above

13. The metaphysical nature of the Pony results from:

a. its capacity to symbolize all that we hold dear in a highly ironic sense b. its ability to transform c. its close relationship with BoBo the Chimp d. the connotation of the Greek origin of the word “ponodious”

14. After you get your Pony the world becomes better how? a. slightly b. not at all c. by ending world hunger d. the world ceases to exist

15. Ponies will be the basis of: a. a new political party b. a cult c. a series of merchandise d. all of the above

16. You should covet thy neighbors Ponies when? a. only on your birthday b. until you have a better pony c. always d. on December 25th

17. To bathe your pony you must use: a. an axe b. ivory soap c. chicken noodle soup d. honey scented lather of the finest quality, with sparkles

18. Ponies are to consumer culture as Jesus is to: a. Christianity b. Judaism c. incense d. Easter

19. Ponies are not yet recognized as the dominant metaphor for America because: a. they aren’t acknowledged as a species by Linnaeus b. we have the self reflective abilities of twelve year old girls c. they aren’t a metaphor for America d. baseball sufficiently covers our metaphorical needs

20. The majority of your time should be spent: a. growing as a person b. helping others c. creating art d. tying bows in your Pony’s hair

In ponies, you will find salvation. Yes, life is hard, and sometimes you’ll have problems, but you can always forget about them by buying a pony or some shiny trinket. Perhaps the initial burst of happiness will wear off, but you can always buy another pony. It is this infinite nature of the pony that offers salvation. Allow Us to offer you this simple, life guiding truth, straight from God and distributed by Me on a wholesale level:

Yeah you’re fucked, but I still like ponies.

20 One of the reasons God likes Brian best is because he shares with Him a love of ponies. Excellent manners and good hair are also important, though not as important as loving ponies21. This is basic human nature – you like people with similar interests. Not to say that God is human, although He did create people in His image. Or vice-versa. Brian can gab on forever about his ponies, about how cool they are, and beautiful, pure, innocent and expensive, how they give looks of love and understanding with their dark brown eyes and serve measuring sticks for one’s standing in society, with more ponies making you a better, more important, more relevant person, perhaps the ponies attract God’s love, or perhaps God just loves some people more and starts giving them lots of ponies, it goes both ways, mysterious, no? But man oh man how bad it would suck to be a poor starving orphan without any ponies. One Holiday Season some members of the Trinkets for Tots charity program spotted the young Cous, found him cute in his tragic-inevitably-fucked-sort of way, and gave him a $.97 cent little plastic pony so they could feel good about themselves for being charitable. They didn’t give any toys to melvin; instead they laughed at his goofy, lopsided head and felt so good about themselves they no longer felt such a pressing urge to be charitable. Cous shared his pony with melvin. They sat on the perfectly manicured lawn of the family ranch, which was not yet off limits, and played with their toy, having as much fun as was possible under the miserable circumstances of their lives. Brian saw the cheap toy and mocked them mercilessly. “Why don’t you get on your pony and take a ride… to the poor house!” One of the beta children hit a cymbal to emphasize his punch line. As a comic, Brian needs all the help he can get. “I like my pony,” said Cous, “It’s all I need.”

20 Also the generous check his mommy wrote to our religion in Brian’s name at his birth, which, on top of her investments in Christianity, gave him a highly diversified religious portfolio from the start. 21 God figures if you can’t love a creature as beautiful, pure innocent and wholesome as a pony, which will stare up at you with big brown eyes in a way that you feel that it totally loves and understands you, you are obviously a terrible person for whom there’s no room in heaven. 37

“It’s a piece of crap!” said Brian. He whistled and one of his ponies galloped over and stamped Cous’s plastic pony into the ground. Then it “accidentally” kicked melvin in the head, making it even more misshapen and lopsided. Brian nuzzled the pony and fed it some treats. It licked his ear in a non-sexual manner, and Brian giggled.

Why Doesn’t Cous Get any Ponies?

When Cous was a kid, I paid him a visit. Among other things, gave him the opportunity to sign up for My new religion so his soul could saved. This offer was not extended to the cripple - We have a Brand Image We’re trying to maintain, so it’s important that Our religious events be filled with people who are beautiful and intriguing people. Cous said “no,” and also “sorry, I don’t have any money left– I just spent it all on that cocaine.” But God has little time for orphan excuses. All He heard was the “no,” and this pissed Him off to a Biblical degree. God doesn’t like people who don’t sign up for My Religion. You see in God’s Universe there are lines, much like these:

For God, when someone doesn’t buy My new religion it crosses that line. It was as if Cous had stomped all over God’s favorite, holiest, most sacred line with shit-caked boots, then peeled it off the ground to use it as ass floss. Don't make the same mistake.

Unto Cous I said, “Why should I waste My precious time teaching you all the ways of God if you’re not even going to pay Me for My services?” And then God said unto Cous “I don’t want your broke ass anyway,” and wrote out a memo re: sending Cous to Hell. And for his life on earth, he would feel the burden of the Pain of the Universe™,

which is the greatest pain that has ever been felt, ever. .

The Pain of the Universe™ is a Great Product This intense, enigmatic, tragically-romantic and profound pain makes other pains pale in comparison. Compared to the P.O.U. ™, the Holocaust seems like summer camp. It is this pain that makes Cous so tragic, artistic, legendary, enigmatic, charismatic and awe-inspiring, more so than any other character in any other book, ever. On the upside, the Pain of the Universe™ gives great artistic abilities to all who possess it, and has limitless profit potential when given the right kind of marketing support. The average life expectancy for those given the P.O.U is around seventeen years - around this age most of its carriers generally find one creative way or another to opt out of living, much to the chagrin of management and everyone else in the business of trying to turn a profit on this profound and enigmatic pain.

FACT: Contrary to popular belief, the Pain of the Universe™ is not responsible for the creation of Emo music. Emo was created by whiney brats, in their parents’ basements after consecutive Christmases without new ponies. It went out of style anyway, and now nobody would even know what it exists anymore if I hadn’t brought it up in My Book.

Please note that the Pain of the Universe™ is trademarked, which means you should feel free to use it all you want, as long as you’re prepared to have my lawyer sue the clothes off your back on account of copyright infringement.

“Not fair!” said Brian. “How come Cous gets to have the Pain of the Universe and I don’t?” Trust Me, said God, you don’t want it.

“Not fair!” said Brian again, “there’s no way someone else should have a bigger, brighter, more profound pain than me.” This put God in quite a pickle. He wanted to give Brian everything he ever wanted, but to give him the pain of the universe would hurt the one He loves most. And so God did what God’s been doing when confronted with a problem as of lately – He avoided it. And so God doubly applied Himself to His video games, setting the highest scores the universe had ever seen in Pacman, Frogger, Galactica, Battle Tank, Super Mario Brothers I – VI, and Miss Pacman. Seeing no solution from above, Brian, not to be forsaken, had his P.R team write the following poem so people would at least think his pain was the biggest.

********** My Inner Sadness is Bigger Than Yours***********

Your pain is a single blinking Christmas light and it’s damn near Easter. I can’t even see it next to my neon Vegas skyline of woe.

My inner sadness is vibrant, dark, bright, orange, purplish, and glittery, it transcends logical explanation has a 16 million watt stereo system can shine through a magnifying glass and rain fiery death onto your ant hill of woe, your favorite pet ant is likely to die, I’m sorry but shit happens.

Your soul crying out with eternal suffering is a whiny child that wants candy. 40

It needs to shut up and eat its Brussels sprouts.

Compared to my existential crisis, your Existential crisis has 72 gold camels and 14 wives. Unless golden camels and multiple wives are meant to represent sadness in this metaphor, in which case I have way more.

My inner sadness is the mass genocide of everyone I’ve ever known and loved, then they’re brought back to life just so they can be executed again. Your inner sadness dropped its ice cream cone, and its new one doesn’t have sprinkles.

If you should even think that your inner sadness can compete with mine, I will increase my substance abuse problem, because we all know that substance abuse problems amplify inner sadnesses.

My inner sadness will live forever in this poem, while yours will die tomorrow when you get a shiny trinket or a shot of whiskey.

********************

The Quest For Warm Neurotransmitters

Remember that brief period of happiness that occurred earlier in Cous’s life, when was with his real life hippie mommy who loved him, before the Pain of the Universe™ had entered its active state? Cous does too, albeit vaguely. He wishes he could feel that way again.

On the fateful occasion I visited Cous, when he was 9 or so, the first thing I did was give him a lesson on neurological bio-chemistry. “You know how you feel like love is missing in your life?” I asked him. “Yeah”, said the kid, “ever since I lost my real mom and had to be in foster care and then in this family…. they’re kind of mean.…” “Well, love is a feeling that can be replicated by chemical means. Here, try this – it’s a lot like love, only in powdered form...No no no, up the nose, there you go. Do you know what a neurotransmitter is? No? Well never mind, I don’t have time to explain it, you’ve already got the important part down. See, feels all warm and happy, just like love, right?” Little Cous sniffled. “I guess so?” he said. “Yeah, that’s right,” I said, “I’m not always gonna be around, you know, actually I gotta take off here in a few minutes, and you’re probably not going to see Me again for quite a few years, I’ve got this new religion to write, it’s also a great American novel, kind of a hybrid concept, but in the future, if you need love, just go talk to Tito down by 4th and Caesar Chavez street. He’ll help you out. You owe Me $60, by the way…”

In the Land of the Great American Novel there exists a happy meadow. It is one of the many metaphorical realms traversed in this Book, and exists in nearly every dimension in one form or another. Some scholars consider it a microcosm for the entire universe. Here is a poem about it:

*Happy Meadow*

A stream runs though it, a long meandering stream, which flows elegantly through the meadow, its sparkling water reflecting hope to the world around it. It loops past a pine tree, and then over by the stony bridge and past another pine tree and down a steep mountain slope and then circumvents back around to arrive, rather pointlessly, back at the original pine tree, where you might think it ends, but then it doesn’t, nope, not even close, it loops around and around and around the Happy Meadow past a juniper bush and past another pine tree, which is losing its bristles and another tree that’s not, and past a patch of daffodils, and some daisies and then you’re like “JESUS, when’s this stream gonna stop? It just keeps going and going and going without going anywhere,

I don’t think there’s even any metaphorical significance, and if there is I missed it cuz I’m stupid, so thank you, long ass stream, for informing me of my fallibility and shedding light on this aspect of the human condition.”

But you’re not welcome. The stream just goes on and on and on, it won’t answer to your kind. *************************

Arrogance Perhaps you find the phrase ‘great American novel’ drips with arrogance like an arrogant fat man in a sauna. It does. But at least We’re self-reflective about it, which makes it okay. As a matter of fact, We’re working to produce the most arrogant Book ever written. When God is using you as His mouthpiece, there is no time to be meek. This Book contains My campaign platform as I run for the position of Democratically Elected Messiah. Gee, I wonder how the election will turn out? The results will come later – right now We’re developing My mystique, and forging bonds of trust with you, My reader, who will soon be eating out of My Hand like a pony at a petting zoo, spiritually speaking. A Messiah’s Mystique must be divinely arrogant, and Mine has that potential. Here are some poems I wrote back in college:

****Ego is Hungry****

FEED ME says Ego, dragging me to the weight room. Now grunt like a madman, look in the mirror and flex, make veins pop out of your neck. Yeah, those chicks want you, you stud muffin. I mute him before I crush myself with the weights he says I can lift.

Fridays, during nap time, his incessant bitching drags me out of bed like cartoons on a Saturday morning. Shots, he says. Feed me booze. I give him one to shut him up. More, damnit. Quickly now, I’m hungry. You can handle it, you’re a tough guy. Count them, tell your friends how many you’ve had, tack on a few extras as a license to pinch asses and yell like a redneck at a monster truck rally.

He’s just trying to excuse himself when I make an ass out of myself.

We go out, and he leads the way. Go for the hot girl, he insists. I don’t care if she has the personality of a urine stained wall, she makes ME look sweet. Libido agrees. I am outvoted.

****Ego takes over****

Through gentle encouragement and loving cultivation, the ego grows and grows, suddenly so big it dominates.

I become so damn fantastic, everyone should serve me, including me.

“Hey Me, give me a goddamn massage.”

But I can’t, I’m too cool to give massages.

Who do I think I am, my bitch?

I want to get my name tattooed on my ass to signify my undying devotion to me, but I can’t. That would hurt the thing I love most and deface what I find most beautiful.

I’m in love with myself but I can’t have me. I’m too good so I’m not worthy. I’m breaking my fucking heart.

I deeply long for myself, and could certainly have me if I only said the right words. (I am me, I get what I want) But I’m far too proud to beg.

Perhaps I will slip myself a Mickey and take advantage of me, then brag to all my friends about how I had my way

with me, that little slut.

*The philosophy that all human actions are motivated by the simple fact that every woman wants me, and every man wants to be me.*

Notice how she rolled her eyes? She wants me so bad, it disgusts her. See, she’s running away now. Can’t handle all the sexual tension- I thought she might explode.

Now look, all her friends are laughing at me, with their seductive giggles.

That’s right, ladies, I’m the one you want, Don’t be shy now, come’ere, pinchy pinchy.

Ouch! Now her boyfriend is kicking my ass.

He must share the ancient caveman belief of bashing in someone’s head

to obtain all their powers.

************************************************************ But these poems are just a bunch of testosterone soaked undergraduate rec- centered bullshit. My egomania has since grown into megalomania, providing Me with the confidence I need to become the Messiah.

The Spilling of Liquids

“I adopted those orphans so I could do a good deed, not so they could spill coffee all over my $19,000 oriental rug.” – Mother, shortly after the allegedly incident in which liquids were allegedly spilled.

Just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse for the orphans, they did. There was an incident in which a container containing liquid spilled on the floor, resulting in an alleged stain on the rug as well as a container devoid of liquid. Cous was standing near the container that allegedly spilled, as was Brian and a beta child. Having had no previous exposure to pain or suffering, it was relatively speaking an extremely traumatic incident for the young Brian. His tantrum was epic and on a biblical scale. The young poet who’s name We don’t bother remembering turned his observations into a poem. ********************* Brian cries over the milk, which is spilled upon the floor, his tears flood the milk puddle so it grows and expands, much like the molehill out back,

which Brian is turning into a mountain. **********************

You’ve probably heard some of the colloquial sayings that originated in this poem, with time being discontinuous and non-linear. They started in this Book, and now people use them in every day conversation all the time, without even properly citing this Book and paying their copyright dues. Unfortunately much of the world still runs on a 20th century, standard linear boring and continuous interpretation of time, and I don’t legally get credit for a lot of things for which credit is due, which is fine because at least God loves Me more than everyone else. One example, the American flag – I came up with that design. You’re welcome. I left a rough sketch with Betsy Ross a long time ago, or at least what you would consider a long time ago when viewed from a standard linear and continuous interpretation of time. She wasn’t the old, gnarled Betsy Ross you see in textbooks - she was really quite cute and sprightly as a teenager, and on the last booty call I gave her22 a rough crayon sketch of the American Flag and told her, “Hang on to this, babe, someday you’ll get an order to make a flag for this new country called ‘America.’ You’ll find that this design fits perfectly with the brand image they’ll want to portray, plus it’ll look awesome waving in the wind. Oh yeah, and later when you guys want to start adding on more states once you clear the Indians off, just tack some more stars onto the design.” Then I left and never spoke to her again, because girls from back then didn’t bathe that often, nor did they shave certain sensitive areas, and in general their levels of sexual training and self-expression left much to be desired, especially when compared to modern American girls, whom Hollywood has trained to be whores despite Jesus’s best efforts. In general it’s not worth the hassle of inter-dimensional time transcendent travel, so I usually stay right here in the America of this dimension, the greatest country in the history of the entire universe, in California, where the sun shines and the women are nihilistically whorish. I’m just happy I could do my part, traveling through space and time and inventing

22 Among other things, wink wink. 50

everything cool, good and ingenious that has ever been made while selflessly giving credit to others.

Multi-dimensionality

I’ll give $25 – no! - $50 to anyone who can prove or disprove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that no dimensions beyond this one exist. Exactly, that’s what I thought. Thanks to the infinite and multi-dimensional nature of the universe, there undoubtedly exists one dimension or another in which this Book represents literal truth. Which is why in Bookstores it belongs on the non-fiction shelf, as well as the great American novel shelf, the self-help shelf, the religious book shelf, and, least importantly the poetry shelf. Similarly, the universe is a multi-dimensional place, perhaps even more so than this Book. While the perception of most is limited to the immediate dimension of the here and now, that does not rule out the existence of the other infinite dimensions, which are impacting your life on a subconscious level, causing stress and spiritual turmoil. This is one of the reasons that I write new religions.

Allow us to give you a brief overview of some of the dimensions We have transcended amongst:

It is in Dimension 472 trillion something or other that this Book literally represents pure and absolute truth. People are basing their lives on My Poems and it’s not even turning out all that bad.

I spend a lot of my time worrying that I’ll accidentally and unknowingly jump from this dimension to # 563,847, where everything is exactly the same, except that they use toothbrushes to brush their asses.

Although I currently reside in dimension #1, in dimension # 942,760,984 it is known as dimension #7.

In dimension #914, I’m married to one of my ex-girlfriends, she feels under- appreciated although her hand jobs have improved.

That one dimension where I’m constantly undeniably blissfully happy is somewhere between numbers 72 and 14,718,564, if I could remember I’d be there, sitting on a beach and not drinking pina coladas, because I wouldn’t need pina coladas, I’d be happy enough without them.

It was in dimension 538,385 that I pooped on your face. You did not get angry, this is perfectly acceptable behavior in that dimension.

After spending some time in dimension #47, it’s kind of hard to come back to this one. But here I am. Lame.

Now that George W. Bush has made our dimension a fantasy world of propaganda and spin, where words create a reality counter to reality, this book can exist here as absolute truth! ****************

Book 2:

I can’t recall a specific moment when I first decided I should become the Messiah. It probably occurred to Me as an offhand thought, and the more I thought about it and all the money I’d make the more it seemed like a good idea. When I became the Messiah,23 it proved that all of your dreams can come true, as long as you do as I say and give proper tribute to God, which is 10% of your income, which I will deliver to Him personally, so He can maintain His, err, habits. There are easier hustles out there than becoming a new Messiah and launching a profitable new religion, but for those of us who can pull it off there does not exist a better job in God’s universe. While I’m not going to just give out all My secrets for free, I do have a few pointers for all the aspiring religious entrepreneurs out there. First of all, it all comes down to faith24 - before you even begin, you’re heart must be in it 100%. If you don’t believe you’re the Messiah, no one else will either. Also, it’s important for you to be a megalomaniac. For whatever reason God only talks to megalomaniacs. Once you’re in the right mindset, it’s time to write a Book of morally ambiguous religious poems and fables, such as This One. Upon completing the Book, a Messiah must take it forth with a smile like Machmoud Ahmadenijad – this smile is to project a supreme sense of confidence and serenity that can only come from knowing with absolute certainty that God is on your side. You must also be sensitive enough to empathize with the pain other people feel, and to be a good enough actor to convince them that you care. These skills of charm are then to be used to convince mediocre people that all their dreams will come true. If all your dreams are about to come true, money ain’t a thing, for mediocre people. . I approached the messianic process in a somewhat roundabout and indirect way, beginning with the launch of a frat Los Angeles, which is the cultural Mecca of America and thus by extension the cultural Mecca of the entire universe, which is far more U.S- centric than the Liberal Media would have you believe. Anyway, the frat gradually morphed into a cult, a political party, and a new religion – all the same and therefore

23 With time being more or less discontinuous and non-linears 24 If you feel that you are lacking faith in your life, you can purchase some at www.fireworksandsex.com 53

interchangeable. The transition was seamless. Followers joined the frat so they could come to the exclusive parties, drink lots of punch and hopefully find someone to date rape. Naturally there were lots of secret frat rituals, which soon took a turn toward the extremely religious. Everyone was guzzling punch, wondering, what’s up with all these rituals? Is this a frat? Is this a cult? Or is the cultishness of the frat stuff all just a part of the final mind-fuck I need to get through to prove my loyalty to the Religious Frat and open the up the gates to eternal salvation? What?! Don’t worry, I’ll say, have some more punch. And prepare for the next ritual! With time being non-continuous, it snowballed to the point where people were waiting outside in line for hours behind the velvet rope to get into My Church, which is a lot like a night club but with more tax exemptions. As it further crossed into the mainstream, it went from a cult to a mainstream religion, which is what cults are called when they get bigger. Meanwhile, We set up a variety of non-profit charity organizations so that people with the urge to do good deeds could do them in a way that promotes Our religious brand. People started saving orphans and puppies in the name of Fireworks and Sex! But My favorite part was when people started believing My words, because that meant I wasn’t crazy any more. Group-think is God’s favorite. Also, to be Messiah, one has to be a member of a multi-platinum boy band, even if it’s kind of unofficial, and the band is on an 8 year hiatus, and only one member even knows that you’re in the band, and he only said you could be in the band because he was playing along with a joke you made while helping him out with his Cincinnati City Council political campaign. But that’s really all I can tell you, except that you’ll also need a good legal team. A lot of intellectual property issues come up when launching a new religion, and the tax exempt religious status is perhaps God’s greatest gift to mankind. . But most important is the Book of stories and poems that people need to base their lives on. This is standard, but other religions lack a sense of humor, which is why there are Jihad and Crusades. When I’m the Messiah, people without sense of humor will be charged with conspiring to commit genocide. Read this poem and realize some shit:

*****Life is a joke***** If you don’t get it, the joke’s on you.

Sometimes it’s kinda funny, like when you drop your ice cream cone but someone gives you another one, and then you go off skipping through a meadow, holding hands and laughing.

Other times it’s not so funny, like this one: ‘Ha ha, I just burned down your house, along with everything inside of it, including your children. Ha ha, get it?’

Ouch! That one bombed worse than Grandma-sex jokes at a nursing home.

Silly life, always crossing the line. It should be censored.

A Brief Summary of the Great Christian Novel: There was a king somewhere. His name was David. I like that part. For the most part, it’s ok to judge, but not when it involves throwing stones. 55

Stones are to be thrown in a non-judgmental manner. We are all God’s children, and He’s watching over us. Sometimes we have sex with each other, which means God is into child pornography. He loves his children equally. Then he sends floods to kill them. Floods and locusts. It’s ok when He kills them, because they’re sinners, and it’s fun, like adultery. In His second update, God sent us Jesus to die on a cross so human beings could find little chocolate eggs25. If it were set in Modern times, Jesus would cross a road just so he could get run over by a Hummer, such is his insistence on being the tragic figure. To celebrate Jesus’s birthday, Santa brings presents to all the good little boys and girls, who also happen to be the wealthy little boys and girls. The infinite, fundamental question – does God love them more because they have money, or did God start giving them lots of money because He loves them more? Meanwhile, the meek are told they’ll inherit the earth, which is a great way to keep the little sheep from acting up. Islam’s great novel has more or less the same premise, except that they added a new marketing tactic called Jihad to increase conversion rates, resulting in a rapidly increasing market share. They also upgraded heaven by installing virgins. Oh yeah, I almost forgot. In the beginning Adam and Eve were in a garden, which proves that evolution never happened. The garden had an apple that God didn’t want to share. When Adam and Eve ate the apple anyway, He decided that everyone should be fucked, including you, unless you splash water on your forehead and agree to a life-long membership in their religion. Also, no more clothing made out of blended fabrics, if you read closely. And don’t even think about shaving that beard anymore. Most churches understandably prefer to keep quiet about Jesus’s purported Communist leanings, this is America after all.

25 I don’t mean to cut their story short in My summary – we also get to find jelly beans, peeps, or in less fortunate cases, hardboiled eggs dipped in food dye 56

A Voter’s Guide to the Upcoming Election for Messiah

American Messiahs must be chosen through a most American form of democracy. The final election for the position of Democratically Elected Messiah, with its lifelong term limit, comes down to Myself and JimBob from a trailer park somewhere in Middle America. Naturally there can only be two choices because as a nation we do not have the attention span to handle any more than that. I’m just here to help you make an informed decision. In all fairness, JimBob has fireworks. He’s got bottle rockets and black cats and zingers, and every afternoon he has sex with his fat neighbor, Milissa. But he hasn’t written a great American novel, nor has he starred in one. His one appearance is meant only to serve as an example of what is not great American novelesque, and to give Me someone to crush in a Messianic election. Milissa, the fat chick he f***s, at least has one poem, which I’ve taken from my friend and colleague Chris Michel, who once told Me this Book wasn’t fun to read and I should re-write it or maybe even throw it away. I chose the former, because I knew that without Me writing this Book for you your life would be empty, meaningless, and filled with chaos and confusion, and I don’t want that to happen to you. I took a poem from Chris, and there’s nothing he can do about it because I bench press more than he does, and have more lawyers. ******************************************************** Milissa Thy knotted and combined locks to part And each particular hair to stand on end, Like quills upon the fretful porcupine

and it was my tits (I think) that got me the job at dairy queen, it was definitely my tits which got me fired since rob is such an ass and wouldn’t stop.

my tits got me hired at pottery barn that was cool cause you don’t have to wear a red polo, and my tits should have gotten me hired at hooters but I’m not qualified they said which means I’m fat, but tits is fat unless its those gross bounceless ones and sometimes nasty old guys give me tips anyway even when I just ring them up so my tits are good enough there, I wish my tits could take me to mars, or to the moon, or even if my tits could take me out of here to an island somewhere with a nice guy, someone tan, and young but rich who liked me, and didn’t keep touching my ass. ************************************************************ Other than the Pawtucket county police records, that’s about it for literature relating to JimBob. Good luck using that as a religious document to base your life on. Furthermore, JimBob rarely speaks in universal truths, nor does he have any explanations as to why God does the stuff He does. If you asked him, JimBob would probably just tell you that God works in mysterious ways, which is a cop out. Or he’d just shrug like an idiot then go back to waiting around for his welfare check so he can buy more crystal meth. Is that what you want out of your Messiah?

Here is a Transcript of a Speech I gave shortly before becoming the Messiah. The crowd went wild.

Soon I’m going to become the Messiah, but We don’t need to go into the details

right now.

Would you like a prophecy? Ok, here it goes: The fellatiating oracle in the back seat of your Honda predicts the apocalypse will blow, hahahaheharharharsnort, get it blow? But seriously, when the apocalypse comes, hahahahrharhar, get it, comes? Seriously, when the apocalypse comes can we still go out for ice cream?

At the Messiah’s convention last weekend, Jesus and I went bowling. He rolled a 170 and I won’t tell you my score, because I have mystique.

I consulted with Jesus about the morality of abortion, and he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. So I’m gonna go ahead and say that it’s perfectly alright. Or not.

When we were kids Jesus and I used to play in the sandbox. He was always pretty good about sharing his dump truck, Which I’d use to run over His sand castles.

One day, the liberals put fossils into the ground and then they put different carbon dates on each fossil so their fossils would support their theory of evolution. I’m not sure why they did this, liberals work in mysterious ways. anyway, (at this point I paused dramatically and scanned the room’s ceiling, creating a tense silence which heightened the emotional impact of this ground breaking speech even further). but anyway…….

Where the fuck is the moon when I need something beautiful to point out?

I really miss Terri Schiavo. Sometimes I stare up at the bright silver moon in the dark night sky and wonder if Terri Schiavo is looking at that same moon.

Sometimes while I look up at the bright, silver moon in the dark night sky I begin to drool and I wonder if Terri Schiavo is looking at the same bright, silver moon and also drooling.

When I poop myself I wonder if Terri Schiavo is also pooping herself,26 and I no longer wonder about the bright silver moon in the dark night sky. It has been overshadowed by the squishy sensation in my pants.

Congratulations, you now own the moral high ground. How’s the view? Does the moral high ground even get you high?

The view from the moral high ground probably wasn’t worth the climb it took to get there.

While you were hauling your sorry ass up the mountain of goodness, I was at the bottom with some strippers and a forty of Mickey’s.

Moral values. Yup. Moral values and projectile vomit. Projected values moralizing amidst the vomit. Valuable vomit projecting its morality. Projections of morality, valuable like vomit.

26 Yes, I realize that Terri Schiavo probably had a colostomy bag, which means that she didn’t really poop herself, it more oozed out slowly and gradually into the little plastic shit sack that rested on her pale white cottage-cheese cellulite stomach. And, yes, it is necessary to bring this up to celebrate our national magnifying glass zooming in way too close on Terri Schiavo. 60

Vomit only valuable when morally projected. Moral vomit projecting values.

Can I be Messiah yet?

When I’m the Messiah, I promise ponies for everyone! Also, when I’m Messiah, never again will your barber mess up your sideburns. When I’m the Messiah, those squeaky door hinges will stop squeaking. Sorry, I can’t do anything for leaky faucets, though. You’re on your own on that one. I’m a Messiah, not a plumber.

When I’m the Messiah My Neverland ranch will have a Ferris wheel, the children will ride it all night long, and that’s all. Nothing else.

When I’m the Messiah, no longer will men be judged by the color of their skin, but by how much they can bench press. Not by the content of their character, but by how many ponies they have.

When I’m the Messiah we’ll rejoice and have rituals that will get me rich.

One time I dropped a puppy on its head in a “welcome to the real world” ceremony. It cried out like a crow. I’m not sure what the metaphorical significance was but it seemed kind of Biblical.

Would you like to join my cult? It’ll be really really really fun. We’ll drink some punch and spin around and then we’ll share our bodies, I’ll get my money and you’ll get your God and everything’ll be great.

So, you might ask…. How complex is My God complex? I damn it, don’t ask these questions!

And now I end this poem! For the ending of this poem, I want you all to have orgasms. If you can’t have my ending, it’s your own tense and prudish fault. This relationship just isn’t going to work out if you can’t learn to relax.

Thank you, and I bless. *************************

The Election Results Are In! I’m pleased to announce that I’ve just been officially elected Messiah! I’d like to thank everyone who voted for Me, and give those who didn’t the opportunity to repent for their unforgivable sins. I look forward to holding lots of parades, sermons, weddings, funerals and other festivities, while collecting tribute from everyone that wants to dodge the fires of hell. Many of your old traditions will be adopted and repackaged in revised forms that are less pagan and more acceptable to the new set of beliefs we all share. Don’t worry, We’re keeping the Easter bunny – there’s no way We’d get rid of a giant bunny rabbit that distributes baskets of candy in today’s competitive religious marketplace. We’re even keeping Jesus around (being that he’s arguably the most profitable religious icon of the millennia), and We’ve developed a special new job for him, to keep him busy and prevent him from being disruptive to the American way of doing things. You’ll find out all about it

later - now We’re building suspense.

By the way, if you want to eat me, metaphorically speaking, during religious ceremonies, might I suggest using cotton candy27 to represent My body.

27 Much tastier than bread – this shit will take off in no time! 63

Ok Fine, We’ll Tell You!!!!

Jesus’s new job involves the putting together of a Rubik’s cube. Unfortunately for Jesus, We got his cube second hand, and it didn’t come with instructions, nor does he understand how to use Google. He mostly just stares at it and gives it an occasional sad, half-hearted twist. Most importantly, he keeps his commie rhetoric to himself.

The New! Morality

Our New! Morality is purposefully hollow so you can fill it with whatever suits your lifestyle. Use the blank space on this page to create your own “Sacred Pillars of Morality” – think hard about these - if done properly they can be used to justify pretty much anything you want to do. For example, if you run a business or investment firm and want to launder a large portion of the revenue into your personal off-shore bank account, defrauding your partners and investors, you should probably write a commandment such as “though shalt defraud thy business partners and investors” in the space below, and then it will be OK, because a religious book said you could do it. Say good-bye to digging through religious texts to find the quotes you need to justify your actions!

Pick’n’choose-ism

This new! religion picks and chooses traditions and styles from the classics like Islam, Hinduism, Christianity and Buddhism, as well as various new-age religions, blending them together to form a new American religious tradition smorgasbord. Through Our flexible and all-encompassing, pick and choose as you please multi- denominationalism, it becomes much easier to religiously justify doing whatever the f***

you please. The way We see it is if We bring in everything, We can’t get it wrong. As for the rest of it, I’m really not a details-oriented person, so We’ll just be making it up as We go along. New religious trends will come with every season only to go out of style the next, keeping the religious paraphernalia moving. Being out of fashion, religiously speaking, shall be a high sin. Our mantra? What do you need? We got you.

Something for Literally Almost Everyone

We literally and figuratively have something for everyone: no matter who you are you’ll find something in Our New Religion to fill your empty life full of meaning. For example, say that before you met Me, (while not in person, but vis-à-vis reading this Book) you were addicted to crystal meth. Not that I’m saying you’re necessarily addicted to crystal meth, I’m just giving one example of a personality type who might read this Book and improve their life. Anyway, there you were, running around on crystal meth, and yes you were going really really really fast, albeit lacking somewhat in direction, when I came along, (again probably not physically in person, unless you’re really really lucky, but through this Book, the Books on Tape series, gospel CDs, infomercials, as well as through the 24/7 live support offered by Our religious representatives online, including little Asian girl prophet who dispenses religious guidance via webcam while taking off her clothes and cuddling with her Hello Kitty doll, for only $2.99 per minute ) and voila! Your life has purpose, which is to spread My New Religion, which you’ll do really really really fast, at least until your face sinks in and your teeth fall out on account of all that meth, at which point you’ll get fired from your religion spreading job because that’s not the brand image We’re trying to portray. After that, I can’t help you. I’m a Messiah, not a Dentist.

Please inform Us of your specific religious needs and We will customize a religious solution for your lifestyle. Our religion offers the competitive advantages of freedom and

flexibility, made possible by Our Pluralistic world view.

Pluralism

Being a pluralist is sort of like being a Hindu, except that you don’t believe in Hinduism, although you can’t not believe in it. But still, you are at least partly a Hindu, although you can’t claim to be any sort of Hindu. As a Hindu, which I am, and am not, among other things, I might enjoy basket weaving, and snake charming, but I’m an American, so I want it my fucking way: I want to charm a snake into weaving Me a basket so I’ll have a basket in which to charm a snake. While this may seem unlikely, and circular, as a pluralist, I cannot know for certain that it’s impossible, and it might even be linear. I can’t deny that snakes are capable of weaving baskets, because how can you deny anything in this uncertain universe? Thus, I’m stuck waiting, cuz it might still happen - how can I know for sure? And while I would enjoy charming a snake in a basket (and also not enjoy it), I’m an American, so there’s no chance in hell I’m weaving a fucking basket, unless I want to, which I probably don’t, although I can’t deny that I might. Why the hell would I want to weave a basket? Because the American in me is sometimes overridden by the pluralist and I realize that in the hell I can’t deny, there could possibly exist both baskets and chances, both which may or may not be woven, but not by Americans. ********

Achieving Feelings of Bliss, Love and Joy Toward All Humankind

On good days I love each and every one of you, and I mean that in the most vague and generalized sense. On these good days, My soul becomes so filled with love that there is no other option but to begin hugging strangers at random. In a display of the empathy and understanding that permeates my being, I’ll ask the random stranger, “Is it ok if I embrace you in a display of the love and goodwill I feel toward human-kind?” I always

ask for permission, because I have respect for their feelings, and also because I want to avoid lawsuits. Sometimes, mid-hug, I’ll ask them, “I hope you don’t find this creepy, being embraced by a total stranger and all. I hope you aren’t just getting involved with this hug out of a sense of over-niceness or from feelings of peer-pressure – cuz that’s not what this is about – it’s about love and brother/sister-hood among human-kind, not obtaining hugs through coercive means.” After I get reassured that no, it’s not all that creepy, although maybe a little bit, and while yes, they may have felt a small amount of peer pressure, stemming from their desire to be accommodating and not unkind to strangers, they would nonetheless like to thank me for reminding them of the love and interconnected we should all remember to feel toward each other as human beings. At which point I tighten my embrace and whisper in their ear, “Now don’t you ever leave me.” Just as a friendly joke, mostly. But also because I don’t want them to ever leave me. Ever. It would be a good idea for you to join My Cult.

***************************

There We go again, so focused on your personal salvation that We’ve neglected Our family and their story. Our characters have been going about their lives, growing and developing, as characters do. Brian of course joined a frat, which is what much of the world runs on. The Beta children finished law school, and after years of hard legal work, finally pushed through their motion annulling the adoption of Cous and the cripple. This was followed by a court order evicting them from the garage of the family estate, getting him out three weeks before Cous’s eighteenth birthday, which proves that all of your dreams can come true as long as you work hard and keep a positive attitude. As a part of the parting agreement, 1/2 of his earnings were to be garnished until he paid off the

oriental carpet he allegedly spilled on 8 years earlier28. It was all spelled out in fine print in the most unclear language imaginable.

The End of the Nuclear Family (And the Value of Can-Do-Positive Attitudes).

One day Mother bought a giant, diamond-studded gold and platinum cross so she could express her love for Jesus. It even came with an official Certificate of Sterilization, which means that all the slaves’ blood had been properly washed off with industrial strength disinfectant solution29. When she put it on, her head exploded because it contained too many hypocritical moral contradictions. Brian was almost momentarily sad, but then he cashed his inheritance check and went shopping! He bought goat skin shoes and a matching hat, three gold chains, one of them trimmed in goatskin to match his other new accessories, the others not so they’d accessorize with his other gold chains. He also bought the entire line of Nouveau Moiré30 high end fashion items, a brand so high-end, exclusive and elite that people like you haven’t even heard of it, and even if you had you couldn’t get it because it’s too expensive, uber-hip and exclusive, and also because Brian bought every item they had and paid them to not make any more, thereby becoming exclusively exclusive, which more than made up for the death of Mommy. After all, he’d only had one Mommy, but now he had over 117 new accessories.

A recently deceased Mommy brought other perks too, like sympathy casseroles, lasagnas and sex. Grief is a great tool for luring women into bed, or a bathroom stall, if that’s the closest place to temporarily ease the sorrow that comes from losing a Mommy. At the mere mention of her name, or any other Mommy for that matter, his big doe eyes

28 With a linear and continuous interpretation of time 29 Disinfectant solution companies, please be in touches re: this sponsorship opportunity. 30 While its name sounds French, the Nouvea Moiré fashion line was actually a product of the U.S, created by some ultra-hip pro-American types in order to provide exclusive, high-end French fashion to the U.S market while maintaining the boycott of French products after their refusal to follow us blindly into war. 68

would well up with tears that get him stuff. Then he held tryouts for a new Mommy and ran the following advertisement:

WANTED:

New Mommy. Must be able to cook, clean and buy me shit

while smiling warmly. No moral guidance required, as I’ve

developed my own from EmpTV and Phox! News. Contact

Brian for tryout information and location.

Brian the Media Star

Brian’s advertisement went viral, making its way around the internets, eventually reaching the network executives at EmpTV. “What an inspiring story of perseverance,” the suits said behind closed doors, “– this poor kid, with nothing but a vegetable former senator for a father, great hair, a multi-million dollar estate and nothing else, persevering to try to find a new Mommy after his first one tragically died in a head-exploding accident. But he

won’t let that stop him from having a new Mommy. What a great reality TV series, there’s so much middle Americans can learn from him.” The network suits ran a comprehensive background check and found no evidence of Brian ever having been unfashionable, nor did they see any evidence of past hair problems. Several cases of suspected date rape that had been settled out of court turned up, but they weren’t an issue because they’d been settled out of court, and look at that hair, plus his jaw line was getting closer and closer to perfection with each surgery, and none of the girls had any concrete memories re: their date rape experiences anyway. Brian was made for TV.

So yes Brian got to become a media star, which, along with God’s help, will later catapult him into the office of President of the United States of America. Learn a lesson from your hero, dear reader: it all comes down to having a can-do positive attitude. Brian could have been a negative-Nelly about losing his mom to a spontaneous head explosion, but instead he kept a can-do-positive attitude and as a result was rewarded with new opportunities like a career on EmpTV and later the Presidency. Here is an uplifting and inspirational message for you, My Dear Reader:

You Can Achieve! Deep, deep inside each and every one of you lies the power to achieve anything your heart desires. In some of you, these powers are buried deeper than in others. Sometimes they are buried so deep that you will never be able to get to them, no matter how much digging you do. Is this my fault? It is not. It is the fault of you, for not digging deep enough (and I mean that in a purely metaphorical sense, unless what your heart desires is a career in digging). But, metaphorically speaking, if you keep digging and digging, you will inevitably find the gold or other buried treasure that is buried in the area in which you are digging. Unless you are digging in an area that contains no treasure, in which case you will only find rocks and dirt. Again, I would have to put the blame on you for digging in the wrong area.

**********

In their first meeting Brian and EmpTV realized they shared all the same values, like if your sweet-16 Mardi Gras birthday float isn’t designed exactly the way you want it, then your birthday is ruined and you should throw a tantrum. Also, you’d better get a brand new jaguar convertible, so everyone else can be jealous. America runs on jealousy. If you don’t get the proper ride on your sweet-16, it’s ok to turn your Daddy into a vegetable. A brand new Jaguar on your 16th birthday is your God-given right as an American, and a Daddy who can’t even deliver on this simple duty doesn’t deserve to remain a member of the animal phylum. EmpTV made Brian’s advertisement for a new Mommy the basis of a short lived marketing campaign entitled “EmpTV will be your Mom,” which caught on like wildfire with rebellious teeny-boppers before the Network’s sponsors ordered it killed, because the Moms of America weren’t so inclined to spend their money on trinkets for their teeny- boppers after being told “You’re not my Mom, EmpTV is.” The campaign was pulled and mothers across America quickly went back to spending money they didn’t have to spoil their kids rotten, buoying America’s imaginary economy. Brian kept his job despite the failure of the ad campaign, because look at that jaw line. Next, Brian and EmpTV crafted the following public service message for teenage girls, in order to make America a more beautiful place:

“I wish I could tell you you’re beautiful, but you’re not. I wish I could tell you that I like you for the person you are, but I don’t. Still, I like you for the person you aren’t, and can’t ever become, but that shouldn’t stop you from trying, so go starve a few pounds off of your fat ass. True beauty is digesting itself in a hospital bed.”

Brian would remain with the network for the rest of his life, even during his

Presidency, which had the biggest budget and got the highest ratings of any series in reality TV history.

Giving Back

According to his P.R department, Brian used his success for the betterment of mankind. To fix the whole starving people problem, he took the “Feed the Children” fund and built a giant sound-proof wall. Actually feeding the children would be a shortsighted investment. While stuffing their mouths with food would temporarily stifle their bitching, later it would give them the energy to bitch even more. In another charitable endeavor, he founded the Center for Abused Women, which is a great place to abuse women. Donate to this worthy charity at www.fireworksandsex.com.

Entrepreneurial Endeavors

God is the greatest hustler the Universe has ever seen. A Self-made God, He built the entire universe out of nothing, like an American, and programmed it to function on a series of intertwined laws Our entire multi-dimensional universe, all of which God hustled together out of nothing, a Self-made God, one of His many America values, and now that He’s built this universe He’s more or less living the American Dream, kicking back and letting the system run on autopilot while He reaps in the rewards, which are many in a cosmic, metaphysical, inexplicable sense. Brian, in God’s image, is the second greatest hustler. Money will always find its way to the Brians of the world, who take that money and turn it into more money, with money loaned on itself and derived and re-deposited and redirected and reloaned on itselfover you aren’t even sure it exists anymore. But it does exist, and Brian has it, he’s been speculatively investing in every market imaginable, and hedging the investments with

those of his frat bros worldwide - stocks, bonds, oil, gold, armaments for third world populations, etc. etc – he even made money off of transient hypothetical investments, which are what the U.S. economy is largely based on, but he took it even further and derived investments in outright abstract philosophical concepts. In one case study that should be standard curriculum at Harvard Business School if that institution were to be worth its weight in books, Brian bought up a bunch of stock in Nihilism on the cheap31 before a war (if you’re a child or idiot who doesn’t know what this means, please refer to appendix Q). Then he had his people make arrangements to start a war so terrible that by the time it was over, the people didn’t believe in anything anymore. Everybody bought into Nihilism and his stock shot through the roof. Brian sold at the peak then bought up boatloads of family values, on the cheap in California, where the godless liberals are too busy sodomizing each other to put any value on families. Next he hired religious hacks like Jerry Falwell and James Dobson and John Haggard to preach about family values. Demand shot through the roof, as did the price Brian charged for them. People all across America, especially the Bible Belt, bought up Brian’s Family Values so they could avoid burning in hell. Many were driven into poverty – Pa dealt with the stress of feeding his family by drinking, and the children learned to steal their lunch money. Brian made a fortune and bought a mountain of cocaine. On his cocaine mountain, he went skiing. Also, he snorted it until he saw Jesus. The two got into a debate over some Biblical interpretations. Being zooted out of his mind, Brian was talking much faster and louder32 and clearly winning the argument, especially because Jesus can’t speak English, but he still wouldn’t admit that he was wrong, so Brian kicked him in the left nut. Jesus rotated his torso so Brian could hit the other testicle. This time, Brian’s steal-toed boots33 got the better of him. Jesus fell to his knees, dropping his Rubik’s cube on the ground, where he forgot about it, as most of us would after being kicked in the testicles. God deducted the cost of the equipment from his next pay check and took another star off the Jesus column of His Gold Star Chart.

31 This on top of the income stream that come from his holdings in the defense industry 32 So much louder he didn’t notice that Jesus doesn’t speak English 33 Here exists a Sponsorship Opportunity for a line of boots that would like to be advertised in future editions of this Book! 73

It was this Incident that made Us Realize We needed to further reform Our society’s code of ethics into something more conducive to the lifestyle of Brian and other Americans. We’d had enough of Jesus’s commie bullshit. The American way is not up for negotiation34 - it’s the laws of God and the Universe that need to change. Thanks to My lobbying God declared English the official Language of the Universe. Then I helped Jesus fill out his paperwork to become a registered Republican. It felt good to finally make it official. Here is the weather report from the day that Jesus became a member of the Republican Party and the free market became God: Selectively cloudy, with the sun shining brightly on a select few in a bright and blinding fashion, while casting a dark and hopeless shadow on others. In any case there’s no imagistic significance here. While I haven’t technically been to “church,” or read “the Bible,” I have learned all about Christianity from the Republican party. Here’s what I know: First off, Jesus wants rich people to get tax cuts. Tax cuts make Jesus happy because then the American people have enough money to buy bling and other nice things. To pay for the tax cuts, Jesus proposes cutting welfare – Jesus hates welfare people because they’re lazy and can’t pull their own weight. Rich and fat and lazy is forgivable though, as long as you donate to church, and besides you can hire people to pull your weight. The most important thing to Jesus is that we keep shopping! Shopping! fights terror by supporting freedom - freedom is good, because terror is bad. Jesus hates terrorists and wants you to be aware that the current Terror Threat Level is orange. However, Jesus’s main priority is to make sure the gay people don’t start a’marrying each other. If you are that way, Jesus would prefer you to be a self-hating closet fag. Learn all about it at Christian Straight Camp.

Alas, a New! Era.

34 As stated by Bush I 74

First there was “b.c”, a Latin abbreviation which, when translated into English means “Before Christ.” This was an age in which man and dinosaur roamed the Earth in harmony, if you don’t believe Me there’s a museum in Kentucky that proves it. After that came the A.D era, again something in Latin, no one knows what it means – anyone speak Latin? We’ve been counting the years with this for over 2010 of them by now, and it’s time for a change. The new! Era is here, it’s the shiniest one yet and it’s in English. Its abbreviation is p.r.c, and stands for post rubix cube, marking the date Jesus was relieved of his duties re: spiritual guidance and given a new task of figuring out a rubix cube. Now he doesn’t have time to push him communist agenda, or get offended every time you swear or get drunk and fuck a stranger. Let’s call this year one, and everything that came before this can be a negative number.

Cruel World Shortly after being released into the cruel world, a realization struck the orphans. The world is filled with harshness and cruelty, and they were powerless to do anything about it.

Cous didn’t deal with the recognition of his own worthlessness quite so well, and fell into an even deeper, darker state of depression

Whats-his-name decided to do something about it. There’s no way he would just sit back and let bad stuff happen throughout the universe. He stood up, ready to tackle the task of solving all of humanity’s problems. Then he fell down, having forgotten his crutches. He got them, pulled himself off the floor and took another step, then fell down again because Mother had strategically mopped the floor. After he picked up his crutch and collected his teeth he took several more steps, after which he was winded. He

collapsed to the floor and rested for a while. Then he got back up, but his blood sugar had reached a dangerously low level and his feet started swelling up, so he took his insulin shot, and then the needle wound wouldn’t stop bleeding because he’s also a hemophiliac so he fashioning a bandage from his shirt and immediately got back to work solving all the world’s problems, after laundering his bloody clothes and resting for a month or so in order to replenish his body’s blood supply. Good luck solving all the world’s problems! And Good luck, world!

Did you know Cous’s social security number is 442-38-4987. Feel free to borrow his identity and buy yourself something nice! Cous won’t mind, he loves to share!

On an average day Cous will spend about 2.3 hours per day apologizing to people and 3.5 hours nostalgically reminiscing about the past. Awwww, weren’t things so good, back when he had a real Mommy who loved him? Wasn’t he such a happy little boy, then? He sure as hell isn’t anymore. Depending on who he’d slept with the night before, and how many people, Cous generally spends an additional 2.4 hours per day worrying about that bump, or that rash, and should I get tested? Why is she not calling back? Was it because he came across as too needy? Now what, should he go find someone else Is it time to findwill I hook up with next? Will it finally be true love? All of these thoughts result in spirals of depression, maintaining a steady supply of Pain of the Universe™ and maximizing the efficiency and effectiveness of Cous’s suffering. It’s safe to say that Cous is the most mentally and emotionally unstable character ever created, ahead of even Mr. Flipout, who was created for the sole purpose of flipping out. Here are Mr. Flipout’s poems:

**********************************

Mr. Flipout Drives Home

The road stretches ahead of him endlessly, tongue shriveling in his mouth like a seal in the desert. A single warm, lifesaving piece of gum sits among the Kleenex in his pocket. The gum is glorious. It emits spearmint freshness like grace from Heaven. It is the best thing since Star Trek.

But the gum is unattainable. His hands grip the wheel, 10’ and 2’, eyes frozen straight ahead like a Ritalin fed 3rd grader.

To get the gum would risk everything. He could lose control of the car, end up traveling forty yards backwards in the grill of a Mack truck, airbag punching him in the face while the seat belt chokes him. He sees his own tongue slide down the windshield, blood marking a trail above it. It's not worth it. He doesn't want the gum,

It's soaked in urine.

*Mr. Flipout Goes to Market*

He picks up a can of peas from their usual spot in aisle 4, next to the green beans and directly below the carrots. He places it in the far left corner of his empty cart, where it belongs. The wheels squeak like a dying chickadee as he pushes it through the aisle, past the creamed corn, artichokes, asparagus, tomatoes, beets and… sweet corn??? What the hell is sweet corn doing all the way over here? Clearly it belongs with the other corn. Is there any logical reason for them to be separated? If corn isn’t even in its right place, what can he count on in this topsy-turvy world? What’s next? Stuffing in the ice cream freezer? Peanut butter in mislabled jam jars? Pudding filled bananas? Ravioli laced with anthrax? He had eaten their ravioli once. Mr. Flipout goes to the hospital 78

and checks himself in.

*Mr. Flipout Out of Context*

Somewhere, Mr. Flipout is a legend, a legacy in his own right. Somewhere else. Not in this poem.

For the sake of this poem, you have never heard of Mr. Flipout, even if you have, if you’re omniscient, or clever enough to catch some very obvious symbolism, even if you’ve read his entire series of non-existent teen romance novels.

Mr. Flipout is very freaked out by something, which is normal, an everyday occurrence, no big deal, but you don’t know why he’s freaked out, you don’t have the context to understand this, it was destroyed in lines 1-8, remember?

Granted, this self-reflective little poem35 fully recognizes

35 That might as well be written in prose, although the poet decided to use linebreaks yes! Linebreaks! Linebreaks shall be used! in what ever order was whimsically decided upon, though perhaps in the above verse more strategically than this last series which is all together quite poor as well to say as random 79

its inability to actually destroy the ingrained contexts the reader may hold in his/her little/brilliant/feeble/perverted mind, so at this point it will ask the reader to make the leap2 in her/his forward-thinking/pigheaded/simple mind, where the poem does in fact exist, as well as Mr. Flipout, who would normally expect your understanding as he flips out in an overbearing and overdone fashion for some ridiculously petty reason, like corn, but now you won’t let him, you can’t rationalize his flipping out, it just isn’t earned, so he sits there, or maybe implodes, or evaporates, and now we can really fuck with him.

******************************************************

Here we have actually put Mr. Flipout’s poem about being out of context into context, so We’re really throwing the nutcase some curveballs. Likewise, God throws a lot of curveballs to Cous, not that baseball has any legitimacy as a metaphor. God also throws a mean fastball, a splitter, a breaking ball, and a knuckler, plus the God-ball, which He’s patented. The point is that God is a Major League Ace, while Cous just got cut from the t- ball team. God usually toys with Cous and laughs at his feeble swings and basks in His own glory and feels great about being a Winner, but sometimes He gets bored. This is when He beans Cous in the face with his Godball.

the insertions very poor spaced syntax at throughout least writing structure there English better grammatical flute like big fuckin airplanes, contextualized confusion Ninja-force emotip is what happened, fortunately and unfortunately

2 if you’re having trouble taking this trite metaphorical leap to a perhaps not as trite place, schizophrize your thoughts, as in footnote 1. 80

Love Every time Brian licks his lips, he savors the flavor of Brian.

Some people think the universe runs on love. So I pose this challenge: pump your VW bus full of love, and see if that gets you to your next hippy concert. You’ll get arrested if you do it in public and in any case your VW bus isn’t going anywhere. What the world runs on is money, and oil. If you love your money, then yes, I suppose the world does run on love, albeit indirectly. Allow Us to revise the Beatles: “About18.5 percent (varying on your level of emotional neediness) of what you need is love.”

Brian hits his love quota the most efficient way possible by being in love with himself. With a mirror, he can spend hours reflecting on his love. It’s important to be a highly reflective person, and to keep that positive can-do attitude humming along, it’s important to only be reflective about your good qualities – thinking about your bad ones could potentially lead to deflated self-esteem and dents in your can-do-positive attitude. In Brian’s case, looks are the best thing to be self-reflective about, and so he spends his time with the mirror. Through the powers of self-reflection Brian had fallen deeply in love with himself. Brian loved Brian’s soft hazel eyes, and he loved Brian’s tan, muscular arms and his supple lower lip, all of which reflect back to him like a delicious, juicy treat that he could just suck on for hours. The people will always forgive Brian for his narcissism. They figured, you’d be in love with yourself too if you looked like him, especially the way he did after the 7th surgery, which was probably the highpoint, although the 9th did correct most of the damage done in the 8th. You know what they say – if you love something, put a ring on it! Diamonds are shiny, and forever, so Brian got himself a big-ass ring to symbolize his love and devotion

to himself. Worth 400 years of an average salary, it weighs in at 9 pounds 8 ozs. They actually had to weld diamonds together to make this thing, which is awesome because no body else has one and now his left ring finger is getting buff. More importantly it serves as a symbol to remind him of his one true love, and his devotion to that one true love, that one true love’s smile, and how he looks back at him his love is returned, completely. Brian knows this for certain, and he knows that his true love would do anything for him, including sexual things, which turns him on. This is why Brian through life with a permanent erection. Unlike Brian, Cous and the cripple have no understanding of the concept of love. Cous because he gives out so much love that he has nothing left for himself, while melvin is too ugly to understand love.

FACTS ABOUT SEX:

Brian is the most sexually active person in the history of the universe, having ejaculated 41,918 times in the year 2007 alone. Averaging upwards of 114.8 climaxes per day, Brian is a busy little boy! He spends much of his time making love to himself - Brian is the only one he makes love to – other sexual partners, he fucks – angry, bitter, hate fucks, because how dare they make Brian cheat on Brian?

Cous comes in a distant second in the sexual competition. Men, women and children alike were enthralled by the enigmatic Pain of the Universe™ that emanates from Cous’s bright green eyes. Cous obliges them, not out of bisexual urges but because it’s hard to tell “no.” It goes like this: “Cous, I find your bright green eyes so amazing and inspiring, do you mind if I spend just spend a few hours or so staring into them so I can absorb your energy and sense of infinite love?” say his admirers. “Sure,” Cous would say. With the Pain of the Universe™ involved, the situation would

invariably progress to sexual relations, an unsustainable sense of attachment and then inevitably doomed feelings Cous’s poor suffering neurotransmitters needed to believe was “love.” Brian made it his general rule of thumb to try to sleep with every girl Cous had any interest in. Are not all the affections of the universe rightfully his? As an American, you’re supposed to get what you want, and what Brian wants are the girls who want Cous.

This Book’s production committee briefly considered giving Cous some STD’s – as would be the natural order of things considering his lifestyle, but some readers might find that repulsive and it could hurt sales, and I’m really trying to maximize profit because someday I hope to own a golden replica of my left pectoral muscle. Brian, by his nature, has an immune system designed to carry and transmit every STD imaginable without experiencing any of their symptoms. That’s the great part about being the Creator of this Universe – I can give out STD’s and then immediately remove them, as seen in Diagram 2 below, just to match the individualized tastes of My readers – some want cultural icons with STD’s, like Magic Johnson and Paris Hilton, while others prefer heroes with genitalia squeaky clean from any disease. Either way you want it, you’ve got it, as the Fireworks and Sex! religion is here to please, more than any religion out there, you’ll find. Diagram 2:

Extreme close up of Cous’s genitalia options. A) with STD’s B) without STD’s Pick your favorite, the choice is yours!

melvin is a virgin, and will remain one for all of eternity. Somehow he still managed to catch every STD imaginable – this is the only thing he inherited from his mother, of whom little is known other than that tax records and arrest reports which listed her profession as “gutter skank,” before her timely death shortly after giving birth to the

cripple whose name We forget.

A Brief Chapter re: some of the Tail that Brian Pulls.

Brian is legendary in Fraternal lore for his epic exploitations of women. On top of his surgically perfected face and biochemically supplemented physique draped in all the hottest clothes and accessories, Brian also possesses the Charm of the Universe™, meaning he’ll say what he has to say in a way that gets him what he wants, with all words coming from a perfectly structured jaw. The Charm of the Universe™ makes women act like rabbits. This is what female rabbits say when they’re not in the mood for a sexual encounter: “I’m not ready for this stage in our relationship yet, ok, now I am.” “I’m too tired, oh never mind, I’m awake now.” “I have a headache, ok, it’s better now.”

Among others was a girl named Anne Coulter36. The two met in a bar one night and then went home to have dirty, dirty sex. Scholars believe the flames of their romance were kindled by their shared Conservative values. Here is a dialogue to use while playing these characters in your own homemade porno movies. In the following scene, Brian is ravishing Anne’s scrawny skeletal 52 year old body: Anne: Oh, yeah, give it to me, Daddy. Hit it. That’s the stuff, hit it harder, oh yeah, that’s so hot I’m about to crap myself.” Brian: Ooh, Mama. Who’s my dirty girl? Anne: (chewing off a scab) Now put on this Hitler mask and stick it in my two- hole.

36 Not to be confused with Right Wing media hack Ann Coulter 84

Like all relationships besides the one with his one true love, it had to come to an end. Their parting was based on one fundamental disagreement: Brian thought that abortions were ok, as long as you temporarily become a Muslim when you do it, while Anne felt that it was never ok to be a Muslim37. They agreed to disagree, but their relationship was downgraded to Fuck Buddies. So here’s the dialogue for a later scene in your homemade porno: Brian: Oh yeah, buddy. Anne: Give it to me, pal.

The Long-Lasting Relationship

Tracee met Brian when he was running on a beach with the wind blowing through his hair. He stopped when he saw her bright red thong. “Hi,” he said, “my name’s Brian. I work out. Check out my triceps – that’s a pretty nice tricep, huh?” “Yes,” she said, “it is.” Then Brian told her about his pectorals and his deltoids and his trust fund and the two went behind the sand dunes to mate. The mating was good – so good, in fact, that they mated again. She thought it would be nice to make their mating a habit, which worked out for Brian, who’d lie on his back with his hands behind his head and make her do all the work. It was easier than making love to himself – Brian can be quite demanding, and it takes a lot to please him. With this new girl, Brian didn’t have to worry about anything. He loved her because he didn’t give a damn about her, which made her perfect. He loved and didn’t give a damn about her smile, and he loved and didn’t give a damn about her bright blue eyes, which sparkle with the beauty of a fresh winter snow. When you’re in love, it makes you open your heart and share your inner self. That’s why he’d even tell this girl before he slipped her roofies. Brian’s girls must be roofied. There is no other way.

37 Had Brian considered her perspective, he may have agreed, but we all know how Brian (and Anne!) feels about listening to the opinions of women 85

Brian was so filled with emotions over his undying bond of love that he ordered Me to write a poem about it:

****Undying Love*****

I worked hard for the undying love. Spent money, acted nice all the time. I earned it, so it’s mine now, damnit. The best thing is, it’s undying, So I no longer have to worry about it. It’s not like it’s going to die!

I keep mine locked up in a box, so it can’t escape. I used to store it under my bed, but the little bastard kept whimpering, so I moved it to the basement.

If I catch another one, I’ll put them together and watch them fight.

The winner gets to do my laundry. *****************************************************************

Brian seamlessly executed his Strategic Plan to achieve victory in the relationship. She was beautifully subservient, and their relationship went swimmingly, for the most part, except for the time he was forced to kill her dog because it had been taking some of her love that was rightfully his.

Here is a conversation they had once: “I refuse to play your games,” Brian said sternly. “But all I did was blink, sweetheart,” she said, “I’m not trying to play games with you.” “Don’t lie to me, woman.” Brian shouted “You’re just like Eve, with your evil woman- schemes.” “I’m sorry, baby,” she said, cuddling up to him, “I didn’t realize….” “I’m horny,” said Brian. After the rough sex, Brian had her say prayers to repent for her wrongdoings. “And while you’re at it,” he yelled from the living room, “pray me up a pony. If I don’t get a new pony by tomorrow, you’ll be sorry.” The outsourced prayers worked, and his terrified girlfriend ran to the store to purchase a pony for the love of her life. All good things have to end, though. Women eventually reach a point where they demand a long term commitment. She picked up Brian’s hand, caressed it gently and looked deep into his eyes. “I want to be with you forever,” she said, blinking sweetly. She held out a sparkling, 6 karat diamond engagement ring. Brian’s eyes lit up. Boy was that diamond shiny! She took his ring finger and tried to slip on the ring. However, it would go no further than the tip of his finger, and it fell off as soon as Brian moved his hand. There was no room for a commitment ring - Brian’s finger was already covered in the giant diamond engagement rings he had given himself. He looked down at his rings and reflected on his commitment to the one he loved, on his promise to do anything and everything for this one he loved, through sickness and health, through wealth and poorness (not that that would ever happen), etc. etc., he had made every sentimental vow lovers had ever made, and looking deeply into his eyes in the mirror while making them. And so he told her to pack her bags, then ordered her head shaved so no one else would want her and had her shipped off to a convent far away, where she would reside in purity until Brian needs a wife of the traditional kind (i.e. not himself) in order to become President.

A Brief Interlude:

Poems You Shall Base Your Life Upon.

This is the section where We slop Poetry into our giant pig trough of a Book. In most cases, the slightest trace of poetry will kill off all hope of future book sales because poetry is self-indulgent, detached from reality, and horrible - the Kevin Federline of art38. That’s why poetry doesn’t sell39, just like K-fed albums. Fortunately, like most aspects of the human condition, that doesn’t apply to Me – I can put poetry in My Book and it will still sell like hot cakes laced with crack40.

As far as I’m concerned, this is the greatest poem ever written: My heart beats flutteringly

With the exuberance of my soul. Drip. Drip. Drip. It splashes into a puddle – My soul, that is. Or perhaps it was my exuberance. Fuck it. Whatever it was, it reflected the moon, Which is beautiful, like a block of French cheese. Who’s horny?

38 Please note that K-fed is a new, multipurpose word being brought into the world by Myself and this Book. Its usage and etymology can be found in appendix K-fed.

39 With the exception of Maya Angelou, who has the Hallmark Channel. 40 Thanks to the non-linear and discontinuous interpretation of time that apply to this Book, Fireworks! Fireworks and Sex! is already a best seller in 48 countries! 88

Have some more poems, ya’ll. I like this one. It’s one of my firsts.41

Dust An old man sits on a plastic wooden bench, twisting his beard in long, sad loops as he watches his favorite pet slinky race up the steep slope of the mountain road, kicking up swirls of dust with each flip. This cloud drifts down through the adobe village, past an old lady scrubbing away at a porcelain ashtray, her knuckles white and swollen with arthritis. The dust floats through the lone stoplight, and does a double take at a sunbathing El Camino. A seductive look is returned by its sparkling headlights. The dust whips around the rusty car, and the two sloppily fornicate. Their kids come out confused, just like you. ******************************************************

I was going to show you a poem I wrote in my boxers with skidmarks42, but instead We’ll go with this one:

*QUINTESSENTIAL ANTELOPE*

My quintessential antelope hops, I’m not sure why, it might

41Actually more like my third, or maybe my 15th if you count the crap I wrote when I was a kid, but it sounds more impressive to say “one of my firsts.”

42 this poem reads something like this: ======89

have something to do with confusion and the overacademicamizing beyond my meadow of understanding, where flowers wilt like the sad sex you call your lives, sometimes I

eat swiss cheese and smear it all over my existential existence only to realize I have transcended being and become your sister, whose naked body I’m smearing with cheese, by the way, but moot point, that’s her business, an awkward topic, a topical discussion but not an antiliptical transvaluation, to use stereotyptical terminogistics for you synaptikids.

But anyway,

The plutocratically simplistic antelope hops on, if you must know why we can create reasons from Adam and Eve to biological treasons, but mostly cuz the dictionary’s mine, bitch,

I choose to abuse it though it does remain bruiseless, even when considered in wiccan or sourcerogistical terms but that’s a whole new can of worms, not like Teddy Rumpskin, true carrier of Jesus Spirit™.43

Ouch! What the fuck is a quintessential antelope? This is the kind of shit that develops when you’re locked up in an ivory tower in Poetry Land, with nothing to do but inbreed with other poets, creating little inbred poetic monstrosities. Now

43 Love me, pet me, are we trying to train child molesters? 90

I’ve put this poem in My Book so everyone can gawk at it like the freak show that it is.

The problem with poetry is it doesn’t recognize the attention deficient nature of the American mind. It also doesn’t seem to grasp that we are a nation of shallow idiots.

We, however, have come to an honest recognition of the limitations of this thing that we refer to as “poetry.” This will happen when one attends grad school for that thing that we call “poetry.” One thing poetry doesn’t have is a single ounce of common courtesy, being that “poetry” would prefer you be moping and miserable sitting in a corner not speaking so “poetry” will flow out of you and onto pages and not really make sense but because it is “poetry” it doesn’t have to, all it needs is a pretentious theoretical background or “poetics” that don’t make sense but who cares, you can’t prove it wrong so therefore the “poetry” is good and just and beautiful and righteous and true, it has meter and rhyme “poetry” and imagistic sensibilities that beautifully express the inner soul and human “poetry” condition even though no one can understand what the fuck you’re trying to “poetry” say, actual communication is second to form and besides if no one knows “poetry” what you’re talking about it only makes your soul that much more beautiful and “poetry” profound which means your life is not so petty and meaningless, you have your “poetry” and the rest of the cruel world is too insensitive to understand the divine nature “poetry” of your inner essence, why don’t you mope about that for a little while? Well, “poetry,” the truth of the matter is that “poetry” will punch you in the testicles every “poetry” time you smile. It would prefer you to mull over trivial little miseries and tiny “poetry” meaningless sensibilities like meter and rhyme and symmetry so that the word “poetry” can line itself up in neat little patterns of imagistic significance (wow a line, isn’t “poetry” so profound!? In other cases, when we’re reaching for even more profound “poetry” of incomprehensibility, we’ll claim it’s representative of something like a “poetry”

balloon or a dirigible, with it’s floating and fleeting nature, and it doesn’t matter “poetry” that you don’t know what I’m talking about, the important thing is that my “poetry” forms a neat little vertical line, but now I’m even going to destroy and subvert that here at the very end although I still feel Our little block of “poetry” drips with artistic integrity like a leaky bladder.

Now base your lives on a Sonnet, for it is made of Words in a Religious Text:

Sonnet on Sonnets

The form controls every line that I write

I keep my thoughts shallow like M.T.V,

as long as it’s rhyming, it can be trite.

Form may be grueling, but now I can see

ten syllables give readers orgasms.

Men cream their pants from this written handjob,

while women read, then break out in spasms.

I, by the way, find a corner and sob,

the pleasure I’ve caused makes me feel dirty.

I give it out to anyone who reads, poem’s used up like whores over thirty.

Keep a copy for your sexual needs.

Ten beats per line make the language so rich,

It’s hot and sexy, now say my name, bitch.

Bonus Porn!

That’s right, you’ve won! Now is your chance to be rewarded with a brief synapse from the pornographical film Pounding in Poundtown, starring Jenna Jamislut and some mediocre looking guy who plays into the fantasies of average looking men everywhere. To prove a point of I’m not sure what, the character of Rico the gardener will now be referred to as Jesus, while Jenna shall be renamed “The Virgin Mary”:

So Jesus is gardening at The Virgin Mary’s mansion. Her husband is out of town for work, and she’s feeling lonely. It’s awful hot outside, so The Virgin Mary decides to bring Jesus a glass of iced tea. “It sure is hot out,” says Jesus, wiping sweat from his brow. “You make it even hotter,” says the Virgin Mary. They embrace and kiss passionately. His hands cup and squeeze her buttocks. Within moments, Jesus’s love rod is plowing into the Virgin Mary’s fertile crescent.

Does this mean I can’t be President? If so, it’s proven a point. Perhaps you’ve got the explicit, sacrilegious picture forming in your mind of Jesus and the Virgin Mary doing missionary work that may or may not convert pagans to Christianity. This is your fault. All We did was write Words. You’re the one thinking perverted and sacrilegious thoughts, which you wouldn’t even have to feel bad about if you’d just hurry up and convert to My new religion. Or, perhaps you’re horny now, My sexually deviant little reader friend! In this case, We have a touching poem for you. I hope it touches you as much as I touch Myself.

****Masturbate with this poem.****

Rub this poem on your crotch, roll it in a tube, crumble it up, use lube, make squishy sounds like stirring macaroni and cheese. fuck holes in it, I don’t care, if you’re already that far in, you won’t need My instructions anymore.

My poem make you come you remember it My poem make you almost come but not quite, you tried your best but paper not soft enough you still remember it. My poem give you tiny little orgasm no earth shattered not even pebbles moved you definitely remember it.

Other poems get forgotten like condoms on your last hooker-run, their existence denied like that rash

which is really no big deal but JESUS IT BURNS LIKE THE FIRES OF HELL and why’d you have to pick that one? Couldn’t you tell she was dirty?

You needed a poem to love.

*****************************************************************

Now you can lay back, light up a cigarette, and put your arm around the soggy and shredded fragments of Fireworks! Fireworks and Sex! You can feel a connection to it, a deep emotional bond. Perhaps it is love.

This Book, however, does not return your sentiments. It doesn’t even know who the fuck you are. Get a girlfriend.

(or, the new, friendlier option for increased conversion for Our over-sensitive reader) and this Book returns your sentiments completely! It’s even willing to cuddle afterward, boy oh boy are you getting great value out of $14.95 or what? It might even be ready for round 2, if you didn’t tear it up with all your lovins on the first time go around. Try to find a religion that goes that far to satisfy your needs.

Pre-emptive Measures to Assure Critical Acclaim

To the literary critics out there, which is everyone now that it’s become a New Media World, to you I say this: get a real job.

Like writing glowing reviews of My Book. Reviews that sing its praise and stroke its scrotum ever-so-gently, in a metaphorical sense. Reviews that pimp it to the masses and make them buy 3 copies each, plus all the spin off products. Critics who do that, you have an honorable profession, and this chapter doesn’t apply to you.

Critics and Artistic Pie

Critics become critics because they hate art, and through criticism they have a chance to destroy it. To put this into perspective, let’s use this picture of an adorable, cuddly little baby to represent art:

Awww, don’t you just want to scratch it under the chin and feed it some candy?

What a critic would enjoy is smashing its head on a sidewalk.

You see, critics judge things – as if they were preachers!

If a critic could get a boner he’d deconstruct this personal yet social construct and analyze the reasons supporting his erection and reflect on the way nipples appeal to the maternal desires of man, an important theme first put forth in the Odyssey (or something, I don’t know, jesus, leave me alone) then he’d look down and realize he doesn’t have a boner anymore.

Critics criticize and ostracize artists’ artistic pies, in hopes that the weaker pies shall shrivel and die, giving rise to superior pies. When they’re done, you’re supposed to say, “I’m sorry my art is wrong. Thank you for telling me what is good.”

***experts use big words*** to stamp expertise on their fantasies.

Blinded by the PHD you believe the shit they heave so long as it sticks to preconceived beliefs.

All this talk of literary critics is moot anyway. I don’t write literature, I write religions.

Me??!!! Nominated for Poet Laureate of the Entire Universe!!?? You shouldn’t have! Well, ok gee, I’ll accept. No no no, I don’t see the position conflicting with My duties as the New American Messiah – they’re practically the same job, you know – the work I do as Messiah can be used for the Laureate position, and vice versa. My honorable opponent in this esteemed competition: the great Poet and former Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld, who's brilliant wordsmithing has helped bring about the start of some very profitable44 wars.

Plot?

So here We are, over half way through the Book, and I really can’t say We have any kind of cohesive plot. I’m not sure what I should make happen right now. I guess I’ll go to the bars. It’s what Cous would do. . . .

The bars had no plot. They never do. Should I give up? Will this great American novel not be great? Will We not be able to launch a new religion and get rich? Of course We can. God is on My side, and hopeless optimism keeps the American dreamscape shiny. When the times get tough, the un-tough write poems. Here is one I wrote about inspiration, or a lack thereof:

**********Inspiration***********

The pen won’t move until a deadline wraps around my toothpaste tube mind and squeezes out its crusty insides.

44 Profitable for Secretary Rumsfeld 99

Today nothing comes out. All I want is a shiny new poem, take my ideas and brush them over it, make it shinier than your poem.

But my thoughts are fermented with finely malted hops, the gently gyrating hips of erotic exotic hula girls, pearls dripping down their necks FedEx from that jewelry store located in my testicles.

That’s all I can find in this tube-mind of mine- I am shallow, shallow, shallow, shallow dirty empty and perverse. Even when I crush my head between my hands, try to wring out that profoundly inspirational thought, squeeze with all my might and bash it against the wall, all I get is a butterfly, and that butterfly is constipated.

I have no chance at a shiny poem. My only hope is to spew out a bunch of shit Fling it all over your poem, make mine shinier by comparison ****************************

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Courtesy Calls

No one seems to read anymore, and My Book wasn’t selling like I’d planned. To get it moving a bit, I began making courtesy calls to strangers in the phone book. I recorded and transcribed one of these conversations so I could fill up some more space in My Book.

“Hello?” “Hi. This is Dave Rothfuss. Would you like to buy My Book?” “Excuse me?” “Yeah, My Book. Wanna buy it? I spent a long time writing it. The least you could do is buy a few copies.” “Um, I’m in the middle of dinner…” “Now don’t get me wrong, I’m sure your nourishment and time with your family are very important, but I’m going to have to ask you to be a little less self- centered and buy My book. How many copies do you want?” The customer hung up, so I called him back. Then he hung up again, so I called him back again, and so forth. Somewhere around the 9th courtesy call I informed him that it would be much cheaper and easier to just buy a copy of My Book than to change his phone number. “Think about the time you’ll save – you’d have to get in touch with all your friends and relatives and acquaintances and tell them your new contact info – and I do know where you live – and that’s not even counting the intangibles – you might forget to inform some contacts, and can you really put a price on losing a friend? And how would your children feel about moving? Quite traumatic at such a young age – and they won’t blame me – they don’t even know who I am – you’re the one who’s prying them away from all their friends, uprooting them from the only home they’ve ever known to transplant them somewhere else – and I’ll be able to find you anyway. If you add on future psychiatric fees, I’m offering you quite a savings.”

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After this, he put a block on my phone, which forced me to use different lines. Fourteen courtesy calls later he agreed to buy a copy. It was either because of My growing literary legend or the threats I made re: his daughter. “Great,” I said, “just give me your credit card number, expiration date, security verification number, home address, social security number… oh yeah, and what’s your mother’s maiden name?” At this point he got suspicious, and started complaining about something he called “identity theft.” I scoffed “Identity theft? Are you kidding Me? Do you know who the fuck I am? I’m David fucking Rothfuss – I wrote a book. Why the hell would I want to be you? I’m quite happy with my own identity, thanks.” He hung up without giving Me the information I needed to take the money I needed to save his soul. It’s a real problem in today’s society, this fundamental lack of trust.

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Back to Cous

So Cous was sitting around, floating through life and whatnot, feeling sad and lonely in a religious text that still didn’t have a plot. We assure you that at all times he looked cool and tragically romantic. Other than that, I’m still not sure what he should do at this specific moment in time. Perhaps I should just kill him off, right now. Perhaps his constant feelings of pain, suffering, loneliness and inner sadness are just too unbearable, so he’ll spontaneously burst into flames. Or perhaps he could attempt to feed a dove (the symbol of peace) that is perched on the roof of a 17 story building, but lose his balance and fall 214 feet to the street corner, where he’s impaled on a stop sign. God is sorry, but shit happens. When Cous died, the grief of the masses was notable. Their combined grief would have been enough to move mountains, should the need arise. The need did not arise, and the mountains were left to be. The combined grief of the masses dissipated over time, and God stored it in His giant vat of wasted human emotions. When He stirs it, it forms soap operas. Shortly after Cous died, there was a grand funeral, a glorious celebration of his life. The artistically inclined Cous wrote the program himself, and like Me, it is his nature to make a mockery out of difficult situations.

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This is Cous’s Funeral. Let It Be Mine:

A limo filled with Amish people rolled up to join the mourning. Some Mormons also came to mourn. That morning the mourning Mormons mourned, but not as hard as the Quakers, who quaked with mourning more than the Mormons quaked, being that Mormons do their mourning with little quaking. Some other religious folks showed up, wearing strange hats, because somehow strange hats give them an innate and sublime understanding of God. Those who wore strange hats mourned, and they warned of the inevitable coming of something or other - perhaps it was an apocalypse. But we don’t want to think about that right now. Now is the time to mourn for Cous. The people were sad. They sniffled and cried and blew snot into little tissues. We told you Cous was a tragic hero. Sandy, the obese nurse with the oral fetish who had helped deliver him as a baby, was quite a hit at the funeral, having brought several boxes of Puffs Ultra-Soft Tissues enriched with lotion.45 These tissues are like pillows for your nose and the people appreciated them greatly. Their appreciation gave Sandy the opportunity to satisfy her oral fetish in a way that made her even more of a hit. Dear Reader, take this moment to reflect on our own mortality and approaching death! Think about how fleeting life is. Don’t you want to take advantage of it, while you still can? Now have sex with whoever is closest to you, just like Sandy did to everyone at Cous’s funeral. Sixty-three pall bearers crowded around Cous’s coffin. Dressed in high heels and tutus, there were some issues with them tripping over each other’s feet. The pall bearers were followed by a vomiting poodle, which coated the funeral trail with poodle vomit. This was its role: to vomit. Cous had included the poodle in the ceremony to represent the unsustainable excesses of the American Dream. Someone had obviously fed that poodle way too much Brie cheese and Caviar.

45 Good people of Kimberly-Clark, these Puffs could easily be changed to Kleenex should you wish to invest in this unique sponsorship opportunity. 104

When the procession reached the Slip ‘n Slide that lead to the grave, something went wrong. One of the pallbearers was crushed under the coffin, and Cous’s rotting corpse spilled out onto the ground. Some body parts fell off, and the people gagged on the scent of formaldehyde. Still, his intentions were good. After they shoveled the corpse back into the coffin, the marching band began to play. This was not a typical marching band, marching in line with uniforms hiding identities. Cous would not stand for that kind of fascism. He had ordered a marching band of individuals who would express themselves in whatever way they pleased. Some of them blew sporadically into their horns, or drums, playing Bach, Sousa, Wooly-Bully and the Star Trek theme song, all at once. Most had set down their instruments in favor of masturbation. Later, some of the midgets Cous had befriended over his lifetime stepped up to the tiny little podium to give eulogies. While their words were moving and poetic, these words were overshadowed by the novelty of them being midgets. It’s just one of those things that never gets old. They said deep, moving, stirring and profound things, words that changed the life outlooks of all who heard them. Here, we bring you a transcription of the eulogy one midget wrote for Cous. It is written in wingdings, because that is how midgets talk:

                                 

A different, taller speaker disagreed, stating that incomprehensible circularity is not necessarily inherent in the self-actualization process. The midget responded, and I quote:

“     

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                                            

The masses scratched their chins in contemplation of this esteemed and respected midget’s insights. It was clear that he had just broken new boundaries in modern thought. Many scholars credit his words with expanding humanity’s conception of reality and the human condition, and some even go so far as to predict that this statement has single- handedly paved the pathway for the next 1200 years of human thought and development. Next, a half-retarded, half-black, half-Native American midget came to the tiny little podium. He said some stuff, but we won’t record it here. The important thing to note is that this Book considers and respects the opinions of all people, no matter how small, ethnic and retarded they may be. The festivities ended when the funeral’s keynote speaker, author Dave Rothfuss, approached the podium to say a few kind words about our hero Cous. Dave looked amazingly buff in his legendary yellow sweatshirt, his bulging chest a testament to his three hundred pound bench press max, at least according to the projection charts. His legendary yellow sweatshirt had recently been upgraded with purple wine stains (as they say, the stains make the man). It’s also important to note that this sweatshirt holds important life lessons, which can be learned in Appendix C. Dave’s poorly hidden 3rd person cameo appearance was interrupted when a herd of beautiful women charged the podium and demanded sex with the irresistibly handsome speaker. Here the great American novel shall trail off, because I don’t go into detail about my sex life… Without a doubt, Cous had put the fun in funeral.

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Why the Extreme Grief? People were sad because had become famous. That’s one of the perks of fame – people actually care when you die. At his peak, Cous was so famous he could have almost become president. It’s true – at one point, Cous, Our main character, was big enough that he could have almost become President of the United States of America, had he decided to run. Of course he wouldn’t have actually won – he’s far too inherently fucked for that, and he knows it, so he didn’t bother trying. His name was never on the ballot, but he did receive quite a few write-in votes, from anarchists and hippies like Steven, who were trying to make a point about the futility of democracy. While those votes did not catapult Cous into office, had a few things happened differently, he could have almost been elected president. Cous would have been a great candidate to almost win Presidential elections because he had tremendous oratory abilities, when he was manic. His words would rise and fall, speed up and twist around and stop on a dime only to regain speed and loop back around to his original point. Hearing him speak was a roller coaster ride through the Theme Park of Universal Joy. In fact, his speeches were so good that they didn’t even have to make sense, or contain anything of substance. Somehow, his words could simultaneously evoke images of a childhood ice cream cone in one listener, while stirring up thoughts of racial injustice in another. A third would be returned to the good ol’ days on the farm. I’m not going to spend the next 30 pages explaining the metaphysics of all this but suffice it to say the people would hear what they want to hear. On the days Cous wasn’t manic, he could barely talk, except for an occasional whimper. The Pain of the Universe™ does not make one chatty. On these days, he could not have almost become president. He has a few other almost-presidential qualities. For one, the ultra sensitive nature that allowed him to empathize with others at an extremely high level. The people knew that he really did feel their pain, because, at its slightest mention, his lips would begin quivering and the pre-cry snot would drip from his nose. This is a very presidential quality,

107

now that crying is not only acceptable but expected. And his inherent unselfishness46 gives him an uncanny talent for kissing babies. Because he isn’t concerned with his own suffering, he’s able to kiss the ugliest and smelliest of babies, even if they’re coated in liquid baby shit, piss, or vomit. Had he entered a presidential race, he would have almost certainly defeated any opponent in the baby kissing portion of the campaign and gone on to barely lose the election.

Cous’s Hypothetical Presidency

Had Cous become president, which he didn’t, melvin would have been his right hand man, using his Plan for the Universe to create enlightened, solution driven policy. Meanwhile, it would have been Cous’s job to keep the media’s interest so the people would actually pay attention and stay engaged in the vibrant, inclusive democracy that would have existed had Cous become President. Here is some media coverage that would have occurred had the Cous administration been elected to office: “What am I gonna do next?” Cous said to the media, waving his fingers in the air. “You don’t know what to expect, I’m loco.” The media said ooooh and ahhh and baselessly speculated on what Cous would do next. The Pain of the Universe™ radiated off him with all its artistic beauty – the nation was mesmerized, and he could say pretty much anything he wanted, within reason and common human decency. “All this stuff, with politics and the media, is a big game for me, a hilarious joke,” Cous continued, “the issues at stake, however, are not.” “What are those issues?” asked a reporter. “I’m not really sure,” said Cous, “I zoned out while the advisors were explaining them – I have this thing called A.D.D. My friend can tell you.”

46 Polling showed that Cous’s inherent unselfishness resonated with 48.6% of the population; with the remaining 51.4% viewing him as too much of a hippy and a sissy. 108

The cripple began stuttering about the issues and proposing his groundbreaking solutions, all worked out to the finest details. His policies would have solved everything. Nobody cared, and the reporters left to go cover a dog show. But Cous never ran, so presidential politics have little to do with the tremendous funeral he got when he died. He figured why race, when you can just be? He would have lost anyway, because the concept of God blessing America baffles him.

The Election of Brian

The concept of God blessing America makes perfect sense to Brian, and he repeated this catch phrase 378,456 times over the course of his presidential campaign. He also spoke of eagles and pretty colors, which include red, white and blue. He’d often mention that America is a free country, which is debatable, although it is not a debate politicians are free to have. Because elections exist in the metaphorical realms of both war and beauty pageants, Brian was made for them. His campaign platform was based loosely around the concept of “Freedom,” (more on that later), but in all actuality centered around the fact that he’s good looking and charming. One campaign ad played a love song and showed footage of him on a sailboat, being tan. He looked into the camera and smiled with all the grace of God; behind him the American Flag waved bravely in the wind. In case you didn’t notice, his baby-blue eyes matched his shirt. Another ad showed a clip of children riding ponies and eating ice cream. Then a big bad wolf came and tried to attack them, but Brian whacked it with his giant star-spangled aluminum baseball bat. The crack of the bat was timed perfectly with a cymbal crash in the Star Spangled Banner, which was the background music. Later, when the big bad wolf actually came, Brian locked the children in a cage, where they would be safe. Brian preached a simple, dumb-downed message that people could understand.

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Really dumbed down. So dumb the American people could understand it. The campaign’s philosophy was expressed in a chant that began at campaign rallies and spread throughout bar rooms and frat houses across America Many scholars give it credit for ultimately catapulting him into the White House:

America good! Freedom - Huah! Vote Brian, yeeha!

To nail down that presidential image, Brian exchanged the ring he’d given himself for the ring of a woman who was not himself, resulting in a traditional American marriage. In this case he didn’t consider it cheating because it was for his own greater good. The First Trophy Wife was a model for all American women to look up to. She helped the world by saying kind, compassionate, and encouraging things to and about poor, starving hopeless people, especially children. She also directed nice and kind verbalizations towards retards and ethnic people. While saying the nice things that she said, she’d wear lovely outfits and the setting would always be picturesque, like in front of a meadow or a stream or a playground filled with ethnic children, or maybe even retarded ethnic children, and she’d beam an All-American smile that tell the people everything’s fine, the American Dream is alive and well. Somehow, Brian managed to appeal to the working man. While he was yet to so much as think a thought about working a day in his life, he did wear work boots, because image is everything. Brian’s image made him the hardest working man in America. At his victory parade, confetti rained down upon the people. It was made from the shredded voter registration cards of blacks and other minorities.

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President Brian and Our New! Redefined Freedom™

“I respect your methods, and your dedication, it’s just that your basic premise is off. You should be killing for Jesus.” - President Brian, to the Islamo-Fascist terrorists.

God and I couldn’t have ordained a better leader. You see, Brian sees the big picture of the American dream. In this big picture, Brian’s vision zooms in to focus on this one tit. That titty is awesome! Brian wants to lick it, but he can’t because it’s only a picture, so instead he just stares at it and ignores the rest of the American dreamscape. The important thing is that he’s looking at the big picture, and he has the willpower and the smarts to not even try and lick it. Over the course of his reign, the concept of “freedom” was changed. Scholars credit this to Brian using the term so many times in so many different contexts that it lost all its meaning. When his reforms came into full effect, the people were free to march for freedom with a gun to the back of their heads, two abreast in perfectly straight lines with perfectly synchronized steps. After the parade and flag waving ceremonies they’d return to their 114 hour work weeks in Brian’s sweatshops, where they worked so they wouldn’t have to starve. The important thing was that they had Freedom™. With his usual good business sense, Brian had purchased the trademark rights to the word, so the people owed him money every time they exercised free will. After Freedom and his bold vision of an Ownership Society enslaved everyone, the Blue Skies Act passed, which, rhetorically speaking, makes the sky bluer. With individual ownership of the air, the people would now keep it clean. Or fuck it up. The choice was theirs – that’s what’s so great about Freedom™. Becoming President was a monumental upgrade to Brian’s life-long game of GI- Joe. Because he started so many wars that caused so much death, Brian embraced the Culture of Life to keep things balanced. I bet you can’t guess which political party he belongs to! The entire military-industrial complex came to be focused on Brian’s

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international game of G.I. Joe. He was making the world his bitch, penetrating countries with his missiles, which would explode inside of them. Why hippies can’t appreciate the sexual satisfaction inherent in war is beyond Me. Fortunately, rhetorically speaking no one died in Brian’s wars because they changed word “die” to “attrite” in all official media releases, while body bags came to be known as“transportation tubes.47” The only thing we’d really hear about was the color of the flowers at the personnel remembrance ceremonies, which came in lovely, multi-colored bouquets. During campaign season, Brian talked about his commitment to spreading flowers, which are nice, and colorful. While the transportation tube factory worked on overdrive (which is good for the economy), the all-volunteer army began running out of soldiers. Fortunately, more and more people were becoming poor, so they had no choice but to volunteer. “Support the troops!” Brian always said. And he always did. After combat, many soldiers developed post traumatic stress syndrome. To cope, many turned to drugs. Using drugs is against military codes of conducts, so they were dishonorably discharged. Then they weren’t troops anymore, so they no longer needed to be supported. Brian’s whimsical sense of humor rubbed off on the whole defense department. Here was how they came to deliver certain sensitive pieces of new – using humor, to take the sting out of it: Knock knock. Who’s there? Not your son - he got run over by a tank. Whenever he talked about the war, Brian’s eyes would light up with joy, and he’d make gun shot and explosion noises with his mouth, often showering reporters at post- battle press conferences with spit. During one of his war games, some Marines went on a rampage, killing women, children, and civilians. The liberal media, in their spirit of anti- Americanism, tried to make a big deal out of it. Brian thought otherwise.

47 Actual Pentagon terminology 112

“They’re doing their job,” he said. “Marines are trained to kill, and that’s what they did.” Brian went on to congratulate them for “scoring lots of points.” Still, the liberal media questioned him about the validity and necessity of the lives lost. “That’s the point of war,” said Brian. “To kill. You win war by killing, and winning is what makes America great.” “But what if your bombs hit children?” some loony-leftist reporter asked. “Now, now, now,” said Brian, “let’s not speculate on hypothetical situations.” “It’s not speculation,” she said, taking out a map of the enemy territory. “There are orphanages surrounding the buildings you have targeted.” “Well maybe those orphans should take responsibility for their actions and move out of the way.” Shortly thereafter, the bombs fell and the irresponsible orphans got what was coming to them. The people were somewhat enraged, so Brian gave Cous a job in his administration. It was Cous’s job to apologize and express sincere regret for their mistakes. “I’m really sorry it had to work out that way,” Cous said to the cameras, his pained green eyes showing that yes, he was indeed sorry. “You heard him,” said Brian, ushering him off the stage. “Cous is sorry. It’s all better now, so we can get back to our war with those who wish to impede on our All-American swagger.”

Ascendancy to the Presidency

Brian first made his entrance into politics, with time being continuous, by purchasing a seat in Congress. It was a plush seat, of comfortable leather. The cow he killed for his plush leather Congressional seat was named Bessie, as stereotypical cows tend to be named. (This is why parents seldom name their daughters Bessie, these days.) Bessie was a sweet cow, with a heart filled with kindness. Then Brian skinned her and

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turned her into a chair. While in Congress, Brian had hot tub parties with tons of chicks and champagne and beer bongs and a guy at the door who’d say, “brothers of the Republican fraternity only, no other guys allowed.” In the mornings Brian would have to vote. Brian always said “No!” because he didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about. Also, because he’s a strong leader. With his first piece of legislation, Brian made rainbows illegal. There was something about the diffraction of sunlight through water particles that was leading to the decay of family values. Another piece of Brian’s legislation required women to wear high heels that cut into their feet like the rusty nails of hell, and also look sexy. He also began a program of converting schools into prisons. “Why waste money on educating people,” he said, “if they’re just going to end up in jail anyway?” He never had taken too kindly to the whole learning thing – that was for leftist-liberal-academic elitists. He also developed a public service announcement ad campaign to make a direct appeal directly to the people, defending the sport and business of whaling. These ads showed pictures of killer whales eating cute, fuzzy baby seals. The ad ended with the tagline, “Save the whales?” Brian had to defend whaling against the hippies because he knew that he might someday have to slay a giant white whale to make sure this book is a great American novel. Later, at Cous’s funeral, in attendance were all the members of the organization that used to be known as Save the Whales, back when there were whales to save. So how did Cous earn such a tremendous funeral? Read on and We’ll tell you.

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Book 3: Big Time

How did Cous go from having nohing to being so famous that he would have narrowly lost a presidential election had he decuded to run? It all came together when I was having trouble coming up with a plot again. Just when I thought all hope was lost, again, a Man in the Yellow Hat came and gave Us a plot. In the plot, something happened. After something happened, the plot went swimmingly. Things were great, and My Book spiraled toward stardom, providing a new! and improved sense of morality for all who read it. Sales shot through the roof, and Cous made it big as an international star. Shortly thereafter, he received a Nobel prize, because being ethnic was in that season, and the committee recognized what a great product the Pain of the Universe™ is and they wanted to show their appreciation for all it could potentially do for humankind and world peace, and even if Cous’s good deeds were only theoretical and abstract it was still enough for a Nobel with affirmative action in play. With My Book a solid bestseller, out came the spin-off products. We slapped the Fireworks and Sex! brand name on everything, from toasters to dildos to baby carriages and intoxicating beverages and audio gear, so you can see it and remember how to behave. The children of American began playing with Cous, melvin and Brian sock puppets. Whoever got stuck being the melvin puppet would end up with broken, bear-mauled fingers, which teaches children this important life lesson: don’t side with the underdog.

Getting Rich

After Cous made it big, money started coming. It kept coming and coming and coming, like a spliced money shot scene in a porno movie. This confused Cous. Why did money keep coming, now that he had plenty? Why didn’t it come earlier, when he was

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starving? The money piled up in his living room, an enormous mountain of twenties and tens and hundreds and fives and ones and fifties, because he was too anti-establishment to use a bank. Cous just looked at it glumly and felt the Pain of the Universe™.

Therapy

One perk of being bigtime was that Cous had money to spend on luxuries, like psychiatric treatment. “I don’t get it” Cous told the therapist, “I’m supposedly doing so well – famous, loved by the people, making tons of money – the whole American Dream is in my hands. Yet it still hurts like hell just to exist.” “Hmmmm,” said the therapist. “I get wasted constantly, just to cope. It seems my whole life is made up of vicious cycle of drinking, drugs, drinking, drugs, unprotected sex with strangers, drinking, and more drugs. Everyone seems to take such joy in getting me wasted, and I never want to let them down. It seems like the whole world is filled with enablers.” The therapist said, “Hmmmm.” Cous described a night of drinking and drug abuse to his therapist: “After a night of drinking and drug abuse, we came to a sort of transient, metaphysical Denny’s, where my cigarette burned like a suppository.” “Suppositories burn?” asked the therapist. “They did there, within the context of my hallucinatory metaphor. The thing was, I looked around at all my friends and I realized that I’d never met any of them before, yet they’re exactly the same as all my other friends.” “Hmm,” said the therapist. “Very interesting. That’ll be $400.” “I mean, what’s that say? Are people really that unoriginal and indistinguishable, or am I self absorbed and detached just for thinking that?”

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“hmmmhhmmm” “Then there was that time at a rave in the desert, when for a moment I could touch my own soul, just how the Messiah told Me I would when I was a kid….and after that it was gone forever.” The therapist tapped his watch. “My services don’t grow on trees, you know,” he said, “it’s $400, unless you’d like to buy more time.” Cous wrote out the check. “Does this mean my emotional problems are solved?” “Sure,” said the therapist, “whatever.” The Pain of the Universe™ was beyond the scope of his limited training, and there was nothing he could do to help. Cous is far too profound an enigma. Later, he talked to the cripple, and got some helpful advice for free. “You see,” he explained, “you’re ultra sensitive, and you have an extremely low threshold for pain. But this doesn’t cause you to avoid pain, because you’re inherently unselfish. You live off of hope, yet your Idealistic Utopian Dream is so ridiculous and hopeless that it will inevitably get trampled wherever it goes, and it doesn’t even allow you to fight back. “ “Man,” said Cous, “What can I do?” “Well,” said melvin, “maybe you should try becoming emotionally detached like me. If feelings suck, don’t feel them anymore…Also, you’ve got to realize that you can’t please everyone.” “Really?” asked Cous. “Yeah, it’s true, unfortunately. You’ve always tried to, but it’s impossible. When people have competing interests, you try to please whoever is closest. Later, you get an earful from the displeased person who had been farther away, so you take the opposite course of action just to please him. It’s like running around, back and forth and in circles, and it’s crippling you.” “I’m crippled?” asked Cous. “We all are, in one way or another” said melvin, “we’ve just got to adapt as best as we can.”

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Specifics

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” says my whiney and demanding reader. “How can Cous just instantly change from a hopeless orphan who has nothing into a rich and famous international star, just because some fairy-godmother-like man in a yellow hat shows up and makes it happen? What the hell kind of plot is that?” “It’s got to be justified,” said the focus group, “this isn’t Disney.” If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that focus groups are always right. So here is what happened: It all began on a day that was not worth living – a standard day, for Cous. But on this day, the man with the yellow hat showed up and gave him hope. The yellow hat was not necessarily yellow, nor was it necessarily even a hat. Such is the enigmatic nature of this Book. Whether or not he was a man is up for debate, and irrelevant, as debates tend to be. But the important thing is that Cous had hope, and the great thing about hope is that it represents a peak, a highpoint for him to inevitably fall from. Here is the scene We shall use to re-introduce this very important character. Enter: man in the yellow hat. Smoke swirls around him mysteriously. “You’re the revolution, Cous,” he said “How so?” asked Cous. “Well, it’s likely that your friend Melvin is the greatest genius of your generation,” he said, “And those glowing green eyes of yours – they could make people follow you off a cliff, if you use them right. The Pain of the Universe™ is a top notch product, you know.” “Really?” says Cous. “I didn’t know that.” “Yeah – it makes for great artistic creations.” “Hmmm….It’s weird – before you, everyone told me I was wasting my time with art – that I should get a real job, as if there’s no role for it in our society” “That’s ridiculous. Of course there’s a role for art in society,” says the man in the

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Yellow Hat, “it’s a status symbol. Rich people can own it and further enhance their sense of self-importance. Tons of profit potential. Here- take these painting supplies, and musical instruments.” “Thanks,” says Cous. “Now just sign right here on this dotted line….yup, right there, and date, thank you. Well, time for you to get started. I’ve got an appointment to catch, I’ll see you around.” “Wait!” said Cous. “Gotta run – lots of work to do, wearing this yellow hat and all. Good luck, and don’t forget that the entire revolution rests on your shoulders!” Now that Cous had been declared The Revolution, he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Nervous energy began building up as he pondered his new vast responsibility. Would he be a successful revolution, or just another run of the mill, everyday revolution? For the first time, his life had purpose, and the thing about purposes is they give you reasons to stop stewing on your own inner misery. Cous’s manic-depressive disorder began to lean more toward the manic side.

The Manic Gear

The Man in the Yellow Hat continued to stop by on occasion. He’d always bring something helpful, like books that clarified the ways of the universe for timmy, and sets of uplifting motivational tapes that prevented Cous from killing himself. He also gave Cous some pain relief medication48. timmy absorbed the books, at the rate of about ten per day (that handy-tard can read!) – he was becoming an expert on nearly everything. Cous took the little pills, just like he’d taken every other drug anyone had ever given him.

48 The specific brand of this pain reliever is to be determined by the pharmaceutical company takes advantage of this unique sponsorship opportunity. In fact, we can make you the title sponsor for our entire Pain of the Universe™ line of products, services, clothing, and marketing events/religious revivals. Be in touch, Pharmaceutical Industry! 119

“You’ll still feel the Pain of the Universe™, but it’ll be bareable now.” he said, “And quit taking all those other drugs. It’s ok to say ‘no,’ you know?” “Really?” asked Cous. “And Goddamn it Melvin, start capitalizing your name – just because you’re ugly doesn’t mean you’re not a person.” Then he wound up and smacked him, a backhand that caught him in the mouth and rattled his head, fixing his stuttering disorder. Next, the purported man in the alleged yellow hat performed a complex psychiatric procedure that essentially flicked off the canned laughter that followed Cous’s dreams. No longer was Cous forced to listen to that inner radio channel set to Rush Limbaugh personally lambasting him for 24 hours a day. Never before had he felt so powerful, so in control - it seemed as if anything was possible, that everything might even be ok in the end. To cap off the mental and emotional turn-around, the man in the yellow hat brought Cous a girl who’s eyes were filled with light and love and twinkled in a way that made him want to cuddle the shit out of her. She was even programmed to love him back selflessly, and to not be a cheating, conniving whore. Depression went out of style and now no one should ever play Emo music again. Cous started getting cocky. He actually dared to believe in the power of his dreams.

The Merging of Dreams, in a Non-sexual Manner

Cous shared his Utopian dreams with Melvin, who had been having similar dreams all along. Their dreams merged, coming together as one in a non-sexual manner. Not that Cous would turn down Melvin if he wanted it to be that way, it’s just that Timmy isn’t gay, not that he has anything against it, and even if he were he would undoubtedly prematurely ejaculate before he could have any form of sexual relations with Cous. So it’s a moot point, as are most. The two discussed their newly shared dream and vision of a better world late into the evening. By morning it was decided. Work would begin immediately. Their task: converting the dream into reality.

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To help grease the wheels of Cous’s Dream49, the man in the yellow hat set up a meeting with a very special motivational speaker. His name was Jesus and he carried a rubics cube. Cous couldn’t understand Jesus’s motivational message, because he said it in Hebrew, while Cous speaks English. At least it was a good photo op. Here is a drawing of Cous and Jesus:

This rendition could be considered both post modern and avant-garde. It could also be seen as a bold statement on the underlying simplicity behind the most complex of societal constructs. Either way you look at it, it’s some of the greatest fucking art you’ve ever seen, except for some of the other art I showed you earlier, which is equally brilliant. For some reason, this Jesus guy seemed familiar to Cous. He’d heard about him the one time he went to church, and Mother would often talk about Jesus while beating him. The man in the yellow hat had helped Cous block some memories so he could be more functional in life, but now they were also coming back to him. Brian used to steal his stuff and say, “Jesus wants me to have it.” Another time Cous went to a festival that had promised free hot dogs and a magic show – he went for the hot dogs, because he was near-

49 If you’ll notice here, Cous’s Dream is now carried in the metaphorical vehicle of a car, or a train. We shall now name these the “Cous Dream Car™” and the “Cous Dream Train™, and later we’ll make a fortune selling cheap plastic toy versions that will teach children important life lessons, especially when they break. 121

starving in those days. After he ate a hot dog and saw one card trick, the doors were locked and a fat sweaty bald man began talking earnestly about this person named “Jesus,” who could help you to not burn in hell. Big, burly men stood at the doorways, arms crossed and preventing escape. Later, they passed around a dish which was to be filled with money, for Jesus. The people filled it up like they were supposed to, but still Jesus never showed up. Cous wondered if it was the same guy.

Sharing.

Cous always was the sharing type. So it goes with that ridiculous Utopian dream. He shared and shared and shared, always to return to his natural state of poverty. Cous broke the news to timmy that they were broke. “How the hell could we be broke, Cous?” Melvin asked. “You’re an international celebrity – people will pay you $50,000 just to show up, say a few words, and smile for the camera.” “Money always seems to complicate things, so I stopped accepting it.” “What do you mean money complicates things????? That’s how we’re going fund the whole revolution! Money will make the Utopia happen! Without money, the entire Plan for the Universe will be nothing but a plan. How could you hate money so much?” “Whoa!!!! I don’t hate money at all. I don’t hate anything. In fact, I rather enjoy giving it away. It seems to bring happiness to lots of other people.” Just then Brian walked into the room. “Hey Cous,” he said, “How you doin’ buddy? Wanna throw me a fifty?” “Sure, buddy,” said Cous. “Here you go. It’s my last one.” “Great. Let me know when you get hungry - I’ll pay you to clean the bathrooms if you need money for food.”

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Dreams and Bank Loans

After a year and a half of preparation, the Plan for the Universe™ was ready for phase 1 of its launch. Cous went to the bank to see if he could get the dream funded. He presented the plan for the universe. It was in the form of a poem, written by Timmy. This poem was so great and deep and profound that no one could understand a word it said. In it were solutions to all the universe’s problems. The banker asked Cous how he planned to repay his loan. With dreams, he replied. With joyous, happy dreams. They will be shared by everyone. The banker laughed. He laughed and laughed, and told his manager so they could share a laugh - maybe if his manager thought he was funny he’d get a promotion. The manager laughed the whole way home, where he told his wife, who joined her husband in laughter. Later, she told her pharmacist, who laughed while she fucked him for pills. The next day, when Rush Limbaugh picked up his own pills he heard all about the Dream. His laughter shrieked across America on A.M radio, like a hyena mating with an ostrich. Later, his laughter abated, and then he got high again and got back to laughing. The bearers of the Standard Issue American Dream laughed with him. Cous left the bank, his dream deflated. But the Man in the Yellow Hat was there, with an airpump, metaphorically speaking. You see, chasing dreams without a bank loan is usually a manic-depressive ride of joy and misery, but The Man in the Yellow Hat removed the depression and misery parts by readjusting Cous’s brain chemicals with a little help from our friends at the Pharmaceutical corporations50. He was also there with some more strategic advice. “No more poems, Melvin,” said the man in the yellow hat, “People don’t get that crap – you’ve gotta do something that will reach them…Better yet, no more public speaking from you – from now on, Cous is the only one allowed to talk to the public – Melvin, you just tell him what to say.’

50 Sponsorship opportunity for Big Pharm! 123

So Cous went back to the drawing boards with Melvin, who studied up on business, marketing theory, sociology, behavioral science, macro and micro-economics, psychology, philosophy, political science, religion, and human nature. Seven years later he hashed out what is essentially a Utopian American Dream business plan. The two marched confidently back to the bank. The same banker, sitting at the same desk where his career had halted, saw Cous, remembered him, and had a laugh- his first in seven years. “Look,” said Cous, “You’ve got to reconsider on that loan. We did our homework – well, Melvin did our homework, and it can work. It’s possible. You’ve gotta see this plan.” Melvin then pulled up the Power Point presentation on his Strategic Plan to Achieve Utopia Tomorrow (SPAUT). His presentations usually put people to sleep or cause them to politely leave the room and awkwardly avoid him at future social engagements, but this man was a banker, a race of people so dull and soulless that they find power point presentations not only exciting but sexually arousing. Melvin went over the details of his brilliant and complicated plan, which We won’t go into, being that it’s far beyond the scope of Our readers’ intelligence. Then he got to the end. “We’re on a mission,” he said, “it’s huge and beautiful and powerful, and it might seem impossible, but it’s all held together by the power of love and we’ve figured out how to make it work and we’re going to make it happen if it kills us.” As a kicker, Cous whispered his original thought into the banker’s ear. Keep in mind that this is the one and only original thought in the whole entire universe. The banker was awestruck to say the least. The banker reviewed the plan, and brought it to his colleagues who also reviewed the plan and scratched their chins and wondered what the flaw was, there has to be flaw! No plan can be this flawless! And they reviewed it some more and held meetings and further reviews, all of which justified their banker salaries, they felt, and then they satisfied their desire to feel like they’re contributing to the greater good of humanity by financing the Utopian American Dream.

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The Plan for the Universe

The Plan for the Universe™, in a nutshell, contains the following elements: - liberty and justice for all – for real, this time. - Recognition of individual worth with measures to account for whiny little bitches who suck the life out of everyone else - Measures to prevent individual selfishness from resulting in net damage to the whole - A new economic structure creating a cooperative society – no longer would a few people exploit the rest. - Measures providing for all human needs, from basic food and shelter to higher levels of self-actualization. - Instructions on how to have really, really good orgasms. This was the real key to the plan’s success. After everyone started having really good orgasms all the time, they got along with each other just fine. Warlords and militias throughout the world put down their arms and went off to have more really, really good orgasms instead.

The Plan for the Universe was so revolutionary in its nature that as soon as it was hatched, a man named Steven the Anarchist rushed over to get involved. He had a nose for revolution, among other things. “So how does this plan work?” he asked, “Not that I care – I’m in either way.” “Basically, if you take a look at all the resources in the world,” said melvin, “you’ll see that there’s plenty for everyone. But people like Brian end up hoarding all of it; instead of feeding villages, we feed the ponies on Brian’s ranch. We just need to make sure everyone gets their share.” “Sharing is sweet!” said Cous. “Are you talking about communism?” asked Steven the Anarchist, popping a boner.

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There’s something about communism that always gave Steven the Anarchist a boner. Cous saw the bulge in Steven’s pants and nervously covered his butthole, fearing that he might get sexually assaulted yet again, while being too nice and generous in spirit to stop or report it. “I thought you were an anarchist, Steven.” Cous said, “communism is pretty much the opposite of that – complete governmental control vs. no government.” “Either one works for me, really,” said Steven, “as long as it’s not mainstream.” “What happens if it becomes mainstream?” “I don’t know,” said Steven, “I’ve never really thought about that.”

“Well our plan is neither.” said Melvin, “Communism and anarchy are both total disasters. They lose sight of the fact that people are inherently corrupt and selfish, and need to be rewarded according to the work they do, if you expect them to get anything done. Communism ends up being used as a tool for robbery under the veil of ‘income redistribution,’ while anarchy results in more literal robbery, with warlords taking control of everything.” “Can I be a warlord?” asked Steven. “No,” said Melvin, “No one is becoming warlords. What we’re going to do is teach the people to readjust their core values and live a more simple, spiritually-focused life style, where they appreciate the finer beauties of life instead of striving for the fastest pony or the shiniest diamond. The world needs to run on love, not money, and our society needs to be rearranged in a way that love connects to people on every level – at the schools, on the streets, in public and private places. With love and openness at the foundation, enlightenment will follow. We need to learn that our sense of worth comes from within, and not from the things we buy. The world will change when people realize that the most extravagant thing they can do is to help others without expecting anything in return.” “Like that’s gonna happen – don’t you know how powerful diamonds and ponies are? They’re endorsed by God. They’re the ultimate expression of success and the American Dream.” “I know,” said melvin, “If God created Man in His own image, why don’t we ask

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Him to change His ways? Then the people will change too, and the world will become a better place.” “I’ve met the Messiah before!” said Cous, “I’ll go talk to him and see what I can do. I have some questions I’ve been wanting to ask Him anyway.”

A Meeting with the Messiah – What an Honor, for Cous!

Cous stopped by my office and sat down on the tiny plastic chair in front of My giant oaken Messiah’s Desk. “Does true love exist?” he asked Me, without even going through the formalities of introduction. I extended My giant emerald Messiah’s ring. “Come on now,” I said, “this ring isn’t going to kiss itself.” He dutifully kissed the ring and started again in earnest. I pointed suggestively at My Messianic Tip Jar. “Of course true love exists,” I continued. “How much money you got?” “$12,” he said. Cous had just signed his most recent royalty check over to an orphanage. “Oh, never mind,” I said, My lips curling into the condescending smirk I use to address poor people. “That’s not enough. I guess true love doesn’t exist, for you.” “People need to be less selfish,” he said. “They’d find much more beauty if they focused on something beyond themselves. Why don’t you teach the people to be less selfish?” “Don’t you preach to me, young man,” I said, “I’m the Messiah here.” “I just want everyone to love each other,” Cous said. I laughed so hard that little bits of spittle flew out of my mouth and hit him in the face. Cous blinked.

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“OK!” I said, “Everyone will love each other, right after they decide to stop having wars and going on scavenger hunts instead.” “Why don’t they?” he asked. I dismissed this with a wave of My Messianic hand. I could tell he was the curious type, full of questions, which are annoying. “We need to set goals for the betterment of the world,” Cous said. “One of my goals is to eliminate pain and suffering because I have empathy for others and it hurts me 51 to see people, or even animals, hurt .” “Cool!” I said between snorts and chuckles. “After we accomplish your goals we can meet in Candy Land and feast on gumdrops.” Tears from my own hilarity welled up in my eyes. “But-,“ Cous stammered. I wasn’t done yet: “Yeah, Cous,” I continued, ”and after our gum drop feast we can get in a candy cane helicopter and fly up to the Fairy God Mother’s palace in the clouds, where we’ll make love to beautiful virgins.” At this point I fell to the floor, hand grasping My abs, which are rock hard from laughing at Cous. My sarcasm was making Cous angry. Suddenly he snapped. “Why?!?” he shouted, “Why so much hardship?!? Why do you and God torture so many people?” I told him to stop being such a woman about it. “HOW THE FUCK AM I BEING A WOMAN???” he shouted. His face was burning red, and veins on his forehead twitched above his angry green eyes. “You’re getting all emotional, and irrational. That’s what women do, Cous. Look, pain is going to happen – it’s inevitable, and inescapable. So what does it matter if God and I have a little fun?”

“BECAUSE IT HURTS, GODDAMN IT! IT F***ING HURTS.” “Now, now, now,” I said sternly, “Don’t you raise your voice at Me. And stop being such a pussy.”

51 Quote stolen from the esteemed J.D Curtis 128

But Cous’s voice did rise, higher and higher. He has a problem with authority that cannot be fixed, except for with death. He told me about how heartless and cruel I am, and then he started ranting about peace and justice and whatnot, about how everyone deserves a fair chance and how suffering could be reduced if people would just have more compassion. Eventually he tired himself out, and his anger turned to sadness. His bright green eyes welled up with the Pain of the Universe. “Can’t You fix our problems?” he stammered. “You’re the Messiah – couldn’t You make everything better?” To answer this question I began whistling the Brady Bunch theme song, which is My way of saying, “Yes, I could, quite easily, but I’d rather sit here and whistle the Brady Bunch theme song.” But apparently Cous doesn’t understand the Messianic code, and the rude son of a bitch cut me off. He tugged at his shaggy hair with the tragically frustrated mannerisms that had made him such a folk hero, and screamed at me, “YOU NEVER ANSWER MY QUESTIONS! WHY MUST THERE BE SO MUCH PAIN AND SUFFERING?” “I’ll get back to you on that one,” I said. I already knew the answer, but I wanted to keep the poor fucker waiting. A week later, Cous came back to the office, but I had my secretary tell him I wasn’t in. This is a hobby of mine- making her lie so that she’ll get sent to hell. Again Cous came back, twice a week on average, but I would always be “out” – boat riding or at the movies or shopping or at the beauty shop or to lunch or at the gym doing pectoral isolation exercises or even banging my other secretary. Three months later I got bored of my game and sent Cous a memo with the answer. This is what it said:

Cous: Just consulted with God, and He said pain is definitely here to stay, because we are fucked. So in the meantime, why don't you personify this thing you call "empathy for others" and run him over with your car. Also, you should stop sharing. Every time you share, God punishes you by taking away your stuff. Keep the faith,

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The Messiah p.s You in particular are fucked. Here’s a clue as to where you’re going after this life – it starts with h and ends in double hockey sticks.

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Cute but Futile Attempts to Avoid the Imminent Fires of Hell

Cous was pretty bummed about his predetermined damnation. He decided he needed do something to attempt to save his soul. Conveniently, quite a few religious leaders had already taken notice of Cous’s uniquely powerful, famous, and influential soul. The Pain of the Universe™ does good work. A Buddhist monk was the first to see the power of Cous’s soul, but he made no attempt to convert him. Instead he went off to the mountains to meditate. If this monk was in any way enlightened, and his religion any way relevant, why hasn’t God given him a TV show and a chauffeured car? The distinguished Reverend Ballwell, an Evangelical minister and entrepreneur, salivated over the revenue generating potential of Cous’s famous and tragic soul. Getting Cous to join his congregation would put his church in the spotlight, attracting new members and opening up revenue streams from untapped demographics. When he heard that Cous was seeking religion in a futile attempt to avoid the burning fires of hell, Ballwell jumped on the opportunity to sell him some. He had his people contact Cous’s people, and a meeting was arranged. He approached our curly haired hero, sweating profusely from his love of Jesus, and because 72 years of bacon breakfasts had turned a walk across a room into an Iron Man triathlon. “Have you accepted Jesus into your heart, so you can one day join him in the Kingdom of Heaven?” the preacher asked. “I don’t think so,” Cous mumbled. “Well, young man, you’ve got a lot to learn if you want to avoid an eternity burning in hell” said the Reverend, putting an arm on Cous’s shoulder in an almost entirely non- sexual gesture of affection, “Come with me, and I’ll see if I can broker a deal for Jesus to save your soul.” A mere lifetime of pain and suffering was already too much for Cous, so he followed the Reverend to the Food Court for a lesson on the ways of God. “The Food

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Court is my favorite,” said the Reverend, “it’s a place where I can sample all the fruits of God’s great green Earth.” He meant “fruits” more in a metaphorical sense, as on his trays, among other things, were cheeseburgers, French fries, chicken nuggets, milkshakes, pizza, egg rolls, cola, chicken fingers, pork rinds, a bowl of gravy, and a giant cheese Danish. Cous sat down at the table across from the Reverend, ready to learn about God as best as his a.d.d would allow. “Well,” said the Reverend, shoving a cheeseburger into his face, “the faith is based on love.” “Oh!” said Cous, “I get that part. I make love to everyone.” An eyebrow raised. “Everyone?” asked the Reverand. “What do you mean by that?” Cous started naming off his list as best as he could remember. Normally its recitation would take the better part of an hour, but the Reverend cut him off early when he got to these words: “….and Frank…” Gravy sprayed out of the Reverend’s mouth. “Homosexuality is a sin and an abomination,” he said, a pudgy fist hitting the table. Then he took a deep breath to calm himself down and took a sip of Coke for his ulcer. He would need to approach this strategically if he were to save this powerful soul with all its earning potential. “First and foremost in our faith, homosexual relations are absolutely forbidden.” “First and foremost? Really?” said Cous, “Maybe God needs to re-prioritize.” However, this aspect of the faith did appeal to Cous. He had never enjoyed taking it up the butt – it’s just that it’s so hard for him to say “no” to anyone. With the Reverend’s religion, he’d have an excuse to turn down the men who wanted to have sex with him. “What about my gay friends?” Cous asked, “Can they come to our church, too?” The Reverend dodged this question by stuffing his pie hole with peach cobbler. Cous’s A.D.D mind jumped to his next question. “What else do you do, being an Evangelical and all?” Cous asked. “Well, I spend most of my time preaching the Good word,” said the Reverend. “Which Good Word?” asked Cous, “Is it the same one that my Methodist friends

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preach? Or is it more like my friend Sammy’s Good Word, who’s been trying to get me into his Jehovah’s Witnesses Club. I mean church.” This was a common slip up for Cous. Having spent so much time in isolation with Timmy, the two had developed what amounted to their own dialect. A “club” was their generic term for the countless organizations and groups they didn’t belong to – social groups, fraternities, political parties, sports teams, the Mickey Mouse club, churches, etc. “Oh, no no no,” said the Reverend, “You see, ours is the one true word of Jesus Christ.” “Oh, that Jesus!” said Cous, “I’ve met him, nice guy – real nice – one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.” Cous’s meeting with Jesus is a well-documented event. Please see page 104 of this book for a refresher. “I couldn’t understand a damn word he said, though – speaks Hebrew. I take it you must speak Hebrew too, then.” The Reverend cleared his throat and nervously took a bite from his pastry. “Actually I don’t.” Cous looked confused. “How do you know yours is the one true interpretation of Jesus’s words if you can’t understand what he says?” “We just know God loves us, and what we’re doing is right.” “That’s lucky for you. God doesn’t love me,” said Cous. He knew this for certain. God had paid him many personal visits over the course of his lifetime, both in human form and in more transient, spiritual and metaphysical ways52. Cous had been hit, kicked, given nightmares, laughed at, shunned, and spat upon by God. As a kid, God would break his toys. Cous’s close personal friends had died by the dozens – all God’s doings. In His most recent visit, God had stuck His finger in his face, told him he was fucked, laughed at him, and spat in his face. To make sure these divine visits would happen, Mother made sure that Cous hung around with kids who did acid. “We’ll make God love you,” said the Reverend. As the words left his mouth, an artery in the Reverend’s whale-sized heart ruptured, causing massive internal bleeding and then a heart attack as the blubber-coated organ worked furiously to pump the blood that

52 If you don’t know what big complicated words like “metaphysical” or “transient” mean, feel free to consult appendix Q. 133

was no longer coming through. Ballwell choked on his last chicken nugget and turned pink, then blue. The Reverend had said some ridiculous shit about God over the course of his career, but that blasphemy about God loving Cous had clearly crossed the line.

Funeral parades and public expressions of sadness were held by the faithful, while the godless danced in the streets. A great satirist of the age posted this comment in an online location, sparking a small controversy.

I'm heartbroken to learn that great American televangelist Jerry Balwell passed away today.

Stay strong, America! Don't worry, soon another self-righteous blowhard will come along to get rich off of instilling the fear of hell into ignorant people while using religion for political manipulation.

I'm not a betting man, because Balwell taught me that gambling is immoral, but if I were I'd put my money on a full blown Balwell resurection. A road trip to Lynchburg for the funeral may be in order - even if I don't get to witness Jerry rising from the grave, I may at least be able get in one last good-luck flick of the chicken goblet of fat that hangs off his neck.

Balwell would not be the only religious leader attempting to capitalize on Cous’s soul.

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Bling That’s what Cous’s soul is like, thanks to the Pain of the Universe™, which sparkles with a cosmic brightness under the right conditions. If there’s a sect that understands and appreciates bling, it’s the Catholics. Cous’s soul was like a diamond encrusted cross with a giant ruby in the middle, and they couldn’t wait to get their hands on it. A Bishop approached him slowly, hobbling along under the 42 pounds of jewelry he was wearing, just as Jesus would have wanted. He wanted Cous’s soul before those goddamned Baptists got it. The Bishop wore 37 rings, which are shiny, and sparkle with the grace of God. He also carried a golden jewel studded Bishop’s staff, which clearly signals the fact that he is indeed a Bishop, an appointee of God, and should you disagree he has the staff to fuck you up with, at least in the good old days, before cameras and non- theocrat-controlled media outlets made it too much of a pr risk. The Bishop sat down with Cous, and began teaching him how to say his prayers – he started with Our Father, then moved Cous up to Hail Mary’s. “So all I have to do to avoid the burning fires of hell is repeat the magic words?” Cous asked. “Not magic words,” said the Bishop, “prayers.” “What’s the difference?” asked Cous. “Heathens say magic words,” said the Bishop, “we say prayers.” “How do you know you’re not a heathen?” asked Cous. He had always possessed a naïve and innocent way of asking simple questions that would shake the very foundation of someone’s belief system, if they thought about it. Most people prefer to get angry. “DON’T YOU CALL ME A HEATHEN,” said the Bishop, pointing a finger in his face. “I didn’t,” said Cous, “no one should be called a heathen. That’s mean and judgmental, and expresses arrogant degree of certainty in your own beliefs.” The Bishop shook his head in disgust. What was the point of having faith if you

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didn’t use it to exclude people and heighten your sense of superiority? “Look,” he said, “I’m just gonna cut right to the chase - if you’re really serious about saving your soul, it’s 10% of net income, checks are fine, we don’t even need to do I.D verification with you because we already know who you are from TV.” After Cous’s experiences with these religious figures, our artistically inclined hero drew the following doodle in his notebook:

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For some reason Cous signed my name in the bottom right hand corner. I

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don’t know why he did this. Spiky Balls

The next day Cous lay sprawled out on the couch, confused and deflated. timmy limped into the room. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “God,” said Cous. “He’s either really mean, or people have horribly distorted understandings of Him.” Cous’s disenchantment with God had reached new heights. He decided to use his considerable fame and influence to do something about it. He and timmy again hit the drawing boards. A week later, they came out with a religion to end all religious capitalism. In their new religion, the church steeple was replaced by a new symbol: a spiky ball. The Spikey Ball of the New Religion pointed in all directions, to make sure every possible base was covered. It was to be the least profitable religion in the history of the universe. Their mantra was this:

Up is not the only way, as fascist steeples often say. No one knows to whom we pray So cash for God, thou shalt not pay.

Cous explained it more in depth on his TV show.

“Our new religion refuses to be specific about any aspects of God because we realize that one cannot be certain of God’s true nature,” he said, “Want to believe in Jesus? That’s fine and great – he’s a hell of a guy, although I do wish he spoke better English – I’m sure I would have learned a lot more the time that I hung out with him. And deodorant would have been nice. But don’t go claiming you’re way is the one and only true way - you don’t know, and neither does your preacher, so stop paying him for it. “Wow!” said the people, “Cous is really famous. Maybe he’s right.”

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I Forgot to Mention…

Upon receiving the hope and guidance from the man in the yellow hat, Cous signed a legally binding contract guaranteeing him 90% of profits from all future endeavors, tucked deep into the fine print. Why else would someone just come along out of the blue and help someone like that - benevolence? Also, you’ll be pleased to know that the Man in the Yellow Hat is an employee of Brian’s multi-national corporation, a leading talent scout and business development professional in the arts and entertainment division, so most of the revenue was trickling up to Brian all along.

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Let’s Go Shopping!

Brian got bored of all this philosophical-theoretical religious mumbo-jumbo, so he went on a shopping! trip and bought some pet bears. Gee, I wonder what narrative purpose they’ll end up serving towards the end of the Book. Brian named his bears Herbert and Franklin. We found it hilariously ironic that bears named “Herbert” and “Franklin” would soon tear timmy into tattered shreds of cripple flesh.

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The Big Powow

With Cous’s world fame and the awe-inspiring Pain of the Universe working in combination with melvin’s brilliant strategic planning, the pair could no longer be ignored, (unlike the good old days, when they were living in Brian’s basement.) Their activism and new way of thinking was turning heads, and people were beginning to listen to them. It was costing Our preachers revenue – in fact, their message of spirituality as a personal responsibility without financial obligation was bad for the business of every religious sect. The problem was that We couldn’t kill them off, yet – as characters in Our Book, they were just starting to generate sales, but the Pain in the Universe™ and all its tragic romanticness still needed more time to work its magic and weave out a plot-like thing that contains a moral lesson. And so We arranged a conference, or “The Big Powow,” as We termed it, in an attempt to work through these differences. It was to be held at Brian’s mansion, which is way nicer than heaven. The official tally put 418 ponies prancing around the estate, many had baller-ass golden horns glued to their heads, some like unicorns and others like golden- horned bulls, making them that much more elite. Pony shit was everywhere. The help was doing their best to clean it up, as help should, but the ponies were creating an awful lot of excrement for such pure and wholesome creatures. Cous and the cripple did their best to navigate through the piles as they approached the front door, where they were met by a servant who led them to the western wing of the estate. Brian stood in the middle of the room, sipping a Champaign spritzer. “How’s it going man?” Cous asked. “Good. It’s going good,” said Brian. “This is a nice place. I’ve never been in this part of the house before.” “Yup,” said Brian. “Check out my statue of Jesus– it’s pure gold.” “I’ve met him before,” said Cous. “Me too,” said Brian, “cool guy.” Brian showed off his china cabinet, and the

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plasma TV’s. He pointed to a black leather sofa. “At the last party I threw, Alice Cooper was sitting right over there. Cool guy. Come with me, I want to show you something.” Brian led through down a corridor into another room. It was empty save for the rug Cous had allegedly spilled on years and years before. “See that stain?” said Brian, crawling around the rug until he found it. He glared at Cous. “I haven’t forgotten what you’ve done to me,” he said.

Later in the party, Cous got drunk and started asking questions again. “Do you really think you deserve all your money?” he asked. For a second, Brian looked confused. Then he remembered that thinking is stupid, and a hassle. “Of course I deserve it,” he said, glancing seductively into the mirror. “I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.” “What about poor people - the smallest crumb from your fortune could feed and shelter them for a lifetime. Couldn’t you just give up just a little bit of this so they won’t have to suffer?” “Look,” said Brian, “If they really cared about suffering, they would do something to better themselves – they would work hard so they could get stuff like this and not suffer. We live in a free country - that’s what’s so great about America. You don’t have to suffer if you don’t want to. We’ve got Jesus to thank for that.” Brian raised his glass to Jesus, who had quietly entered the room from the side door. Jesus glared back at him. “Wait a minute,” said Cous, “if you’re so into Jesus, how come you keep killing so many people?” “I don’t kill people,” said Brian. “Not directly…but the orders you give do.” “Boo Hoo,” said Brian, “do you want to go cry me up a nice little liberal river? You can mix your wussy little liberal tears with the blood from your bleeding liberal heart and then we’ll have a nice little liberal river. We could go sailing…wouldn’t that be nice?” “Don’t you feel guilty at all?” “Why should I feel guilty about enjoying sailing? You guilt mongering liberals

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want us to feel guilty about everything. Feel bad about this. Feel bad about that. That’s all you people do. Just because I enjoy sailing doesn’t mean I have to feel guilty about some 3rd world sweatshop child who doesn’t get to go sailing. I’ve worked hard, and I’m smart and handsome, the crème of the crop, in fact I’m the cherry-on-top-of the-cream, whatever; my point is that I should have the right to enjoy sailing without some starry-eyed liberal dragging me down.” “I meant don’t you feel guilty about killing people?” I already told you I don’t kill people,” said Brian. “JESUS!” He shouted, “Do I ever kill people?” Jesus said some crap in Hebrew that no one could understand. “I think he said no,” said Brian. “I second that,” I chimed in from the corner. Eight of the beta children also voiced their agreement. “See,” said Brian, “I’m right. Isn’t Democracy beautiful?” “Dude, this isn’t Democracy. Everyone just agrees with whatever you say. It’s more like Fascism.” “Oh yeah? Let’s vote – everyone, raise your hands if this is Fascism…..See – Democracy it is.” “This is stressing me out,” said Cous, “I need to go meditate,” “Your voodoo bullshit isn’t gonna help,” said Brian.

“Actually, meditation is a practice shared by people across many faiths and schools of thought” said melvin with his usual meekness, ”if anything what Cous does most closely resembles Buddhism.” “Is the fucking cripple talking again?” said Brian. “Would someone turn on some rap.” A beta child cranked up the stereo, and Brian nodded his head to the music, which was way more interesting than whatever timmy had to say. Then God made His appearance, bobbing his head to the music. As usual, He was late and smelled of bourbon and bongwater. Brian was elated to see Him. “What’s up, God?” said Brian, giving Him a high five. “Check out my calves – I just got new implants so they’ll look more muscular.” He pulled up his pant leg.

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“Wow!” said God, “Those are really great!” He poked the silicon calf. “It feels real, only softer and squishier.” “You look good,” said Brian, “You’re so money, You know that, right?” I am Money, said God “Check out these diamonds,” said Brian, flashing his handful of rings, “Somebody loves me! Bling bling, yo!” Bling Bling! said God, What kind of diamond would you wear, Jesus? “No speak English,” Jesus replied. These are the only words in English he knows. He’d been steadily losing influence ever since God had changed the officially sanctioned Language of the Universe to English. God made this change shortly after Hollywood won the battle for the hearts and minds of the human race. Always adapting to the times, this God of ours. God handed him a giant diamond ring. PUT THIS ON, He said, speaking loud and slowly, as if to a cripple or deaf person. Or a foreigner -all the same, really. Jesus looked baffled. And sad. HAVE YOU FINISHED THAT RUBIC’S CUBE YET, JESUS? God continued. Get back to it, what the hell do you think We’re paying you for? “God, can I talk to you….in private?” Cous cut in. God rolled his eyes. Fine, He said. The two walked into the next room, with Melvin limping in behind them, Ya know, I’m not even a Racist anymore – well maybe in some parts of the South, but not in the mainstream…It’s OK that you’re ethnic, nowadays, you know.53 “Oh, it’s not that,” said Cous, “I was wondering why you let Brian get away with so much evil. Have you seen how many people he’s hurt with his selfish and thoughtless ways?” Brian is a very polite young man, said God. You must not understand how important manners are. "I don’t mean to be the tattle-tale, but he has people killed,” said Cous, “all the time. His foolish and prideful war games have caused the deaths of millions, while

53 God’s lawyers had advised Him to make it abundantly clear that Cous’s future in Hell was not because of his ethnicity. 144

countless more are hurt, homeless and scarred. Even worse, he gets rich off all the destruction, supplying both sides with weapons.” Have you seen Brian fold his napkins asked God, perfect rectangles, every time, with a crease in the exact right spot. “He and his friends raped this girl I knew, Sheila,” said Cous, “I mean, brutally, they went on for hours and hours while she cried out desperately for mercy. The harder she cried, the more they laughed. The sickest part was that they were acting so polite about it, saying ‘may I please,’ and ‘why thank you.” Manners mask savagery well, said God, If you play it right people can be fucked over without even realizing it, that’s Brian’s charm. Doesn’t his hair look great? Part of it comes from natural, God given talent, or Me, as it’s also known, while the rest is the result of an expert team of hair professionals, utilizing all the latest advancements in hair- gel, product, grooming and trimming techniques – hard work does pay off, you know. “You don’t care what he does, do you?” said Cous. My love is unconditional, said God. The drinking continued. I kept offering Cous swigs from a bottle of cheap Scotch, and he’d dutifully take them, as was his nature. It very well may have been rubbing alcohol, or maybe a half and half – I saw God pour something in their earlier. He just winked and said, “save this one for Cous.” Not My concern, I wasn’t touching the shit. I was drinking (sponsor’s logo here!)54, which is God’s favorite. Cous choked on another gulp of the Scotch, paused for a moment, then turned to Me. “You know, it’s kind of stupid, how sad I feel, when life is supposedly going so well,” he said. “Yeah,” I told him. “Most things are. Stupid, that is. That’s how We designed them. Pretty funny, eh?” “You’ve got a strange sense of humor,” he said. “Don’t you judge Me,” I said, “There’ll be hell to pay for that.” “I wasn’t judging…all I was saying is that…”

54 Alcohol companies, please be in touch about this unique Sponsorship Opportunity! 145

“Hell!” I shouted. “That’s where you’re going. Do you know how bad it will hurt when the burning fires of Hell rip into your tender ethnic flesh?” “Yes,” said Cous, “I do. You’ve put me through that before.” “Well, there’s more where that came from.” “Why?” asked Cous. “Because,” I explained, “New religions can’t start unless someone goes through a great amount of suffering.” “Why not?” asked Cous. “That’s just how they work. Probably because you can’t get anyone’s attention unless there’s a tragedy involved. Jesus took his like a man - I don’t see him complaining and asking a bunch of stupid questions.” “ At least Jesus got to be a Messiah – I don’t – I just get stuck with all the suffering.” “Scotch?” “While you serve as the middleman and reap all the benefits.” “What do you expect,” I said, “I’m an American and you’re ethnic. Scotch?” Cous took a drink and coughed long and hard. For a second I thought blood might come up. I clinked My mint julep against the bottle so Cous would have to take another drink. “To outsourcing,” I said. Onward we talked and drank – Cous truly is a good natured and likeable guy, when he wasn’t puking up the rot-gut scotch he guzzled on account of peer pressure. I could see why he had become so popular and loved, such an international celebrity, such a heart throb for teenage girls and girlish boys. At some point I blacked out, but I did find the following snippet on My tape recorder the next day: Cous: So who’s the closest to “getting it,” spiritually speaking, out of all those religious leaders I met? God (Voice booming, even through the mini-recorder!) All of them. Or none of them, really. Depends on how you look at it. What it comes down to is who’s the most self- righteous - who’s willing to stick to their opinions no matter what, through torture or

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through wealth. Who can maintain unflappable faith in their faith, without being self- reflective enough to notice the contradictions inherent in their belief system, and who has the skill to sell it? And did they pick the right target market? Is your message driving revenue, and is it tailored to a profitable demographic? And do you have a good producer on board with you, for the multi-media stuff, and is your grassroots marketing network in place? The free market will decide. It also helps to have charisma, or a big army. Sometimes a total fanatic will do something crazy and win… Cous: Did you just say win? Is this all some kind of sick contest? God Well, ‘win’ is probably the wrong word choice – no one really wins. You know what We say - you’re all fucked in the end! Except for Brian, and Dave over there, as well as those who follow Him blindly and loyally and give Him money and in some cases sexual favors, of course – any good Messiah loves His hoes – you know Jesus did…. (Next sentence intranscribable due to slurred speech - My assistant was only to able to make out the words “Magdalena” and “nailed.”)…. But He really appreciates you going through all the suffering for Him so He can be the Messiah –maybe He has a weird way of showing it, but He does. . Cous: But why do You have to dole out salvation like it’s some kind of limited resource, available only to the people practicing Your religion of choice? In the grand scheme of things, couldn’t we just as well not be fucked? God: Nope, sorry, definitely fucked. You didn’t sign up for the new religion when you had the chance, and now you have to deal with the consequences. Cous: But what if I sign up now? God: Too late. What kind of example would that set for everyone else? You’re supposed to sign up right when it’s first offered, immediately and without thinking. You should have thought about that before you thought about things and then didn’t sign up. A pony trotted up and licked God’s hand. God I love these things, He said.

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Bears!

Soon, the bears will maul what’s-his-name. He knows it’s coming – I let him read an advance copy of the book – but there’s nothing he can do to stop it. The amazing thing is, he did all the work he did over the course of his lifetime, knowing that in the end it would come to this. You’d almost have to admire the little shit, were he not so goofy looking.

Shortly before his death, he scribbled down the following untitled poem: ******************* The clarity didn’t come. We just got older and more tired and gained more experiences which further complicated our sense of clarity. But in the end, we can look back and say, it was fun, some of it, at least, We’ve had some good laughs and sex, Perhaps it’s time for us to die now.

*******************

The ironic thing is, Melvin didn’t even ever get to have sexual intercourse, with his premature ejaculation problem and all. Nor did he get to laugh much, being that laughter hurt his ribcage and lungs, making it so painful that he generally avoided comedies and asked people not to tell jokes in his presence. This on top of the embarrassing snot leaking problem that God found so hilarious. In spite of all this, he wrote the poem, and enjoyed life to the best of his abilities, despite Our best efforts.

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Chapter forty-something: The Messiah’s Guide to Statutory Rape.

This is a title I came up with a while ago, and I just had to use it. I’m not quite sure what to do with it now, or how it even fits in to all this, but here it is. It’s a good title, if I must say so myself. Might I add that My saying so means quite a lot, being the Messiah and all. I guess the important thing is that I’m guiding, which is what I’ve heard Messiah are supposed to do. You see, We’re like shepherds, and you, My children, are My flock. When winter comes I’m going to need you to shear yourselves and knit Me a goddamn sweater.

Now here is a Proclamation for you, My children.

Ponies, candy, bench pressing, pornos and diamonds are what’s important. Deep thoughts will only lead you to a lot of f***ed up shit. Focus on winning the games you need to win to seize the American Dream for yourself and your frat, which is also your cult and church. The invisible hand of the free market is guiding all things. And don’t forget to Shop! shop! shop!

Being Messiah ain’t a bad gig, if you can get it. But just like anything else, it’s got its downsides. For example, one day I called upon My subjects to bake Me some freshly baked goods. God and I had been hitting the bong pretty hard all afternoon, and we were hungry from playing all those video games. God plays video games for days on end without rest, the expression on His face content and oblivious to everything else. I on the other hand, get tired, and need food. One day he stopped for a moment and turned to me. “Why didn’t I design the world to be more like this?” He said, “It’s so beautiful – simple, perfect, flawless.” He returned to his game, and landed the frog safely in its hole for the 216,584,865th consecutive time.

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After one particularly long day of day of hardcore video games, I got hungry, so I shouted, “Yo, bitches, go bake Us some shit, albeit not shit in a literal sense, We mean in it as figurative language to represent brownies, with coconut sprinkles and walnuts on top.” (I usually speak in vague religious metaphor, but a Messiah’s gotta be crystal clear when it comes to snack time). The snacks arrived, and I wolfed them down as quickly as possible. My plan was to have an eating race against God, without Him knowing it, thus kicking His Ass. I still hadn’t ever beat Him at anything, and it was starting to drive Me crazy. That’s another thing that pisses Me off about God, His compulsive obsession with winning. I’d been practicing My victory dance alone in My bedroom for months. It includes booty drops followed by a leap with arms triumphantly in the air, timed with joyous shrieks of, “I beat You, God!” and “Who’s Your Daddy now?” But before I could win My stomach started burning and then it spread to My insides and then My body went numb and I can’t really remember what happened after that but at some point I keeled over and died. As it turned out, the seemingly delicious gooey double fudge brownies contained arsenic and cyanide, in addition to the coconut shavings. The embarrassing part was that a mixture of brownies, drool and bile oozed out of my mouth and onto my face and shirt and kinda just stayed there without anyone cleaning it off, then the coroner and all the paparazzi came and started taking pictures because it was this whole sacred and historic scene of My first death and resurrection, and wow! what a photo op, so everyone started snapping and soon enough the internets were covered with the image of dead Me with brownie drool dripping down My chin, like Jesus on a cross.

Conspiracy!

It was in this way that We learned of the vast right-wing-Chistian-fascist-left-wing- commununist-P.C-sensitivity-patrol conspiracy, which had come together to oppose My righteous code of truth. When someone comes along as the true and rightful bearer of God’s will and writes a Book about it, a lot of people feel threatened. This shadowy, God hating conspiracy is responsible for all reviews of this Book that are anything less than

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glowing.

Not everyone will see the light and be properly blinded by it. In all fairness, those who don’t join us usually have valid excuses, like because they hate America and Freedom.

God and His Cops

After I got assassinated by a gun toting Christian for the fourth time, and subsequently arose from the dead, again, I began getting tired of being Messiah. I complained to God. Look Man, I said, I’m sick of this shit. Make someone else Messiah and just give Me My own TV show and a pony farm somewhere. At this, He got going with his whole angry wrath of God thing, and started blabbering about how being Messiah is a great responsibility and I should be honored to serve. Then He upped the smiting. One rainy Monday morning, He sent one of His police officers to issue me a citation for having the wrong color of sticker on my license plate. Writing tickets is fun for her! It is a power trip to a magical happy land filled with handcuffs and doughnuts. So the bitch-cop jumped on the chance to discriminate against My colored sticker. Her hand trembled with joy as she wrote Me the ticket. You see, what the license bureau gives Me every year for my birthday is they make My plates expire. Then I get to go shopping! and buy this awesome sticker! The sticker is awesome because it costs $55 and expensive things are always better. “Thank you for protecting and serving,” I said to her after she wrote out My ticket. Later, I thought of more I could have said: “Listen, she-cop. I want you to think about what you’ve done. You have inconvenienced Me, and thrown off My day. Now I want you to have an anti-life affirming moment. 99.6%55 of your job, you are a parasite to society, but we don’t pick you off or

55 A made up number high enough to make her question her reason for existing and role in this world 151

flush you out of our intestines because we’re too scared of that one time when bad people rioted on national TV.” I’d had enough of God’s bullshit. Being the figurehead of the new religion was taking a lot out of Me. And he always left His trash all over the apartment, there were food wrappers and beer cans and old pizzas everywhere and you couldn’t even walk through the place because there was this huge pile of paperwork that he was supposed to be filing that tracks the balance of karma between all people, He’d been ignoring it since the advent of Atari and now Pol Pot was in heaven, in a pool on a floaty thing with a clear conscience. But that mess! Is it really so much to ask to just clean up after Yourself? I mean, Jesus. I clean up His messes, why should I put up with attitude and license plate tickets on top of that? Not very fond of the repeated dying either, even if I do get to resurrect. It takes like 3 days and I have other shit to do. Then there’s all His emotional neediness. The dail “I’m depressed and don’t feel loved, someone needs to sacrifice some sheep for Me” bullshit. F***ing sacrifice Your Own damn sheep.

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Fighting with God

God damn it God – have you even been remembering to smile favorably upon My clientele, the Chosen Ones, who are paying Me big money for you to deliver perks and privilege? Hm? asked God. My Clients – have you been smiling favorably upon them? Who, Brian? Yeah, I always smile favorably upon Brian. No – I mean My clients – those who’ve bought the new religion, so you’d smile upon them favorably. Sure, said God, Whatever. Why are You such a Dick? I asked. I don’t act like this all the time, you know, said God You have ever since I’ve known You. In the grander scheme of things, you haven’t known Me very long. To Me you’re a blip, albeit an average to slightly above average blip. I’ve had gaziligidillians of blips in quatragillians of different dimensions… Is that even a word? Of course it’s a word, for Christ’s sake. I’m God and I just said it – I’m bigger than the Dictionary, you know. Webster should burn in hell for that, I said Trust Me, he is. Anyway what I’m trying to say is I’m completely different for every different blip I encounter. You mean…this isn’t even the real You? It is. All of them are. But You don’t always look like Vanilla Ice with dreadlocks and a lazy eye? That’s right. And I don’t always act like a white wanna-be gangsta who rips bongs and plays video games all day long either.

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I paused. It’s hard to imagine a God who didn’t look like Vanilla Ice with dreadlocks, a lazy eye and a light-drug problem.

God read My thoughts, again. I have to change things up, He explained, with so much time in so many dimensions, it’d get boring being the same all the time. That’s why I completely change my personality, belief system, attitude – shit dawg, my entire essence of being, for every person I meet, just to fuck with their heads, keep them on their toes, confuse their understandings of Me, so they’ll argue with eachother, get all riled up, start fights. It makes for good TV – war documentaries and whatnot. Do you think I’d always want to be like this? Again, I was speechless. I’d always thought Vanilla Ice was the coolest, and that we should all strive to be just like him. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love doing this Ice act, and there are tons of variations I’ll play with it – you know – I’ll be Vanilla Ice, only I’ll substitute the bongs and video games for dredels and crystal meth – shit really got out of hand when I tried that one! Practically lost My own Mind and the Universe just followed suit. That whole dimension is still recovering…. So you’re saying things could be worse here. Oh yeah – much worse. How ‘bout a game of Mario Kart?

Mario Kart

God’s Mario raced down the track, zooming past the C.P.U operated Princess. He flung a banana peel behind Him - Bowser spun out of control and crashed into the wall. *********** Meanwhile, melvin fell down the stairs, his awkward, lopsided head bouncing off each wooden step. Dazed at the bottom, Brian’s pet bears approached slowly… ************

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My Luigi hit the ramp at full speed, launching Me over the rainbow river for a shortcut that put Me just paces behind God. He was nearly in My sights, and I had a heat- seeking red shell. ************ Cous found melvin, or rather pieces of melvin, the best friend he’d ever had, strewn about the foyer. His innards hung off of the palm-tree house plant – a sort of demented, post modern Christmas tree, if you will. The bears slept peacefully in the corner, gentle snores rumbling across the room. “WHY!!!!???” Cous screamed, “WHY!!!!!???” His nervous breakdown continued until he was hospitalized. ************ My Luigi ripped around a turn on the inside of the track. Frantically pushing the turbo button, I took the next curve at full speed, tires screeching as I drifted to the outside. ************ Cous sat in the hospital bed, the room filled with flowers. Nice gestures from good people, he thought, but that can’t make up for the loss of your one true friend. He heard chirping coming from outside. It was a distressed chirping. He opened the window – below him, to the left, a dove hopped along the sill, its wing bent horribly out of shape. Tears were welled up in its eyes, regardless of whether or not doves actually have tear ducts. ************ Mario came into full view on the straight away nearing the finish line. My time was now! I launched My heat-seeking red missile shell…. ************ “What’s the matter, buddy?” Cous cooed to the dove, leaning out the window and extending a hand of friendship. “Let me take you in here, where it’s warm and safe. I have some pieces of hospital toast you might enjoy.” The dove continued its frantic hopping, on the far edge of the ledge. Cous stretched to reach it, his knees now up on the window sill, “I can help you,” he said, “come here.” *************

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My shell nailed God’s Mario right in the ass. He spun out control, but His momentum carried Him past the checkered flag just a split second in front of Me. God always wins. What can you do? ************* As he made his final stretch toward the wounded dove, Cous lost his balance and fell forward. He continued falling, for 11 stories, until he reached a stop sign, at which point he did exactly that: stopped, suspended in air, impaled by the sign.

The oncoming traffic was confused – they saw some kind of sign, but weren’t sure if they should stop, yield, or watch out for pedestrians or deaf children.

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The End

Do you want an ending? How about a Danny Tanner ending, where I sit you down on My knee so we can talk about what we’ve learned from all this? Or perhaps you’d prefer a fairytale ending, where the prince and the princess live happily ever after? Sorry. You can’t have one. Endings are impossible. Everything is a cycle, balanced, never ending. So says Buddha. So says Science. Danny will have another lesson to teach us next week, even if it’s a rerun. The prince and the princess will live happily for a short time, and then return to moderate or sub-average happiness, depending on the level of their brain chemicals. He’ll have an affair while she’s pregnant with their first child, which he resents because it’s a girl when he wanted a male heir to carry on his name and bolster his fragile ego. Then they’ll die, and their daughter will continue the story, self-esteem disorder and all. No end. Or maybe we could give it one of those artistic, trail-off-and-leave-it-open endings. Perhaps We could end on a field of dandelions, which represents the hope that gets carried in the wind, although you weren’t supposed to know that, because it was implied by the image. Do you like my endings? If you still feel unsatisfied we offer you this: The story’s hero’s penis rammed into the vagina of the hero’s love-interest. Correction – Brian’s penis rammed into whatever holes you have to offer. Then he lived happily ever after. Somewhere, for one reason or another, fireworks exploded across the dark night sky, lighting it up with blossoms of red, orange and green. There you go. It has it all – romance, love, and a sense of completeness, all coming in together in one little paragraph at the end. Also, We’ve decided to postpone the Apocalypse again. I know it was set to go off earlier this evening, but God thought it’d be better to wait. We’ll keep you notified of upcoming End Times.

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Appendixes

Appendix C. Yellow Sweatshirt life lessons: When teaching English 111 at Miami University, I once wore the same legendary yellow sweatshirt to class for 3 weeks straight. Then I won the game. Here is the email I sent the children after my victory. i hope you losers have learned something from the yellow sweatshirt game that we had been playing, unbeknownst to you, for the past 3 weeks. lessons to take away: 1) being kind (and not pointing out dave's fashion woes) does NOT make you a winner. 2) if you had pointed out the fact that i wore the same shirt everyday, thereby winning the game, there was no prize anyway. in fact, i would have thought less of you, considering you to be a materialistic member of the fashion police. thus, the whole concept of "winning" is arbitrary, hollow and pointless. 3) people in power (like me, w/ my gradebook) play games just to fuck with you for our own amusement, without you even knowing it. also, congratulations to those of you who tried to spin the outcome as a victory in your favor, you will make great lawyers/ politicians someday. however, you still lost, in fact, you lost twice as badly. on top of your initial losing, you have now tried to win, which as shown in point 2 above, is actually losing. but you failed even at this. also, considering that your attempt at victory did not coincide with the completely arbitrary rules that i made up (and change on the slightest whim), it could be considered CHEATING, and by cheating you are disqualified, making you that much more of a loser. Have a good day now, take care, umkay?

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Dave

Appendix Q:

Condescending Philosophy Lessons for Children and Idiots:

Nihilsm: You know that little thing you call your life? Um, Yeah, it’s kindof empty and meaningless. This is what we call “nihilism.” Now go run along and play. Or not. It doesn’t really matter.

Metaphysical, transient, cosmological, ontomological: (all kind of heaped together a bucket.

You know that thing you call “reality.” Yeah, what you have is your own little concept of it. It exists in your mind. It’s unlike anyone else’s and it means everything to you. “Is reality even real?” is a common metaphysical question. Yes, there are things we can feel, touch, taste, hear and smell (when it’s not cold or allergy season) – these perceptions of reality are proven to exist, at least according to the mainstream societal collective perception of reality, or consensus reality - I’m sorry, am I using words that are too big for you children and idiots?

Anyway, the metaphysical are the things beyond the physical world. Perhaps this realm doesn’t interest you, and you prefer shopping! over existential philosophy. Then shop! shop! shop! and buy some objectively real shoes – it’ll keep supply side Jesus happy, and you happy, so you’ll keep your mouth shut, instead of asking questions, like, if you can’t objectively perceive the metaphysical, how can you work it into your reality without it becoming merely your conception of reality? What if your conception of reality conflicts with my conception of reality? Who’s reality is real? What if my reality overpowers your reality?

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As soon as it does I’m starting my cult. If we all run off and create our own new consensus reality won’t our reality remain The Reality as long as it’s not contaminated by other realities?

Appendix D: Relationship Advice

First off, you should always tell a woman how much you can bench press as soon as you meet her. If she doesn’t seem to care, then she probably isn’t the type of girl you want to get involved with anyway. Once you get to know her a bit, there will come a time to spark a casual discussion on the infinite and unavoidable sadness inherent in the human condition. If all goes well, she’ll have no idea what you’re talking about. This is an important requirement, because trying to ature of the infinite sadness is very open to interpretation, leaving you with plenty of excuses should you need to terminate the relationship. Make sure that her understanding of pain and suffering doesn’t affect her mood, because you don’t want her shit to bring you down. She must be cheerful at all times, like in Good Housekeeping magazine. Also, she should be subservient, but not in an overt fashion that makes you feel guilty about the male dominated hierarchy of society. It is important that you enjoy her subservience without feeling guilt.

In the end though, it doesn’t really matter. Here are the possible outcomes of any relationship:

1). You screw over your significant other. 2). Your significant other screws you over. 3). Both of you have over-inflated senses of self worth and mutually reject each other because you’re both not good enough. 4). You fall in love, forever. Then: 4a). You die.

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or 4b). They die.

Appendix K-Fed

K-Fed – etymology

Stemming from white trash pop-icon Kevin Federline, “K-Fed” is a multi-faceted swear word. Here are but a few examples of its many possible uses:

"Ah, man, Christmas is cancelled this year? That's so K-fed!"

"I didn't know a single answer on that test, I totally K-fedded it."

"Look at that dog, K-fedding all over the fire hydrant."

Appendix LMNOP:

Poem # 903,417

Oh, I don’t have that many, you say? Well, that’s just your opinion, which you are entitled to, no matter how ignorant

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and close-minded it may be.

On second thought, you might not actually be entitled to your opinion, since your warped viewpoint couldn’t technically be classified as an “opinion”.

You see, my opinion is the only one that matters because in my universe, it represents pure and absolute truth.

Perhaps you think that your opinion represents pure and absolute truth in your universe. but how do I know if your universe even exists?

Your saying it exists is simply you stating your opinion, which we’ve already determined to be meaningless.

So how do I prove to you that my universe exists?

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I don’t have to. That would be me appealing to your opinion, which does not matter, and may not even exist.

I know that my universe exists- that is my opinion, the only one that matters. So go make me a sandwich.

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