Ten Reasons You Shouldn’t Read This

I’m baldly appalled by the pandering stance of most of what you’ve recently read after following a link like the passive-aggressive ass-gassery entitled hereabove. You’re going to hate, loathe, despise, abhor this listy, shifty missive. And if you’re still reading, I’m probably wrong, but this is for your eyes only.

Caveat lector

I think that’s Latin for “reader beware”. So fair warnings/no spoilers: what you’re about to read contains strong language, harsh advice, and may lead you to feel like a hapless kid in the third grade told it has a FUPA by a quorum of its peers. As we’re not born with a gender, I hope you’ll excuse my neutral pronouning.

There’s no further ado, so let’s move right along to the Ten Reasons You Shouldn’t Read This.

10. You’re at work, taking a salary, and no one’s looking over your shoulder.

If you’re sitting there reading this virulent drivel instead of contributing value to the organization to whom you’ve pledged your entire value as a professional in whatever hopeless career you fell into, stop it. Go home. Do something useful with your time. Your life is metered in heartbeats, and you’re wasting this one. And that one. And this one. And that one.

9. Your yearling offspring learns more from a habitual Disney dumpster dive than it ever will from you.

Sure, half of its genes are yours. But does it listen to you!? Never. Trying to communicate with your demon seed is like calling for a pizza from a deaf Japanese guy who fixes air conditioners.

And its eighty-seventh rewatch of Zootopia 4 is not helping, nor teaching family values, common decency, or basic etiquette, just how to consume high-fructose plotlines and crave corn syrup or spin-off plastic merch made in China. Think thrice before you relegate your genetic shot at immortality to a vacuous pisspot of consumerism set on repeat.

Buy a book on parenting, ask a priest (just not a Catholic one), or better yet, stop bossing that poor child around and tune into its potential to be a better human than you could ever be.

8. You’re piloting four-thousand pounds of murderous metal down the freeway, you cretinous sack of craptardation!

Four seconds ago you nearly turned a runaway dog into chunky salsa in the HOV lane. But you don’t remember even seeing a dog, do you. Eyes on the road please, for all the lost puppies out there, and for the pedestrians who use their legs to get to work, instead of their dumpy ass and five gallons of million year-old sea life distilled into a tank of smog juice.

Leave it to the Canadians to take the fun out of a grueling twice-daily commute: researchers at Waterloo found that commuters’ well-being (measured by 3,049 reports of life satisfaction and time pressure) negatively correlates to their commute time. Big surprise, right? Everyone loves commuting don’t they? Road rage? What’s that?

So move closer to work, or work closer to home. Better yet, work at home if you can. That’s where I’m the most productive and the most comfortable sans pants.

Leave the driving to the professionals: the garbage truck drivers, the guys in brown, the couriers in unlabeled white panel vans, the Lyfters and Ubers. Not the Travis Bicklish cabbies though, that union’s gotta go.

7. Your suffering mother is distractedly dusting her empty nest while she awaits the call you promised her two weeks ago.

Keep sleeping in till noon and maintaining that 3.2 GPA. She’ll wait. She’ll while away her days and save her pennies to bail you out of that Ferrari’s worth of loans you’re coasting on. You’ve got so much potential it’s leaking out of you while you roll around on your frat room floor in discombobulation having punctured your eardrum with a Q-Tip®™ when a bro-dawg suddenly pounded on your door just after you’d returned from a black-mold-coated shower stall.

(Author’s note: This actually happened to me. Yes, my parents did fully fund my woefully under-appreciated, undergraduate education. And yes, I have failed to call my mother respectfully often since I was 18. But no, they did not bail me out of the loans I took out to get myself through law school. That debt was a real Demogorgon on my back. And I’m not even a lawyer.)


6. You’re taking a shit?

Inhale deeply. Now exhale. Inhale deeply again. Meditate on your present condition. Do you really want to rest on your steadily numbing haunches over a bowl of excrement soup for twenty putrid minutes of indigestion with this worthless diatribe?

Personally I’d rather have Angry Birds launch out of my ass, and I wrote said diatribe. Void your bowels. Leave the shit, don’t take a shit, and make sure to wash your mouth out with soap if you find yourself compelled otherwise. Get out of the bathroom, and back in the real world mutually enriching other lives.

5. Face it, you’d rather be masturbating.

Or writing a diatribe of your own. My NoFap is an intergalactic vacuum where I catalog the corners of my mind. Not that I’d resist the urges inside me; you shan’t deny them either. The porn you want is out there. Reddit has fresh penis pics, and the tube sites stream the latest premium perversities freely—hot and steaming in your gaping browser history’s maw. It’s foolish to pretend otherwise: grab a Kleenex®™, use your drool, have some fun!

Or leave yrself alone and skip to number one.

4. Your phone is at 3% and somebody just jumped in front of your evening train home to your partner and kids.

We all have bad days. But a train does not apologize for the ground beef it rolls out. Take a minute, call a friend, ask your Mom why you’re down. Also, get a goddamn spare battery for your omnipotent little pocket filler, that screen that obscures the walkway beneath your ambling sneakers. No one has time to get stranded. It’s just not worth it. Your time is finite, your beats spun by fates: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos.

3. You haven’t checked your breastesticles for lumps since Valentine’s Day when you cry-shaved your privates while the shower spray got cold.

Your sexy parts are to be savored, suckled, and shared. Any parent kn0ws that; it’s why you are here. So use it or lose it, or spin yarns and sow sock-puppet Romeojuliets.

Shit or get off the pot! Move your juice! Lose yourself to your mother’s spaghetti on your shirt. Love yourself first: use your fingers. Fill your gaps, holes, and crevices with whatever you like. Get dangerously close to falling deeply in love, and then dive in headlong with no thought twice.

You can keep yourself safest with self-knowledge. You can hold your true love near when you hold yourself closely. Discoveries often follow risks survived.

Drop trow in your house when you walk in the door. Let your offspring run free; don’t hang your hang-ups on kids. Why aren’t all nipples free?

And for serious, mollycoddle your parts and others’ parts you heart with a loving touch whenst you can. They’re the only molecules you’ve got.

2. Your dirty laundry and dishes have forty-two hundred signatures on their petition to impeach you from your musty, rotten hovel.

Your alarm clock rang surprising early. Mine usually does, when I let it. Apparently you’ve left your dishes in the sink to help fruit flies breed. Your bedroom floor is paved with half-worn clothes. Your mattress houses opposing empires of bedbugs and fleas.

“What a fucking mess!” clangs through your dome first thing every morn. Gladhand your damn self and adopt KonMari’s Method. Take my copy of her book and clean up your act. Declutter yourself of what don’t and won’t spark pure joy.

1. Your dog has learned to write… on your duvet… in its own diarrhea.


Obviously you’re a cat person. No wait, just a person person. Not good with animals. But aren’t people animals too?

I saved this for the end because it’s the hardest to swallow: you suck hard at empathy. Pet your dog, really nicely: the way you would pet your dog if you were the dog and your dog was Krombopolous Michael, or Snowball (never Snuffles), or some other interdimensional bounty hunter or fearsome creature.

Talk to your friends like you like them, like you love them! You picked those friends—but hopefully not their noses—so treat them as such, as treasures, as gems. Your purse animal didn’t pick you, and will flood that knockoff Coach bag with urine unless you learn to understand it, speak its language: howl, bark, yap, or meow for Christ’s cat’s sake!

Impact others as you hope for. They’ll return it in kind. Employ an evolutionarily stable strategy, as John Maynard Smith and Richard Dawkins would behoove: doubly nice, not a dove, nor a hawk. Be firm and resolute, or your peeves, pets, and possessions will own you instead. Peeves make shit pets. Pets shit where they please for a tick. Possessions work both ways: they own you as you own them.

Cut your tethers if you can. Lighten your load. You’ve got that one set of molecules each day to mold. You’re somewhere in the midst of those 345,600-some beats your heart may convulse.

0. I hope you’re not scathed or scarred :D

If you don’t know me well, this list might come off as prickish. But it’s pointed more at me than at you. I’m the prime example of seven of the ten. Guess away :) I’m thrilled you finished this piece. Find its place. Give it pause. Accept my ignorance. Give it space.

Like what you read? Give Kerry Snyder a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.