Entrefilets

As a reminder to my readers, during the 1980s, I penned a column for the New York Times entitled “Life’s Little Construction Worker”, in which I passed on to impressionable subscribers wisdom gathered from my father and his drinking buddies.  The column lasted for just over three years, at which point I was unjustly fired when it came to light that I do not actually have a father but was created when a crate of laugh boxes were dropped from a thirteenth-story window onto a hobo toilet.  I was left with a backlog of material, of which this is the final installment; it may seem dated, but in fact, it is more relevant than ever, in these uncertain times.

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They never tell you the downside of cleaning up squirrel corpses.

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All of the music today is made by computers. Or the internet.

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I’ll vote for pretty much any rich asshole in a suit, as long as he promises to blow some shit up every once in a while.

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I believe in destiny. I believe that God meant for each of us to follow a certain path. Like for instance, me? I’m supposed to win the lottery.

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Changing a tire isn’t rocket science. Brain surgery, now that’s rocket science. Figuring out how a clock radio works is brain surgery.

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Life full of frustration, contradiction. Irrational forces govern events. Send money.

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If you want people to respect you, you always need to have a hard look in your eyes, like your face just swallowed some rocks.

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There is a hierarchy of underpants. Boxers at the top, and you goddamn well know it. Then briefs. Then those things that are like both, which you can really only wear if you’re a rock star or an underwear model. Banana slings, fuck me, I don’t even want to acknowledge the existence of those things.

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The secret to a happy marriage is constantly reminding your spouse who paid for things.

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You hear an awful lot about global warming, but how come you never hear anything about subterranean ice fingers? Just because I made it up doesn’t mean it should get some heavy-duty scientific scrutiny.

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The way you can tell if you’ve had too much to drink is to time the number of seconds it takes for the glass to get from the bar top to your mouth. If, during that time, you’ve forgotten who you are, where you live, and what the thing is in your hand that’s moving towards your face, you shouldn’t have more than three or four more.

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I will defend to the death my right to say something. About you.

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You can’t win ’em all, unless you are the New England Patriots, or Jesus. PATRIOTS, WHOOOO

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We need cheerleaders in football, because otherwise, who would be there to reminds us of how much we like tits? I wish they had cheerleaders at my shitty job. And handguns.

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You get what you pay for. Like, I go to the liquor store and pay for a six of Coors, and then I get it. That’s how the economy works and it’s called capintolistm.

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You’d be amazed at how happy you can make your wife in bed using only your mouth. Like, you can say, good job on my shirts, honey.

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