This book has spent years in the New York Times Bestsellers List, and first topped the list in 2017.
Having just read ‘The Secret’ by Rhonda Byrne, with a heavy focus on positive thinking, Mark Manson takes a big dump on that immediately.
He says visualisations and affirmations about being more successful are harmful because they highlight what you lack. ‘’No true happy person needs to stand in front of a mirror and say she’s happy.’’
Choose your battles
In a nutshell, choose what you give a fuck about and don’t spend time fretting over things that don’t have to matter to you. He certainly thinks you shouldn’t give a fuck about social media people who appear to have everything.
Equally, don’t expect to feel good all the time, because it’s unattainable. Being positive? If life sucks, admit it. Feeling…
“Boldizsár, I Came to Kick Your Bony Ass.” With only a few of the fine illustrations by Anita benson-Bradley
For decades, Lazlo Toth has been one of the world’s most famous authors. Until 2019, he always wore a wig of thick brown hair that made him appear young, healthy and virile. Last March, while he was being interviewed on the Red Carpet at the Oscars. That night, in front of a billions, a sudden gust blew the expensive toupee right off of his head, exposing him as the vain “cueball,” that he is.
Laszlo wrote novels about the supernatural. They were based on scientific fact and he prided himself on being a rational man. He became interested in genetics while working on a new novel, and joined the group called BlameYourAncestors.com.
Within two weeks after sending in his DNA sample, Laszlo discovered he was 87% Hungarian and, apparently, 13 percent cheese, citing a few stray genetic threads to Luxembourg, Switzerland and four other cheesy countries.
Thanks to BlameYourAncestors.com he was also able to narrow his search back his Hungarian family.
With a little bit of digging, he discovered an old Tóth family portrait. The Tóths in the painting, all the men, some of the women and even a few of the children and even a few family pets suffered from severe baldness (alopecia). Alopecia was also his grandmother’s name.
Laszlo allocated another fortune, that he’d saved on haircuts, to expand the DNA search and finally received the results that he’d been hoping for. The ‘bald problem’ that plagued his life was traced back to a singular human ‘monster.’
The creature’s name was Count Oszkár Tóth. He’d been a rich landowner in sixteenth century Walachia.
Oszkár’s mother, The Countess Cynthia, told her son that she had seen a well known local magician, named Mah-dik, running away from the castle and into the nearby Petrifying Forest carrying a shiny yellow object in his hand.
Laszlo ordered the local police to “find Mah-dik!” Once captured, he ordered the Magician to be burned at the stake.
At the Barbecue, Laszlo, was cornered and cursed by the magician’s wife, a powerful witch named Eegahd.
The next morning, as Oszkár combed, his glorious mane shed. The hair that made him such a ‘wench magnet’ fell to the ground.
As a result of the Eegahd’s curse, all of Count Oszkár’s children, male and female, became bald as well; that is until in October 31, 1712, when the entire clan were tortured, murdered, dismembered, and turned into a savory paprika goulash by a nomadic Gibors.
Only one Tóth escaped the massacre, the youngest noble in line, Boldizsár, who continued to selfishly spread the Tóth baldness curse throughout the western world.
“The Bastard!” Thoughts of revenge pushed their tendrils in into Laszlo’s vain and twisted mind. Online, he hired a Hungarian scholar, to help him track down ‘Baldy’ Boldizsár’s resting place. That is when Laszlo made the first irrational decision since his eleventh failed marriage, to visit his cursed ancestor’s crypt and ‘kick his bony ass to Hell.’
The following October…
Before the frost set in,Laszlo made his trip, alone, to Walachia.
Unfazed by local superstition, Laszlo arrived ten minutes before midnight at Tóth Citadel in Ploiești. He quietly drove his rent-a-car around the back of the ancient structure to the bone yard, parked and opened the trunk to remove a lantern and a heavy Road Rager Crowbar.
Laszlo found the rusty cemetery gate open, and by the light of the full moon, jimmied his way into the Tóth Mausoleum. Once inside, he lit his lantern, shooed away the vermin (Bald rats?!!!!) and quickly began to go to work. He located Boldizsár’s resting place and slid the heavy lid off the count’s stone coffin, only to find out that most the bones had already been defiled.
Luckily, the pelvic bone, the skeleton’s ‘ass,’ was still in tact.
Jubilant, Laszlo carried the pelvis outside among the gravestones.
‘Q-Ball’Laszlo kicked Boldizsár’s bony ass all over the churchyard until he could kick no more. After a short rest and a drink from his flask, Laszlo gathered up the broken pelvis parts back inside the mausoleum, dumped them back into the coffin and took a few cellphone photos — including one of the inscription on the wall above:
“Lehet, hogy rúgta a csontos seggem, kemény fickó. De még mindig kopasz vagy.”
The author, satisfied with the bony ass kicking, didn’t review the inscription until he arrived back home in the states.
“Lehet, hogy rúgta a csontos seggem, kemény fickó. De még mindig kopasz vagy.”
(Translation: “You may have kicked my bony ass, tough guy, But, guess what? You’re still bald.”)
Dauna the Fijian Shark Goddess while in her human form, wanted to read Interpol agent Bernie Benedict (aka Cupcake) a story…
“Eric was a particularly evil Viking,” The 3000-year-old goddess Dauna recited. “I’ve got the original Viking text right here. The tale is ‘Den Lille Dragen Båt Som Kunne.’ In English, that translates to ‘The Little Dragon Boat That Could.’” “Is that book is made of real gold?” Bernie was impressed. “Sure. Sit, my lutefisk. Lay your horny helmet upon my lap.” What did she just say? “Tell me what happened to your lip? Kissing another sexy fish besides your little Dauna?” “Goldie, my goldfish. She attacked me. I had this feeling that your arch enemy, Edwin MacHeath, set my own pet against me! Goldie jumped out of the tank and bit me on the lip when I was leaving the house.” “Goldie? Your little Goldie? Goldie Geller? That BITCH! Jesus.” “Yeah! Jesus was there too (Bernie talked to Jesus on a regular basis because the Messiah wanted Bernie to set him up on a date with one of goddesses that he knew).
“Maybe, Jesus was mad it because I’d walked out on him, late for work. And, to tell you the truth, last night, I was given another ‘physical’ by your ‘trusted’ friend, Artemis. I should probably report her to the Olympus Medical Board.” “Short skirt?” “Barely there. Ow (Bernie’s injured flunkerwagger was throbing in pain).” “SLUT! Sorry.” Dauna moved to the far end of the couch. “It’s okay, Cupcake. Come here, my gold fish warrior. Rest your head.”
Bernie cautiously stretched his tired, hairy, lumpy body across the (barely tolerant) couch to lay his head upon the goddess’ soft thigh. Bernie closed his eyes as Dauna stroked his hair. Dauna’s gentle breathing made him feel as if he were rocking on a boat beneath the stars. He snuggled into her warm welcoming lap. Dauna’s ‘scent’ was now fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. Bernie was calming down (ha ha). Dauna reached over Bernie, toward the coffee table to grab the ancient book. Somehow, carelessly, she brushed her barely covered nip across his lip. “Oops. Ooh, you poor boy.” She placed her bottle of salt water (she had to drink the stuff regularly while on land) on Bernie’s lap. His pain crested then subsided. “Now, close your eyes and open your mouth. I’ve got something for my good boy — while I read to you.” “I’ll be fine.” “You’re still fidgeting. I said, eyes closed, mouth open. Wide, like a grouper.” Bernie was expecting a lollipop or an aspirin. Instead Dauna placed the same thinly covered breast across his mouth, thinking that it would be ‘the civil thing to do.’ Maybe this will finally calm-him-the-fuck down.
“Catch of the day, huh, Bernie? Now, do you promise to stop fidgeting? Put on this bib.” “Whugamuh?” “You’re drooling…”
“So, what’s the big deal About Nommy Nommy Nummy Noms? That evening, the tall, beautiful Moon Goddess, Artemis and Bernie’s ex-cat Bomba roared up onto the muddy lawn of Bernie’s rented bungalow in Santa Monica with a load of Artemis’ freshly captured handbags in the backseat. ‘Artie’ parked the Barracuda. She had an urgency about her—something very important to show the sleeping Bernie. The door was unlocked—once Artie had twisted off the knob. Moonbeams were streaming through Bernie’s window when he felt his thighs impacted. Artemis had pinned him down as if he were a specimen. Her smooth knees were on his shoulders. As she stared at Bernie coldly, Bomba the cat had dutifully taken his place next to the door as if to prevent his ex-can opener’s escape. Bernie had no intention of going anywhere; he was quite content where he lie. “What time is it?” he asked. “Don’t you dare move a muscle, hot shot,” said Artemis. She reached behind her and flicked Bernie’s injured flunkerwagger (Imprisoned and injured wiener) with a long fingernail. “That oughta wake you up, suckling pig.” “Damn! What was that for?” Artemis was a little ticked off over Dauna’s boasting and breastfeeding of Bernie. “It’s just unfair. As a viiiiiirrrrgin, I have these rules I must abide to. That tramp has none. Is it true that Dauna nurtured you like an infant?”
Excerpt From: Fred Barnett. “Shark Fin Soup 2020.” Amazon & Apple Books.
On March 18, 1955, Terpsichore, an ancient muse, opened a bar in LA called The Duck n’ Fishes. On that day, she updated her name to Cheri and began to create much of the great music that we enjoy today.
The ‘D n’ F’ bar was also a place where the exhibitionist goddess could dance ‘au naturale.’ (“Her loose overalls were flashing sides of everything except bacon.”)
Everything was good, until…
… the late 70’s ( ‘The Dark Age of Music.’ ) when evil forces lead by The God of Sleaze, Anthony Rubio, began to replace real musical talent with pony-tailed middle-aged lawyers. To save music, Cheri had to gather her collection of unearthly friends to fight Rubio’s ponytailed army of cocaine snorting Hollywood sh*theels.
Johnny Passion was her chief weapon. The washed-up leader of the 60’s rock band, The Love Muscle, was Cheri’s faithful friend. She always protected Johnny and believed that his voice would lead music’s new renaissance.
But despite the goddess’ blessing, Johnny felt that his life was going nowhere, and one day jumped into his Mustang and drove deep into Nevada — to ‘find himself.’
Instead, Johnny found Sheena and the Queens of the Jungle, a statuesque, all hungry, female Las Vegas music revue — neighbors of billionaire Howard Hughes. Johnny somehow managed to become their slave …. their ‘house boy.’
The Amazonian ladies loved their Johnny (every day — and twice on Sundays). After twenty years the aging cougars decided to cut him loose, at midnight, in the middle of the desert.
Back home, Cheri patiently waited.
In August of 1992, Johnny limped back into to LA begging Cheri’s forgiveness.
To accomplish a big Las Vegas comeback for Johnny, Cheri needed to make sure that Johnny had the best coaches, the best songs and, most importantly, a reason to sing.
Cheri also had to find the only cure for Johnny’s broken heart. She needed to find the girl named Rebel, Johnny’s first, lost and last true love.
With the help of ghosts and two aliens,
Cheri would put Johnny and Rebel together again.
The Man From Nantucket
Adapted from The Timeless Children’s Classic
‘The Bountiful Mutiny’
With naughty nautical limericks
The Bountiful Mutiny (unabridged)
“Tales of Salty Sea Men and Soaked Sirens”
(Tragic Lust #65)
Born on the Island of Nantucket, in 1906, Sam Swathorn was the only surviving grandson of the celebrated William “Barnacle” Balls (the sailor). In the early 20th century kids matured early and that is when young Sam sprung forth, like a boner, to take his place in the world as The Man From Nantucket.
When six-year-old Ether Gray and his four-year-old sister, Anesthesia, took their little brown and white dog, Femur (Woof! Woof!), for his morning walk down tree-lined Sunny Lane. During the late morning, the street was normally empty.
The two Gray kids were not welcome in town.
The Gray children awoke to the festive sounds of local kids laughing and stealing all the cookies and candy off of Wingnut’s counter. From across the street, Old Alvin watched — as the well-bred children of Cowsill ransacked his life.
Even a pauper’s death was preferable to listening to those two lifeless whippersnappers who were still inside his store.
The Gray’s classmates had run out of the store with their booty in a hurry, making believe that they didn’t hear Ether and Anesthesia calling their names.
It was dark when Ether and his little sister had left Wingnut’s. Stolen bags full of “free” chocolaty snacks were stacked up in the little red wagon that the two tykes had borrowed.
The Gray kids and their trusty pooch, Femur (Woof! Arf!) headed off for the Fair.
“Observe, Anesthesia! It’s Goofy Moofy!”
Moofy whined to himself as he lay in the gutter.
“I’ve got ‘man tits.’ My suckling babies are coughing up hairballs! Whaaaaa!” cried Goofy. Moofy was Cowsill’s official town drunk.
Anesthesia was puzzled. She looked up to Ether and asked, “What are ‘man tits,’ big brother?”
Ether began to roll on the subject. “Well, my little sister … Wait! … Sit, Femur! Sit!” ‘Woof! Woof!’ Good boy! … Okay, Anesthesia. Man tits. What Goofy Moofy means is … that he is in possession of rather capacious breasts for a male of the human species.”
“Oh! You mean hooters!”
“Uh — that’s what our father used to call them until mom castrated him with the Hamilton Beach juicer, Anesthesia. A sophisticated person would refer to the mammary glands, respectfully, as breasts. Breastfeeding provides nutrition for baby mammals….”
“What are you kids yapping on about? Please! Stop!” said Goofy Moofy.
“Listen, Mr. Moofy, and you will learn! A mammal is a warm-blooded animal, associated with the class Mammalia. Mammals possess a vertebrate, hair, or fur, and bear live young who are nourished by the secretion of milk by the females of the species by way of special glands, or as my Yale Medical professor called them … ‘a nice rack.'”
(Luckily for Goofy Moofy, he was piss-drunk and had already passed out.
Another lucky soul saved from tedium by alcohol.)
Femur, after licking up the booze in the puddle next to Moofy, was trying to bark “Woofth! Woofth!” (which means: “Hey, I love you, Dog.”).
The little terrier could not walk any farther. Femur needed to be put into the wagon with the bags of Wingnut’s candy.
What kind of threat can bring our divided America together again?
Rats! Giant rats! Millions of giant rats!
The Duck n’ Fishes
The proprietor and bartender, Shannon was a good listener, up to a point. She had her limits. Her ‘limit’ on this Friday was when Al Nichol wanted to show off his new gun while he was drinking inside her quiet bar.
“I know that clown!” said war vet and helicopter pilot, Al Nichol, who was looking across the bar at the front page of Ken’s newspaper. “Wishy-washy stupid jerk!” Ken was a ponytailed old hippie who demonstrated against the same war.
“The Umberto Vaguerro that I know is a straight-up guy,” said old hippie, Ken.
“It says that Umberto is a painter,” said Ken Robby who had spread the Los Angeles News out upon the bar. “Sorry, pal,” said Al. “Umberto sounds kinda Artsy-fartsy? What does he paint? Protest posters, I bet … when he’s not busy raising crab lice over at Spahn Ranch with Timothy Leary and the Manson girls.”
Ken looked suspiciously at loudmouth Al and quietly shook his head. “No. Umberto paints houses, shrapnel brain.”
“I’m sorry, did I disturb your happening?” said Al. “Go ahead, look out the window. It’s a real love-in on the street today. All of that traffic and nobody seems to be upset. Why aren’t they honking? Those people out there are like lambs on their way to slaughter. THIS is a bigger problem than the incense shortage in Haight-Ashbury! Look at all of them. PITA people!”
“The animal rights group PETA?”
“No! The initials are P-I-T-A, for Pains In The Ass! Have you noticed how many show up on Fridays? They’ve got a plan.”
“I haven’t heard anyone mention Timothy Leary since 1969. What’s the ‘plan?’”
“Wanna see my new toy? Check this out. I’ve got a .44 Magnum, the most powerful…”
Shannon sprang into action and pounded the bar in front of Al’s face. “Put that damned thing away!” She froze him with her ice blue eyes, finally saying, “I think that you need to stand in the corner and think about what you just did.”
“Sorry, ma’am. I’ll never bring it in here again. But you never know when you’ll need one.” Ken let out a sigh of relief as he watched Al slip the gun back into his jacket pocket.
Both men lived around the corner from the Duck n’ Fishes.
Shannon, was scrappy enough to take on any shenanigans that might happen on her watch. Shannon was on edge trying to give up her lifelong smoking habit.
A line cars had been at a stand still in front of the Duck ‘n Fishes for over a half hour.
“Listen.” Al said to Ken. “We’re both Americans. I know we don’t agree on much, but I believe that we are all in great danger. I think that you know what I know and information like that puts us right at the top of their hit list.”
Ken asked, “Who’s hit list?” emphasizing the syllable ‘belch.’ Ken was trying to steady his nerves with a beer and the newspaper after having sat, for over two hours, in the same Los Angeles traffic Hell outside the bar’s door. He noticed the lack of traffic noise outside. The quiet was … odd.
“Liberal sheep,” said Al. “ I’ve seen you stuck out there on the 405 on Fridays. Sure. I’ve seen your VW van from the air. The rolling pot bordello with the peace sign on the Kremlin-red roof.”
“My mother used to call it my ‘whore house on wheels.’Mr. Nichol, I agree with you — about there being some kind of organized group behind the phenominomin.. phenomenum.”
“You’re not supposed to agree with me, long hair. What are you getting at?”
“Normally, I’d call you a paranoid redneck, but I’ve seen them too. The extra cars. The vermin,” Ken said while pointing to the solid lines of cars outside, “I’ve seen them coming out of their lairs. It seems that we’ve got giant rats, of all things, running an upholstery shop in Tijuana. And I do think that it’s odd that the News put the ‘tar’ story right under the ‘rat’ story. Tar may be the reason that they’ve been driven out of the tunnels.”
“Let me see that.” Al took the paper from Ken’s hand and read the headline. “Now, THIS is a freaky groove, man. Maybe the rats are being forced out of their hiding places.”
Headline: La Brea Tar Spilling into LA River
La Brea, Los Angeles, 6 a.m. December 12, 2012
Tar is appearing in the Los Angeles River channel from the area near the La Brea tar pits. Large black streams have traveled downstream between Marvin and La Cienega. There are a tangle of drains, with overflows built into them … A few very large drains have an outlet at Fairfax and La Cienega, bringing in flows from as far north as West Hollywood. There are still active oil wells in this zone, so it is fair to speculate that there…
“It seems like thousands of them lie in wait in the tunnels until Friday morning arrives,” said Al.
“You may think that I have granola for brains, sir, but the reason I mentioned the tunnels was, one morning, when I couldn’t sleep…”
“I had you pegged for snotty muesli,” replied Al.
Ken continued: “Ha ha…So I went out for an early breakfast and as I drove by the river bed near La Brea, I saw cars pouring out of the portal near Slauson. This was at 4 a.m. I thought that I was still hallucin…dreaming.”
Ken worked from 5:30 a.m. to 4 p.m., six days a week as a security guard for Worldwide Awake Security. He drove from Santa Monica to Downtown and back nearly every day.
“You live over on Cowan, right?” asked Al.
“Yeah. The green house,” said Ken.
“I’ll tell you a little story. You’ll probably think that my head is full of shrapnel. It’s possible. I was a pilot in Iraq, and now I pilot a traffic helicopter. They want to replace me with a drone.”
Al was employed as a pilot for KHLA Traffic Helicopter Watch, though was now on administrative leave because of his alcoholism and violent tendencies. Last month Al had been filmed by police below dropping beer bottles on cars near Pasadena at sunup.
“It wasn’t like I was dropping bottles on real people. I felt as though I was dropping them on the silly rodents that I’ve seen scurrying out of the tunnels in the river bed. These Friday commuters are like rats.”
Ken slid over one barstool next to Al so that his old ears could hear the pilot better.
Al still had some gumption unlike Ken whose only exercise these days was pressing his right foot into the gas pedal. Ken relaxed at the Duck n’ Fishes every afternoon. He would sit for hours looking and dreaming over the blue-eyed owner, Shannon, behind the bar.
“I used to fly over this mess nearly every day,” said Al.
A sharp jolt shook the bar. They all felt the earthquake though no one flinched. Just a typical day in LA.
The two old men never really spoke about their mutual experience with the extra ‘PITA’ (Pains-In-The-Ass) people before today. Though at politically opposite poles, they both had a similar gut feeling about Fridays, that others would seem irrational. The scope of the problem would go far beyond their political disagreements. Al Nichol felt it was time to befriend Ken Rodby because he felt that their great city and all their lives were in grave danger. Ken’s blood pressure was sky high. He was the kind of personality that held it in. Always held it in.
The PITAs came from beneath the Freeways and waited for the clueless humans to reach their ‘bursting point’ while stuck in traffic. The Pitas wanted them to have coronaries. Afterward, shielded from view within the immobile parking lot called the 405, they would gnaw on the human corpses as Friday night descended.