I’m taking a vacation
from all the hatin’.
I’ll be back on Monday.
Hope you’ll be waitin’.

Congratulations. You will soon experience great fortune. In order to attain your treasure, you must first copy this blog entry and paste it into an email document along with the URL from where you found it. Enter the phrase “Make Me Rich” as the subject of the message and send the email to everyone in your address book.

With this one selfish act, you will unleash a power yet unknown to you: The power to anger millions and crash many servers. But you will attain your dreams. And isn’t that all that matters?

Those who break this chain are destined to a life of hard work and suffering in order to achieve their desires. There is also a slight chance that they may perish in some kind of outlandish accident. One fictional man, Martin Gerber, was typing an email to inform the sender of this chain blog where he could “stuff it,” when suddenly, a large anvil fell on his head, shattering his skull. What an anvil was doing suspended from Mr. Gerber’s ceiling, nobody knows. But, in hindsight, it probably wasn’t a good idea.

So copy this entry and send it off quickly to as many people as you can find. Its message must be spread like a powerful, unrelenting virus. And that message is, my dear friends: Superstitious Shlubs, you suck.

So I’m sitting there in my car, at La Brea and Fairfax, minding my own business, waiting for the traffic light to turn green. As soon as it does, the five cars ahead of me, gun it. I’m thinking, “Hey, what’s the rush? There’s plenty of time.” Or so I thought. Before I know it, the light’s yellow, red and then, FLASH, suddenly I’m the subject for some kind of robotic paparazzo. Of course, I don’t know this until about two weeks later when I receive a letter in the mail, suitable for framing.

Hey, I’ve got no problem with stopping those dickheads from running redlights. But let’s be fair. Most green lights last about a minute or so. This one was on for about ten seconds. How am I supposed to know? It’s like some kind of carnival game:

“Step right up, try your luck! Oh, I’m sorry, sir. You were one milisecond off. I’m afraid you owe us $270.” Two hundred seventy?? But I was only a milisecond late! How can a human react that fast? “I’m sorry, sir. There’s no arguing with the camera.” Son of a bitch.

So, fess up. Which one of you assholes decided how long those green lights should last? I bet you sit there in your car snickering to yourself as you watch everybody racing through, trying to be one of the lucky five. You laugh with your buddies as the photos come up on the computer screen, getting off on the people’s reactions as they’re caught off guard. Well, here’s something you might not be aware of, you Stoplight-Timing Bastard: You suck.

Yeah, I know. It’s not too original. But it still pisses me off. Where does it say in the Driver’s Handbook that it’s okay to slow down to look at an accident? Can’t remember? That’s because it’s not in there. You wanna look at mangled steel? You wanna see some blood and guts? I hope you catch a glimpse of a severed head and you’re scarred for life. Let’s just keep our eyes straight ahead, buddy. Because whatever’s happening on the side of the road is none of your goddam business. Rubbernecking Motorists, you suck.

Everybody’s talking about cleaning up Hollywood. Let’s start by getting rid of these damn Scientologists. Do I want to come inside for a free personality test? Hell, no. Leave me alone. I don’t give a damn if Tom Cruise and John Travolta are members. There’s something wrong with a religion where you have to pay to get to the next level.

And let’s not forget who started this whole bullshit cult in the first place: L. Ron. Hubbard. Was he a well-respected scholar? A hermit who had a vision? No. He was goddam science fiction writer, and a bad one at that. So as far as I’m concerned, you can take your stupid Dianetics book and shove it up your alien ass. Scientologist Sheisters, you suck.

Listen, I don’t care that you’re forty-one and still like to read comic books. Just don’t give me that bullshit about it being an investment:

“This Superman #1 is worth over five hundred bucks.”
“Wow, that’s pretty valuable. What’d you pay for it? ”
“$485.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, jackass.”

And you Beanie Baby nuts are guilty of this, too. Standing in those long lines, ditching work, buying twenty Happy Meals, just so you can get your hands on the latest “member of the family.” Limited Edition, my ass. Admit it. You bought it because you thought it was cute.

I don’t care what you collect (baseball cards, die cast cars, Barbie dolls, Pokemon), it’s not gonna make you rich someday. Sure, you might find some desperate shmuck who’ll cough up five hundred bucks for your Superman #1. But the real question is, are you willing to part with it? Excuse-Making Collectors, you suck.

There you are again, having a beer, watching the cars drive by. Is this what you call entertainment? Well, guess what. I didn’t buy a house so I could look at your fat ass sitting in a lawn chair. You’re scaring the kids. Here’s a crazy idea: How ’bout taking your stupid ugly cars off the street and parking them where they belong? And put a goddam shirt on, while you’re at it. White Trash Garage Guy, you suck.

Dude, lose the chain. What could you possibly have in that wallet, anyway? Five bucks and a two-year-old rubber? Maybe I’m just stupid, but I can’t recall any skateboard tricks that cause your wallet to come flying out of your pants. The only possible reason I can fathom for having a chain attached to your wallet is that you’re mildly retarded and tend to misplace things easily. If that’s the case, I apologize for my insensitivity. As for the rest of you, you suck.

Hey, you there. Yeah, you. What the fuck? I’m writing this shit every single day for you and you can’t take two seconds of your time to leave a stupid comment? I don’t care what you say. Tell me I suck. Tell me you want to hunt me down like the animal that I am. Tell me that you’re a super model and my pessimistic attitude is a major turn on. Okay, maybe that’s pushing it. But the fact is, I know you’re out there. So how ’bout feedin’ my ego and clickin’ on that little comment link at the bottom of this paragraph? Go, on. It’s not gonna send you to some porn site. It’ll be easy. I promise. Special thanks to, Kate Eh?, sx70, me, Chris, and eggbert. As for the rest of you, sitting there in the dark, you suck.

Here in the City of Angels, there’s a relatively new trend going on. It’s called using homeless people as a sign post. You just stick a Now Leasing sign in their hands and tell them to stand on the corner and spin it around. Is there anything more demeaning? Personally, I’d rather clean windshields at the gas station.

And come on, what do you think these guys are getting paid? My guess is five bucks and half a Subway sandwich. Of course, it’s all under the table. You think they’re gonna list “Homeless Billboard” on the payroll?

Here’s an alternative idea that could save some money: Take a nice long pole, oh, six feet long or so, and attach your little sign to it. Then drag that heartless apartment manager out of his overly air conditioned office and down to the corner. Yank his pants down. Bend him over. And shove that pole straight up his ass. As deep as it’ll go, maybe a little deeper. Yeah, that should get everyone’s attention just fine. The final touch: a cardboard sign stapled to the forehead that reads, you guessed it: You Suck.