The Books That Will Sell More Than The Bible And Create Harmony in the USA

This idea might have already been used, but since this is the Internet I don't really have any fear of plagiarism, since all of the Internet is pretty much plagiarism.

I am going to write and produce the two books that will sell more copies than any book in history. I will surpass Whitman, Twain, Steinbeck, and Shakespeare in sales. I might even pass God.

The book will be a two cover book, with one side of the book being one separate book and other side of the book being another separate book.

The title of one side will be All Religious Fundamentalist Will Burn in Hell

The other side will be All Leftist Hardcore Liberals Should Kill Themselves.

The two books will both be very well developed arguments. They will denounce the beliefs of each other and contradict each other perfectly. They will be well thought out and researched. Pain stacking effort will be made to ensure that both sides have extremely valid arguments that contradict the beliefs of the other side.

But that's not why the books will sell well.

My marketing campaign will be the most intelligent marketing campaign in history.

My plan is to incite enough hate in me on both side that I gain millions upon millions of dollars.

On the left I want to be boycotted. I want my book to be considered trash that is a threat to human rights, animal rights, and the advancement of academic thought. I want to be called racist, sexist, and, most importantly, evil. I want these people to compare me to Hitler.

The more they talk about how horrible the book is and how people shouldn't buy it, the more people will go out and buy the damn thing just to see what all the fuss is about.

It's like the reverse psychology your parents used on you, only with death threats.

On the right I want to inspire the largest concentrations of book burnings in history. I want this book to cause a serious spike in global warming. I want every religious nut to make it his christian duty to destroy my work.

Because the gotta buy it to burn it and never underestimate the spending power of Mein Kampf crowd.

The titles and contents will not be enough to incite the amount of pure hatred that is necessary to accomplish these goals. We live in a visual age of non stop advertising and books can not consider themselves any different if they want to keep up with other forms of media.

Therefore I will commission three series of book covers for both sides specifically targeted to incite hate within the separate communities.

First the conservatives.

I will assemble a congregation of the Church of Satan to join me. The will be in the background wearing the most stereotypical garb they can find with the biggest pentagram they can find. In the foreground will be me hold an American Flag upside down setting it on fire.

The combination of religious heresy and treason will surely encourage many to burn the book.

The next scene will take place in a scenic small town of Apple Pie USA. In the back ground will be a group of gay pride marchers. The group will consist of drag queens, black leather wearing bikers, and a few people that look like every day people but will be holding a rainbow flag. In the foreground will be the most successful and content gay couple in America open mouth kissing each other. Naked.

This could possible be the best selling one of the whole group since homophobia in the religious community is self righteousness in the liberal community. Shit's everywhere.

The last one will be the most artistic. in the back ground will be a setting sun over the grand canyon. The clouds will be a wonderful set of reds, purples, and hazy oranges. In the foreground, close up, will be an aging couple from "The Greatest Generation." They will be sitting at a wooden table and the man will be reaching across the table to hold his wife's hand as they share a tender smile and stare. Between them will be a foot an a half long black dildo.

The stark contrast of all that is American natural beauty combined with an image of the realization of the American dream set against such a strong sexual image will have the religious right buying thousands of gallons of gasoline. Your welcome Shell.

Also this is probably my favorite, because all these hate mongers are all twisted in the head and all have strange sexual appetites. So publicly they speak out against the picture but internally they wish they themselves could us the apparatus.

Thus I am not only taking their money but I am also getting to add a nice little layer of hypocrisy to their lives. Shit's paying off double.

For the liberals I look to offend harshly.

For the Animal rights groups I intend to go to a slaughter house. I will commission a large speaker system and three kegs of beer. In the background will be all the workers of the slaughter house cheering with beers in their hands. In the foreground will be me with a chainsaw cutting off the head of a cow.

Don't worry the cow will already be dead, I'm not going to make something suffer that much just for a picture, but the strength of the imagery will surely get the PETA crowd up in arms. A bunch of men and women of a slaughterhouse glorifying in the death of animal will also be a cool little comparison to images from cave walls.

Second image is the one that will get me assassinated. First in the background will be a large confederate flag. In the foreground will be me and four of my friends all dressed up in confederate uniforms. We will all be holding M-16s and in front of us will be a banner that says "Fuck Communism." (Reference to Garth Ennis) At our feet will be a large picture of Osama Bin Laden with bullet holes in it.

This is a threefer. First pisses off all the human rights groups with the confederate flag and the uniforms. I get all the gun control sissies with the M-16s. Finally I get to confront all the world peace coom-by-ya wusses with the riddled picture of Osama. Win-win-win situation.

The last one is the most simplistic. This copy of the book will feature me pouring the worlds most coveted and bottle of wine into a port a john at the Talledega 500, while dumping in assorted cheeses. This book will come complete with a picture every chapter of a red neck who used the john. The top of the john will read "Democrat = Socialist."

And that will pretty much cover me for the whole rich celebrity over political crowd.

After the book is published, and I have made my millions of dollars, I will soon be hunted down and killed. Either a zealot form the left or a religious whack job from the right. I just hope they aim for the head and make it quick.

Before my death the communities from both sides will vilify me. They will join in the only thing that ever brings together two groups of idiots which is hating some other idiot.

The divide in America will be closed and the country will once again prosper.

For When I Am Dead

Funerals have always been my phobia. Ever since I attended my uncle's funeral I've been deathly afraid of the whole ordeal.

Honestly can there be anything more rediculous?

"Hi, how are you? So, as it turns out, your loved one is dead so could you please go stand in a room with the corpse for a couple of hours with everyone dressed in black and crying?"

Um, fuck that.

First off I'm getting the pizza treatment.

Also when I am shoved into the oven I will not be wearing a suit. I will be wearing Game Day attire. Crimson pants/ white button up long sleeve with sleeves rolled up to forearm/ houndstooth tie/ boots/ hat that displays hatred for rivals schools/ picture of Jay Barker most winning quarterback in Alabama history over my heart/ picture of Bo Jackson taped to my ass/ houndstooth hat placed over stomach.

En lieu of the classic funeral I will instead have enough money set aside to rent out a hall with a stage and to have a Jimmy Buffet cover band booked. Needless to say, money will be set aside for alcoholic beverages to fully stock the bar to last all day.

Everyone who wears a hawiain shirt drinks for free. Shirts will be set aside for people dumb enough to wear black.

En lieu of a body my ashes will be poured into a kid pool where people will be encouraged to pour a drink in every now and then. Behind this a stand with a large picture of me, drunk, at one of my fraternity parties.

After the party is over the pool will be thrown into a dumpster, because after you've shoved my decomposing body into a furnace it doesn't really matter where what's left ends up.

Guess what? You're all singing along ass holes.

The moment of silence in my honor will not be silent, it will be replaced with the University of Alabama's fight song "Yea, Alabama" being played. If you feel the need to break the moment of silence to shout "Roll Tide!" or "Go to hell Alabama!" I fully understand.

This is the southeast.

Many good things will be said about me. More bad things will be said about me.

I won't care, because I will be dead.

At least five people have to hook up at my death party and condoms are not allowed. I want to be responsible for at least a little bit of life in this world.

Fights are allowed, as long as someone is able to get it on camera and post it on the internet.

The Moment of Truth

So this is something I learned from reading a book.

There is this theory that your body holds the endorphins and chemicals within yourself to flood your brain and cause you to in a pure moment to not be able to lie to yourself. That in a split second you can not believe any of the bull shit we tell ourselves, because of the Euphoria that the release of these endorphins and adrenaline is causing in our bodies. If you focus during this moment you can learn everything you need to know about yourself, but focus will be hard considering how this happens.

This is triggered during an orgasm. 

People just don't realize the things you can learn from books.

So the next time a friend makes a joke about being addicted to sex, that person very well could actually be addicted to experiencing the bodies own natural drugs that are released during that split second of climax. Apparently this is common knowledge to a lot of people.

So of course I had to try to see what it was I would think.

Really this isn't a hard experiment for some with as much free time as me. So I decided to see what I would think in this moment of undeniable truth and write it down as soon as I was sanitary. The results are a bit disturbing.

This is what I thought in that moment:

- That Snickers never has really been my favorite candy. Reese's is more important to me

- That if Alabama does not win a national championship soon I would cry

- That I really miss being in the seventh grade

- My deepest regret in life was trash talking my own soccer team during rec league play when I was a kid

- I could never enjoy baseball

- I hate the amount of leg hair I have

- When I'm drunk I should talk less

- I miss the smell of the mini-van my family used to own

- My standards were too high in high school, specifically I should have tried to spark up a relationship with the girl up the street who had the cartoon tattoo (this one actually freaked me out the most)

- I don't brush my teeth as often as I should

- I really want to find the old t-shirt from when my dad worked in a bar (found one of them)

I honestly don't think I was doing it right, and I think for the purpose of the experiment I was attempting to think so openly that I was accidently, purposely random... if that makes sense.  

In actuality I think this thing was meant to concern relationships since in a moment of pure passion all your stupid logic goes out the window.

I just thought of Reese's.

um...Okay...

Moving is Hell

Here is where the soul goes.

On the first layer you encounter Hades. He has an entertainment center made of thick glass that needs to be brought down from his third story apartment and placed into his Mini-Cooper. Somehow he manages to ensure that you are on the top half of the carrying team at each floor, simultaneously having to hold the heavy object up while not letting it fall on Hades face.

Only once it is at the bottom will the Greek god realize that it could have been disassembled.

On the second layer is the Beelzebub. Not Satan, Beelzebub.

He needs help moving a gigantic armour that he is barely able to fill half way up with clothes. This time your back is to each doorway. At each impasse Beelz here forces you to pause and hold the damn thing while he twists and turns it trying to figure out the best way to get it through the door frame.

He will remind you fifty times every time to "don't let it hit the fucking door frame!"

Every time it does it will be YOUR fault.

On the Third layer we find Famine, Death, War, and Conquest who have called you over to help them with their rooms. In each respective room the owner only removes the small items leaving the heavy lifting to everyone else. Subsequently you will be forced to endure constant room mate bitching about "that lazy ass hole" during each rooms encounter.

You, the person who has done most the work, will naturally be the most quiet.

On the fourth layer there is Satan.

Satan has had a lot of souls to deal with lately, so his house has "gone to shit" as he will say. You will have to aid him with dirt covered carpeting, molded trash cans, year old fast food remnants, and will be forced to ask him a million times whether or not he wants to keep the various worthless tid bits he has laying around.

"Oh yea I'll need that later" he'll say about a mold covered Goonies DVD he hasn't watched in four years.

And this is your eternity.

The next day you have to help all these ass holes move back in.

And yes there are only four levels, I'm not fucking Dante.

Vulgarity

George Carlin had a bit about this.  It was the one that got him pretty much all of his fame/ money/ notoriety.

Seven words you can't say on the radio.

My whole life has been a celebration of the word fuck.

In third grade I was sent to the principal, because I considered one of my fellow class mates to be a "mother fucker."  An adjective for one who engages in a sexual relationship with one's own mother.  For this I was subject to an entire day of detention in a small room.

Once again in seventh grade I was subject to more removal from the population of my fellow students for expressing how I "did not give a fuck."  A noun used to represent one's lack of care in a subject that one invests no value in on a personal level.  Another day completely by myself.

This happens throughout my high school career.

I say fuck/ fucked/ fucking/ motherfucker/ un-fucking-believable and I am then isolated.  This of course being my teachers' attempt to train me to associate using the word fuck as something that removes me from standing in the grand scheme of civilization.  They believe to say fuck is to put yourself outside of standards and thus forced to endure a measure of loneliness.

I say fuck that.

A verb used to indicate one's intent to act in opposition of the following noun.

I have literally put time in for this word.  I'm gunna use it.

In reality, these slang terms that are considered taboo are terms that bring us closer to our fellow human being.  In other words cussing can make people your fucking boys.  Adjective used to enhance the meaning of a relationship between the user and the group indicated.

Also by setting these words aside as "those words" almost assuredly making them the most popular.  And a word like fuck is only set aside due to it's sexual nature, even though sex is a natural urge in every living thing and could be considered the soul purpose of life due to reproduction's importance to the species.  Yet the slang word is considered low brow to people with religious/ sexual/ lack of parental hugs/ tight ass hang ups.

Vulgar words.  Dirty words.  Cuss words.  Swear words.

Stephen Fry made a point that I took to heart.

These people who think that using language like this is an indicator of a lack of intelligence and creativity are usually people who are neither intelligent or creative.  Basically these people are fucking retarded.  Enhancing an adjective to indicate that the person in question is not actually affected by a mental defect but are subject to a low amount of mental ability.

And I hate people that come at this from a biblical stand point.

The bible is full of death/ sex/ war/ famine/ slavery/ Wrath.  Of.  God.  Saying fuck isn't "taking the lord's name in vain," saying you believe in a God other than God is taking his name in vain.  To declare he is not who these people say he is is to take his name in vain.  To tell your friends to "shut the fuck up" is not taking his name in vain so even Christians can use this glorious word.  Enhancing an adjective used to indicate to a person to move their jaw upwards to facilitate the closing of the mouth, removing the ability to speak.

And even in this blog entry I have demonstrated the words versatility.  You can even use it the same way to mean different things.

"Man I got fucked up last night."

"Dude that is fucked up."

"Man, I really fucked up."

"That guy?  He's a fuck up."

So the next time some jerk off mom gets all huffy because you talked in coarse language around her impressionable off spring take my words with you valiant defender of free fucking speech.

Damage Report

The problem is my friends.

Rather, how I feel I need to act and how my friends expect me to act.

I have this reputation as "that guy," and I constantly feel the need to live up to it.  I'm skinny, un-athletic, white male from the suburbs so I have to prove the worth of my genitalia somehow and heavy drinking seemed to be the easiest route.  Last night the cave man, that is me, decided to beat his chest and pasteurize to the other cave dwellers.

Basically I got tanked.  Shelled.  Wasted.  Destroyed.

Insert violent synonym for inebriated here, and that was me.

But that's not really the story.  In the year of 2009 it really isn't that special to get hammered.  Like the peer pressure kids in D.A.R.E. say, "every body's doin it."  What I find more interesting is the state I found myself in the next morning.

Last memory is a fail.

Talking to this really good looking waitress at the bar we rented out who has this tattoo of a peacock, and even if there ever was a chance she was interested in me, I'm blowing it.  I can't string together two sentences.  I look over and notice her co worker has the gauge ear ring/ loop/ hole thing going on, and then I'm standing in my door way with a Gatorade and a case of Mountain Dew.

Bam.  Just like that, teleportation.

Somebody took a dump on my brain and the room in front of me seems to be shaking.  I chug the Gatorade but that causes me to crumple to the floor.  Door's still open, so if anybody walks by right now they might actually call an ambulance.

Takes me five minutes to stand up and shut it.

It's ten in the morning and I have no idea how I got here.  It feels like I walked, and when I see my keys on the table this is confirmed.  I immediately take off my shirt to assess the damage.

Bruise to the right pectoral.  Origin:  Unknown at this time.

Blood on the right cheek/ left arm/ right pant leg.  Origin:  Scab peeled off previous burn injury of right hand.  Source of scab removal: Unknown at this time.

Large bruise right bicep.  Origin:  Doorway of bar.  Source of bruise:  Misjudged doorway entry resulting in collision.

Blood on upper lip.  Origin:  Most likely nose.  Source of blood:  Most likely rolled onto face while sleeping in unknown area.

Soreness in middle knuckle of left hand.  Origin:  Wall of bar.  Source of soreness:  Punching wall in attempt to assert male dominance.

All in all not that bad.  I remember some stairs I could have fallen down, and this time I didn't fall off a stage/ bar/ bleachers.  The worst damage is in my head and stomach.  The Gatorade is gunna come up soon, but I don't get to pick when that is.  

I.  Have.  To.  Shower.

I strip down completely naked and go turn the water on.  Once I'm naked I get to see another ding.d

Bruise on right thigh.  Origin:  Unknown at this time.

The water feels good.  It isn't a rink-a-dink tub in shitty 1940's house anymore, this is holy water/ the pool of Valhalla/ fountain of youth/  River of Olympus.  I just stand there for ten minutes without thinking of soap.  

I'm lathering up with this stuff my old roommate's girlfriend left.  I tell myself, foolishly, that the worst will be over and I probably won't vomit.  

Than I see it.

This is some fancy soap that smells good, hell feels good, and it is in my hand.  It's a white pearly substance that is clear in some parts but in other parts milky.

Basically it looks like sperm.

I sling my hand down and actually say out loud, "It's soap.  It's soap.  It's fucking soap.  It's soap.  It's soap."

Brain won't listen.  And this shit is covering my chest hair/ arms/ arm pits/ face.

I gag twice, fall on my ass, then vomit all over my thighs and unmentionables.

Luckily it's all Gatorade with last nights alcohol mixed in so when I check the drain there's nothing for me to pick out with my fingers, nothing to remove from body hair.  Also I'm in a shower, so the vomit is more or less cleaned off of me.

So, win-win.

And that's where I'm at when I think of this post.  I sit in the shower for a good forty-five minutes just letting the water seep into me.

How the hell did I get home?