Put this book down.
Do not buy it.
Why are you still reading this?
I warned you.
Now I will beg you, beseech you—in short, do everything possible in the limited format of this medium to get you to buy any other book within reach right now (if this book was a gift and you are at home or on a plane or sitting in a hotel room somewhere I would suggest grabbing a newspaper or a magazine or even your laptop) because this book is going to piss you off.
If you are a woman, you soon will be livid.
If you are a man, you are going to be filled with a burning rage.
If you are a kid—meaning anyone under the age of eighteen—you will soon be filled with shock and awe.
If you are under the age of twenty–five you will soon be filled with shock and awe.
If you are a fan of Oprah—good luck.
If you hate Oprah or Oprah tends to drive you insane—you too will need some assistance.
This is not a book for the faint of heart or the politically correct or the weak or the extreme right wing or the left of center leftist Democrat or nuns or any other members of any religion or New York Yankee fans.
I am warning you—I am not here to make you feel all warm and fuzzy or superior to anyone else or all soft and gooey inside. I am here to debunk and declassify and otherwise hold up a brutally honest mirror to our fat, ugly, lazy American selves.
I am here to explain how we can and must thin the herd and extricate the stupid and eradicate the obese and take Rush Limbaugh's head and make a bong out of it.
Senators, psychopaths, fence–sitters (all three of those may sometimes be the same person), celebrity assholes (hello), presidents, centerfielders, centerfolds—everyone is up for grabs here.
Because I'm sick of it all.
I'm sick of low self–esteem and fake fat–suit–wearing female talk–show hosts and extreme makeovers and Cats the Musical and cats in general and steroid–laden home–run hitters and Paris Hilton and Grey's Anatomy and Reese Witherspoon movies and Parks Hilton's himbo boyfriends and celebrity rehab and Dr. Phil and Terrell Owens and almost anyone else you can think of.
This country—including you and most of the people related to you by birth or marriage or both—is populated by beings who have been so blessed for so long that they have become almost completely immune to any interests other than their own.
Open ass—insert head.
THAT is the mantra with which most of America lives each and every day.
THAT'S what should be printed on the plaque beneath our beloved Statue of Liberty. Along with the following:
Welcome to America where I'M not fat, I'M not stupid, I'M not the problem—YOU are.
Americans have been so isolated geographically, financially and psychologically for so long that we don't even see reality in the mirror anymore. Everyone has bought so far into their own bullshit—backed up by other jerk–offs and human jack–o'–lanterns on TV that the truth has been distorted into a believable fantasy world: I can't be overweight, look at the tub–a–lard sitting next to me. The food I eat can't be bad for me 'cause the commercial on TV says it's actually healthy. I'm not addicted to these doctor–prescribed drugs, the drug company discovered a disease that I have and then invented these pills to cure me.
Responsibility, research and actual factual thinking have gone out the window. If most people in this country see something on TV it must be true/news/necessary/important. Therefore, when things go wrong—how can the innocent citizen/TV watcher be at fault?
I spill a vat–sized "cup" of morning coffee onto my giant cellulite–dimpled thighs at the take–out window and suffer third–degree burns because it was hot and I desperately needed to wash down the two–ton doughnut I just manhandled into my gaping mouth—do I blame myself and go on a diet and start working out?
I sue McDonald's because the take–out window kid who handed me the cup of joe—who's from Bumfuck, Mexico, and has been in this country all of eighteen weeks and only knows the English words "can I take your order, please," "would you like fries with that" and "go Yankees"—didn't warn me that the coffee was the same temperature as the air in the hut he grew up in was every single day of his childhood.
Open ass—insert head with flame–red tongue.
My kid is the size of an out–of–shape NFL offensive lineman, has what within two months might become a full–blown Fu Manchu mustache and is already smoking two packs a day and watching Internet porn even though SHE is only twelve years old.
Do I put her on a diet and make her start working out?
I sue McDonald's because they make shitty, hormone–and–chemical filled food that she eats every single day three TIMES a day because I'm very very busy living my selfish extended adolescent life and don't have time to:
A. Cook her normal food.
B. Monitor her free time.
C. Stop smoking pot and drinking so her easiest sources of alcohol and marijuana dry up.
Open ass—insert thick, self–medicated head.
An out–of–shape and overweight guy in Denver, Colorado, claims he developed lung cancer because he ate microwave popcorn with artificial butter flavoring. He loved when he would pull the bag out of the microwave and tear open the top and it would go "WHOOF" and he would stick his face in and inhale the aroma. You can just hear him sucking in the sweet sweet smell of all that great fake butter, can't you? Just like Homer Simpson: Ooooh—buttery fake butter. After whiffing up the cloud of chemicals, this moron on a mission would proceed to scarf down the entire bag and then—that's right—start the whole process all over again. He admits to snorting and scarfing two bags a day so let's do the actual math and add the two more bags he won't admit to because he probably figures four bags a day would be really embarrassing so what we have here is a guy who ate and sniffed so much fake butter that he developed the same cancer that people who work in the plant where they manufacture the butter did—people who make thousands of bags of pretend popcorn every single day.
Should he blame himself for his lazy butter–assed slovenly ways?
The popcorn factory workers filed a dangerous workplace/permanent health damages lawsuit and he decided to ride their cancer coattails all the way to the bank.
Let's up his total to at least five bags a day. Whatever the actual number might be I'll guarantee you one thing right now—you don't wanna be THIS guy when you're sitting down in the lung cancer chemotherapy waiting room. 'Cause when the guy who worked in a coal mine for twenty–seven years or the fireman who spent decades pulling people out of asbestos–ridden burning bags asks how YOU got lung cancer the last word you wanna mention is "popcorn."
Open ass—insert fake butter...
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