.45 Caliber Headspace

As we all know, the world will be ending in 2012. While four years may seem like a lot of time (longer than a typical marriage), you’ll be surprised at how fast this time elapses (and how bad an idea wedlock is). Most people—especial old ones—will feebly try utilizing this time pursuing a boring bucket list—like those old people did in that movie about old people, not Cocoon or Wild Hogs, but the more recent one with less old people. I, however, have plans that involve neither old people nor old people’s lists. Since I’ve already done everything worth doing in life, I now plan to focus more on what I should continue not doing with my remaining numbered days.

• I will not be polite to people I don’t like. This simple anti-social maneuver frees up about 90% of my day. If I even sense the possibility of having to interact with people I don’t like, I may even resort to feigning Tourrette’s. People you don’t like are hesitant to want to approach after you’ve called them a “motherfucking ass clown” for no good reason. The only problem with this technique is that when you really mean it, the motherfucking ass clowns will assume that your Tourrette’s is just acting up again and they will continue being motherfucking ass clowns.
• I will not tell chicks where I live or give them a working phone number. There is just too much seed to be spread in four years, and I can’t afford to waste time getting restraining orders against clingy psychos that have never had it so good. Instead, I tell them my place is being renovated and fornication will have to be conducted elsewhere. I also tell them that I don’t carry a phone because it makes it too easy for the sleeper cells I infiltrate to zero in on my location after I’ve sabotaged their operations. This always makes chicks both impressed and afraid for my safety: a winning combination.
• I will not return to work. Working is for chumps that haven’t learned to live off the fat of the government. The government already has more money coming in than it can believably launder in wild goose chases for fictitious villains and their hidden weapons caches. Your average American cop can successfully track down a jaywalker from a skin cell shed at a busy intersection, yet I’m to believe we can’t produce a Bin Laden or single misplaced Russian nuke? Hell no. Dip your hands in those fat pockets now folks, before Hillary just blows that money on Ugg Boots, Louis Vuitton crotchless panties, and other gaudy chick crap.
• I will not watch Lost unless I start getting some answers. If I have to go another four years without a clue as to what this damn show is about, I will single-handedly find a way to stop the shifting of the poles just so I can kill the motherfucking ass clown writers myself. Waiting for a bone makes me almost as frustrated as waiting for these writers to get financing to finish building X Games stadiums in their back yards. People without X Games stadiums in their yards seem to get by just fine. I don’t even have a yard, since I live in the sardine can that is San Francisco. Like other normal people, I hold X Games in my garage when my Hummer isn’t parked there. I drive a Hummer in San Francisco just to piss off all the suckers driving Priuses. I wish these yuppies would stop pretending to care about the environment while hypocritically filling the atmosphere with the cellular radiation terrorists use to find me. I am not following this slight of hand. Only I can save the world, and I will only do so long enough to personally kill the writers of Lost, after enjoying X Games in their back-yard stadiums.