Bad Advice, Free!

by Fee Scumpaday, BAD ADVICE FREE, Liberal Leftwing Media (c) 2004

Blogging away blindly I blew a mind or two it turns out and I'm truly very sorry if any of my words have ever offended or confused anyone.

I tried to make it clear in the title I was joking. Unfortunately, once you scroll down past the part that says "Bad Advice," it may suddenly hit you that this is some of the worst advice you've ever read.

It would serve neither my honor nor humor to remind you that's the point. Those bold enough to attempt humor must be brave enough to face it when their efforts fall flat.

I have therefore decided to write henceforth under an assumed name, a pseudonym, nom d'plume, pen name, alias. It's something I've always wanted to do anyway.

There's a certain smug selflessness about hiding one's true identity; obviously it's thrilling or Batman wouldn't have bothered, and long ago we'd have known the identity of Deep Throat.

Those who claim to least want recognition generally want it most. The greatest commonality of those writing under pseudonym is their desire to be known. It's a coy device that only works in the presence of great material. Having a good costume helps too. Mark Twain had the white suit. Tom Wolfe has it now.

Two quick items that just occurred to me that could either be true or false. 1. The word wolf is onomatopoeic. (What does the wolf say? Woof!) 2. The origin of moo is obvious, but less so the word cow, which combines the suffix -ow with the K sound often associated with sudden pain (ex: Christ almighty! Crap on a soapdish!), or, as in this case, with sudden pain inflicted by the horn of what was then called a C+ow and later renamed Bull after its true nature was gradually revealed.

The bull behind Deep Throat is more troubling. There are many theories about the real identity of Deep Throat. Conventional wisdom has him as Hal Holbrook.

Others say it was Fred Fielding, deputy counsel to former President Richard Nixon.

I want to believe it was Bebe Rebozo, Richard Nixon's best friend and drinking buddy, mainly because Bebe Rebozo is as pleasing to type as it is to say out loud, and I regret not choosing it for my pen name.

Unfortunately both Bebe and Fred are dead and cannot confirm or deny they were somebody else, proving that fame of this type is fleeting since nobody knows you until you're dead, and even then they don't know you. You're a huge disappointment and lucky you're dead.

Even the also dead Linda Lovelace, the one and only true Deep Throat, wasn't really Linda Lovelace. She was Linda Boreman.

The only decision left for me concerns the cape. Too flashy? We'll see.

Do let me know your thoughts. Write me anonymously at the following secret mailbox. smeetie2001@yahoo.com. It was one those things where every name I wanted was picked and...

by Karl S. Darkly, BAD ADVICE FREE, Liberal Leftwing Media (c) 2004

There are just two ways to get things done: 1) do it yourself, or 2) hire out.

Most people assume they can't afford a personal assistant and simply set themselves to the task of taking care of their own business -- even though they know it's a proven route to failure!

Yet, the beautiful thing about being completely irresponsible is that, since you're not responsible, it's not your fault. Matt Damon taught us that lesson in Good Will Hunting. And look at him today. He's got no J-Lo to throw jewelry at. You don't see him tuxing up and wearing sunglasses and posing for the paparazzi. He hired Ben Affleck.

Practice this many times daily. Look at yourself in a mirror -- carry one with you at all times -- and repeat: It's not my fault. Eventually it will become so routine you won't have to think of what the words are -- they'll just come out of you.

It's not my fault.

These words begin a process known as deferment, wherein Your Pile is deferred to Their Pile and life becomes Good Again -- like when you were 8, that one year when your parents both loved you at the same time and you never had to take tuba lessons with Mr. Gruber until your second dad walked in on you leaping across your bedroom to The Nutcracker naked -- in your hand your dancing partner Myrtle the painted Turtle who turned out to be loaded with salmonella and your whole family pooed seaweed for three weeks -- and then your third dad sent you to drug rehab because it was free from the State, not that you had a drug problem, you didn't, you were actually severely depressed, but you developed a drug problem in rehab and returned with a vengeance to pay back your fourth dad who didn't know what was going on; it certainly wasn't his fault you were so confused!

But you know what?

Save it for your own Goodwill Screenplay.

I'm about to put you on Easy Street, Kid, where everyone's job is making you happy, and their every last dime on loan by you.

Those who know how things get done know one thing. Every US dollar, every euro, every yen is meant to be theirs and is already. This money is only in transit, passing through other pockets on its way to you.

To get things done you must commit to never lifting another finger to do what must be done even for your basic survival -- for the moment you do, the whole house of cards will come crashing down around you.

The sooner you defer, the sooner you'll reap the rewards. We know people who have forgotten how to tie their shoes and brush their teeth!

How come these people can do it? How can they afford it?

The answer is total commitment.

Like the pig and the chicken, walking along the avenue after breakfast, sucking on toothpicks, chewing the fat. Chicken says to the pig, isn't it great how you and me, through our hard work and dedication, can team up and turn out such an outstanding breakfast at such a fair price? And the pig says, phft, well, for you maybe dedication is what it takes, but for me it's total commitment.

Make a commitment now to never again wash your own car or mow your own lawn, change another light bulb or wipe yourself. It can be done. All you have to do, from this moment forward, in all matters large and small, is give it away, all of it.

Remember: the more you defer, the more successful you'll be.

I can't believe the crap they put out on the internet! These people can't be serious.

O.K. forget about the pig, pig always dies in the end. It's the law. Total commitment. A joke! Not a very a funny one, god damn depressing is what it is, but anthropormorphification is so rampant in our culture it actually feels cruel to not mourn the pig, which wrecks a breakfast and is a useless ability anyway, unless you happen to work for Disney.

I can't even remember what this stupid blog was about.

It's all about getting others to do for you what you can do for yourself but won't because you can!

Test it out. Finish this blog -- even better, get somebody else to finish it: you've learned enough.

Take yourself out for ice cream. Wait! You'll need to invite somebody first, and let them drive. If you let them assume you're buying, they'll feel it's an even exchange.

It is never necessary to lie if you allow people their assumptions.

You don't have to be sneaky to put Your Pile into Theirs. Help them want to help you. You arrive at Dairy Queen of Heaven and encourage your New Hire to try their Famous Kitchen Sink with Clog, which is the lobster of ice cream. You decide to have the same. When the total is announced, you sweep your friend away grandly, reach for your wallet with confidence, and pat yourself in panic.

That's all there is to it. This pile has been deferred. Difficult? Not very. In fact, it's the very definition of easy!

Still don't believe it?

Try it with your taxes. Did you know there's an endless supply of willing people just waiting to do your taxes -- for free? All you have to do is give them their first big break, and the rest is pretty much like our ice cream example: shuck, jive, next. Depending on your skill level, your would-be accountant will either be a) grateful for the leads, b) excited about your decision to include their link in your online magazine called Me Not You All Me. Some may not understand why it is they must pay your educational fees, especially since they generally work it so the government owes you money! You calmly explain the fish story, about the man who was hungry and wanted something to eat, and he asked a guy passing by and the guy hands him a fish and he says okay thanks and trades it for a hard salami; then a second guy comes along and says hey I'll teach you how to fish and then you'll have fish all the rest of your days. Guy hated fish, detested fish, completely tapped on fish and wracked with guilt all the time about that nice man that came around and taught him how to fish.

Now, a person who knows how to get things done would never be caught fishing for food ever, unless he felt like it. But technically basically today if you catch a fish and eat it, you will pay a hefty fine. You can't just catch a fish today and eat it. Fish have rights. You need a license.

So if that story happened today it would never happen.

Let me teach you how to fish, says the friendly passerby. First it's the wardrobe, the rubber clothes, the bigass boots the hats with pockets and vest with pockets and pockets with pockets and tackle and gear and lures in boxes and a boat and a license -- not for the boat, shoot, damn monkey can drive a boat -- the license is for the right to fish for fish that were put there for you to find, which requires sonar and flashlights with NASA technology and harrowing flights in twin-engine death traps flown by quiet men with no teeth charging huge dollars to ensure they return, what a racket.

Those who know how to get things done have somebody send out for fish. Wouldn't spend two seconds thinking about it.

by CW Fisher, BAD IDEAS FREE, Liberal Leftwing Media (c) 2004


If you're an American, you know that traveling to a strange land in which a foreign language is spoken is always terrifying because you never know what people are saying about you behind your back, and also you get the feeling people hate you.

They do.

Cannot stand you.

You're an idiot as far as they're concerned, and all that stuff they're saying behind your back is said with complete confidence that you don't speak their language.

Even Canadians hate Americans, but the fact that we can understand what they're saying only makes it worse.

Thanks to the Internet, the whole world is right at our fingertips. Why travel when you can take a stunning three dimensional virtual panormic tour of the Paris Hilton?

Hell, why go anywhere? I haven't been to my own living room in more than a year. No reason to.

The best part about Europe is everything is in walking distance. That's because it was built it before cars. Americans drive on the right side of the road, everyone else on the wrong, which is how we won the war; we ran them over. Our cars were bigger then, bigger now -- another reason they hate us. Americans can't win. Or lose. It's a double-edged thing.

Oh! We're so confused! European travel? So many little countries we've never even heard of! Nothing to do but walk around museums full of stuff we don't give a crap about! What's there to do?

What's there to do? Stop whining, for starters. Your answer comes in a word.

EuroDisney.

No lines. Plenty of parking. And Goofy has an accent. Trust me, this is all the Europe you really need to see. I think it's in France. Ask the guy at the airport. You probably just make a left and walk to the tram.

Two days at EuroDisney and you're nearly broke. Now what? Scotland! That wind-whipped little island where nobody notices anything and the blue-green sod says lie on me. Where money goes far because there's nothing worth buying.

There are many fascinating facts about Scotland that no one knows. For example, the Scots invented a type of bourbon that is actually just ordinary vinegar. They also gave us plaid.

The history of plaid is almost as colorful as the popular pattern itself. Scotsmen, descended from incestuous British royalty and banned to the desolate island because of their consistent and numerous birth defects -- spastic tongues that roll their r's just to irritate the ears of the Englanders, an odious cheapness that continues to threaten the economic well-being of all English-speaking peoples, and, most troubling of all, the weak sphincters of the men which made necessary the kilt. Plaid was quite useful for its hiding power as stains just seemed to disappear.

Greater absorbency became a reality later in this century with the invention of the ScotTowel. Prior to that, constant drippage was simply a fact of life. This is why they invented little Scottie dogs -- fluffy, absorbent little creatures, always at their master's feet, with an odor not unlike the urinary troughs at old Comisky.

About the names over there, and why they're all the same: again, incest is partly to blame; also a lack of imagination. If you live over there, it's best to have an "O" before your name, but try to avoid the "Mc" and "Mac" as they are all in copyright infringement.

My best advice to traveling Americans is stop, think, listen. Get a dish, kick back, surf the tube.

Yes! Get out the television -- it's that thing over there next to the phonograph -- and get back to your roots. You surf too much.

by CW Fisher, BAD ADVICE FREE, Liberal Leftwing Media (c) 2004


First the good advice. When driving drunk, don’t. Call a cab. Please. It's cheap. And it's good for the cab driver.

That’s the good advice. But the truth is many of you won’t take it. And you know who you are. You’re the ones who can take a beer with breakfast or not take a beer with breakfast –– doesn’t matter one way or the other, you’re fine, you’re driving, and you’re legion.

Well, if you won’t take advantage of our good advice, please take advantage of our bad.

Close one eye. It eliminates double vision by gettting to the root of the problem: you have too many eyes. Be sure to close the inside eye or it will look like you’re sleeping to a passing cop. Do not wear an eyepatch. Try clear tape.

Follow a truck at a safe, steady distance. If you have cruise control, use it. And if you have any decency you’ll haul your sorry ass to an AA meeting because you are a danger to human life.

The smell. Getting rid of the smell of alcohol on your person is very difficult, especially for heavy drinkers, since the odor continues to seep through their pores days after the alcohol was originally consumed. In these cases, suck a mint. In fact, if you sucked more mints you’d solve half your problems right there, bud.

You find it’s not enough to suck a mint. You have to take a shower and change your clothes every once in awhile. And shave too, why not.

Coverups. Colognes and perfumes, especially those that are alcohol-based, make excellent covers for moderate drinkers, but for those big dippers, the cologne only makes the booze more obvious. Say for example you return from a break at a meeting of the school board, on which you sit, there’s a full house of angry citizens and you’re the chair, you stagger in reeking of Shalimar. You’re a 58 year old man in a backward toupee.

Coverups don’t work. Deep down, everybody knows this. Yet there are many who actually swallow perfumes in an attempt to eliminate any hint of alcohol. The people who choose this method are almost always drunk at the time. Swallowing isopropyl alchohol is a bad idea always. It’s poison. It’s not the same. It’s different.

The smell that comes from the mouth of a person who has swallowed perfume is indescribably good in a very bad way.

Drinking perfume is a wonderful idea for those who are too drunk to think clearly. The rest of the world, however, which is much smarter than you at the moment, will recognize the unmistakable smell of Obession mingled with gyros and gin.

Others we know have downed whole bottles of Listerine, presumably to seek relief from their odor problem only to find that -- whoa -- it's loaded with booze, the good kind, the ethyl kind. I once had the occasion to smell the breath of a man who had nothing to eat or drink but Listerine for nearly six days. Fresh doesn't begin to even touch it.

Some have tried to cover their breath by brushing their teeth and tongue – always good thinking, and good advice for us all. But drunk people like to take things one more step, just one more step. It is not uncommon for employers to encounter employees who smell like a doctor’s office. Now there’s a real heads-up smell that triggers an instant fight or flight response. All nostrils snap to at isopropyl, and every person you’re passing is thinking: shot! Be more low key. Try drinking at home!

In our experience the only thing that can override the smell of alcohol is gasoline, but this is the very worst thing you could do. True, it covers. True, it’s about the only thing that does. True, it’s easy to get gas all over yourself – you don’t have to be drunk to lose control of the pump. Happens all the time.

But the reason you’re considering this is because you’re drunk. Dude. You will overdo it with the dousing. You will forget and have a smoke. You will burn until you are put out. Which makes this our worst advice.

To recap, call AA, any phone book.

CW Fisher

No woman should ever have to walk the street, in my opinion, not with sidewalks so plentiful. Use the sidewalk. That's what it's there for.

If it is dark out, which is impossible in any city, stay in the brightest areas even if you have to take a crazy zigzag route to get there -- especially if you do. Molesters don't go for that. Outrageously insane behavior will keep you safe anywhere in the world, up to a poinit, after which they lock you up. Otherwise people will leave you alone, especially government agencies. You will be safe. Just don't look suspicious, darting between trees. Dart quickly, imagine you're invisible, and good luck, but try to keep your cackling from rousting the neighborhood dogs.

As you walk, as you lose yourself in the rhythm of your heels and your heart and your lungs you may feel your mind sniffing the outer banks of permissible thought, wandering over the border into a dreamlike domain wherein you should not be surprised to discover in a corner of your medulla oblongota the very secret of the universe or the reason why Oprah looks so good on TV and so bad in the Enquirer.

This is an excellent time to get raped. Be careful when you walk, wherever you live. Your town is a safe town, I'm sure, but a rapist is not a town.

Follow my advice: Bring a dog or borrow a neighbor's. Have your cell phone pre-dialed to 911 and ready to send with your left hand; in your right hand is a can of pepper spray, finger pre-poised over the button to make sure it's spraying away from you.

For further protection, wear all black and sneak along the bushes, or choose all white with reflective strips everywhere. When crossing wide areas of black emptiness such as parks, don't; stay where there are houses and streetlights. If you must walk at odd hours because you're an artist and you do so desire to slip deep into the silven fog of a darkening eve, slip into this straitjacket: you're delusional.

Finally, if you have a gun, keep it loaded and cocked at all times, in your right hand, supported by your left, with the gun pointing up and away from your face or you will shoot yourself in the chin. If Charlie had ever bothered to watch his own Angels he would have seen them doing this constantly. Holding the gun as described, sprint from tree to tree.

Now you're free to return to those outer-limit thoughts of yours. Happy walking!