Tales from SEPTA

  Spotted on the Blue Line on Friday afternoon: Blow-dried, hair-gelled preppy douchebag. Reading The Secret. With a highlighter.

  In case you've missed the latest bee in Oprah's metaphysical bonnet, The Secret is a new self-help book/DVD that purports to contain a "secret" that successful people have been keeping for years. Apparently, you can influence the Universe to give you literally anything you want, as long as you want it hard enough. This proposition is supported by a sprinkling of quotes from famously successful people, such as successful anti-semite Henry Ford, and the guy who "wrote" the Chicken Soup for The Soul books. Also, the pages have been weathered with highly sophisticated dyes, for that "ancient tome" look. Nothing says authenticity like artificially yellowed paper.

  A typical scene from the DVD shows a little boy drawing a picture of a bike over and over again. This illustrates just how hard the boy wants that particular bike. Then, he opens his front door, and a smiling old man is standing there with the same exact bike the little boy drew, minus the shaky grasp of proportion and perspective in the crayon doodles. Curiously enough, the toothy gentleman (grandpa, molester, or both?) is absent from the drawings. I hope that doesn't mean that every wish the Universe grants also comes with a complimentary smiling septuagenarian. You'd think there'd be a disclaimer about that.

  The real secret, of course, is this. In addition to being another spoonful of the pseudo-inspirational pablum that Oprah force-feeds her viewers, The Secret is an absolutely perfect scam. Think about it. Tell the preppy douchebag that he can have anything his heart desires, as long as he just wants it fervently enough. If he gets what he wants, then it worked! High five! If his wish doesn't come true, then it's his fault. He obviously didn't want it hard enough.

  It's classic. If you win, they win. If you lose, they still win, because they can blame you for your failure. You didn't get that promotion? Your husband is still seeing that Brazilian hooker? Grandma's still in that wheelchair, wearing those diapers? You didn't get your crudely drawn crayon bike? Too bad! The system works. You just didn't do it right.

  Guess what? Life sometimes sucks, and no one every gets everything they want. The real secret is that there's no psycho-babble trick to wring tasty treats out of the Universe. The Universe is not Domino's Pizza; it doesn't deliver. You'll get what you want (or not) like the rest of us, through varying proportions of work and luck. If wishing super-hard for something really made it happen, your daughter's room would be full of unicorn shit.

  By the way, The Secret obviously isn't working for Mr. Blow-dried, hair-gelled preppy douchebag. Under all that shellac, his hair is still thinning.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  What's your favorite logical fallacy?
- Armchair Skeptic

Dear Armchair Skeptic,
  I'm a big fan of ad hominem attacks. You nazi shithead.

I'm Not Cool Enough To Pretend This Isn't Exciting...

  Wired.com's Table of Malcontents is one of my favorite blogs, and one of the few that I make sure to read every day. (RSS rules.) ToM celebrated last week's Steak and a Blowjob day with a contest to let readers create a holiday of their own, and a winner was me!

  I proposed Flame Shame Day, an annual day when people who post nasty comments on blogs and message boards are required to spend one minute thinking about how their snarkity affects the people it's directed against. The ToM staff liked the idea, and they're sending me a card to celebrate.

  Even if you don't want to read my winning entry, you should still check out Table of Malcontents. Odd, interesting, amusing and amazing nuggets from the farthest corners of the Internets are always on the ToM menu. Enjoy! LBB commands it!

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  What happens when you shake your moneymaker?
- Fellow Baldy

Dear FB,
  These days, my moneymaker is more of a liability than an asset. Shaking it merely results in stuff falling out of my pockets, and the derisive laughter of any passersby. Once my flabbier bits stop quaking, and I've collected the scattered contents of my pockets, I make a mental note to increase the number of drinks I've had before I attempt any future maker-shaking. So far, I'm up to an even dozen.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  What's the deal with putting your seat back in the upright position when your plane is landing? Will the three-inch chasm between upright and reclined make any difference?
  Seriously, this keeps me up at night, and Friend Brian says I should ask. Solve the mystery, man.
  Thanks,
- Jenn

Dear Jenn (and Friend Brian),
  I bet you asked this question assuming I'd take your side and toss off a sarcastic dismissal of the seemingly arbitrary seat position requirements dictated by the flying debt hoses we call airlines. LBB thumbs his nose at your expectations; to quote Vanilla Ice in Cold As Ice, "You don't know me. You don't wanna know me. I'm dangerous."

  It turns out the important factor in a plane crash is the distance to the seat in front of you. If you can brace yourself against it, your chances of a fatal head or spinal injury are dramatically decreased. If everyone puts their seat up, you'll be a few inches closer to the seat in front of you, and it will be easier to brace against the flat, vertical surface.

  Having your seat up will also make a big difference when the fat guy behind you, who's been snoring like a brick in a wood chipper since Cleveland, awakes on touchdown and decides to maneuver his bulk into the aisle. That extra three inches might just be the difference between an uncomfortable, huffing exit or a belly bump to the back of your head.

  Now go away, or I shall quote appalling cinema at you a second time.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  How come Coach bags cost so much when they're probably made by starving children in Nairobi getting paid three cents a day?
- Jenn

Dear Jenn,
  Because it's expensive to be a responsible corporate citizen. Environmentally efficient "green" factories, comprehensive employee benefits, massive donations to underprivileged families, leather taken exclusively from cows that die of happiness; these things are costly, and you should be proud to trade an obscene amount of money for the pleasure of knowing your hideous shoulder bag is contributing to the well being of the whole planet.

  Then again, it's possible that you're paying half a kajillion dollars for ten dollars worth of materials and labor because the popularity of the brand allows its manufacturer to get away with an obscene markup just by virtue of the name. But you're too smart to pay a wildly inflated price for a mediocre product just because of a logo on a tag, aren't you?

  Next week on Ask LBB, lose weight through a simple combination of diet and exercise!

Dear Little Bald Bastard,

  Why does a cursive capital letter Q not look anything like a Q?

  Do you ever leave a penny? Have you ever taken a penny?

  Do you like french fries dipped in a milk shake? Is your milk shake better than mine?
- by_steph
Dear by_steph,
  Cursive handwriting is an ancient conspiracy, designed to make postcards from your grandmother completely unreadable. The capital Q has persisted in its singular oddness simply because people don't complain about it much. Grandmothers almost never start sentences with it.

  My years in retail have made me a fan, perhaps even a groupie, of exact change. If I have to fish a sad, discarded penny out of a filthy dish to avoid getting a pound of change back from my morning bagel, I'll dig right in. As a selfish, bitter man, I generally hoard the change I get, so I leave a penny far less often.

  I can honestly say that I've never considered dipping my fries in a milkshake. The combination of salty and sweet sounds intriguing, though. I can attest that my milkshake is one of the best in the known universe. Not only does it bring all the boys to the yard, but it makes otherwise stoic men weep with joy.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  Who would win in an advice column fight to the death: Ask LBB or Ask A Ninja?
- fadingembers
Dear fadingembers,
  Ask A Ninja's expertise seems to be focused on ninjary in all its deadly splendor. I have the advantage in that I don't have any expertise. I'm free to shoot my uninformed mouth off about any topic I feel like, from animal husbandry to zoophilia, and everything in between.

  Of course in an actual fight to the death, the Ninja would slaughter me before I'd even finished the thought of challenging him. I bet my entrails would be prettier than his, though.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  How will I know if you've answered my question?
- Darryl L. Pierce
Dear Darrrrryl,
  What a fortuitous and not at all planted question! If you want to see all of the questions and answers as they're posted, you can add the Ask LBB feed to your favorite feed reader program. Then, you'll get to see every update I make, until the day when my bitterness finally dissolves my fragile organs, and I die choking on my own bile. Enjoy!

  In honor of my friend Angie's birthday, check out this post from the last time we hung out.


http://www.littlebaldbastard.com/2003/10/l.html

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  Long time listener first time caller...
  What is the proper way to bludgeon a co-worker without getting in trouble or looking like an asshole?
- the quiet one
Dear quiet one,
  Physical violence, while often satisfying for the soul, is a hobby that you can't really engage in without being punished. You're better off employing the threat of violence to change a co-worker's behavior. If your description of the threatened injury is sufficiently explicit, you can generally bend people to your will without the effort (or evidence) of inflicting actual harm. This tactic also allows you more flexibility, since you can threaten poisoning or other methods that aren't predicated on actually being able to overpower your workplace nemesis.
  This is how a lot of the torture that our intelligence agencies absolutely do not engage in would work if they ever dabbled in it. You convince the victim that she will be injured in messy, painful or rude ways if she doesn't cooperate. If you're persuasive enough, your captive begins to squeal like a newborn piglet.
  The advantage you have over our hypothetical agent is that you're not looking for information. You won't have to corroborate testimony that may have been fabricated to avoid torture. Once you convince the offending cubicle-jockey to stop tapping her pencil, or humming aloud, or eating celery at her desk, your work is done.
  Don't forget to cover your tracks. Include the caveat that you'll pass out pain like a supermarket free sample if your co-worker tells anybody about your coercion. Fear is a fantastic motivator, but fear of losing your job should motivate you to be discreet when threatening to maim a co-worker.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  I am a big fan of lingerie! However, my boyfriend says it's a waste of time and money, because the whole point of it is to take it off. How do I get him to pay attention to me?
- Desperate for Attention and Nookie
Dear Desperate,
  If he's so insistent on taking it off, then he must be showing you some sort of attention. It's probably the man-on-top-get-it-over-with-quick kind of attention that the ladies so adore, but it's attention nonetheless.
  A certified sex therapist would probably have all kinds of advice about communicating your needs effectively, and would offer strategies for obtaining satisfaction. Alas, I am not a certified anything, so I can only offer this perspective. Take full advantage of your power as a female. If your waste of man-bits isn't knocking your boots to their full potential, ask yourself some questions.
1) Does he have some other fabulous qualities that make the physical deprivation worthwhile?
2) If you explained the situation to him, would he be willing to step up his efforts to fulfill you sexually?
3) Would he rather sex you up than watch wrestling?
4) Is he really straight?
  If the answer to any of these questions is no, think about moving on.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  Where the hell have you been for the last three years?
- Nobody Really Cares
Dear Nobody,
  I've been busy. I got married to a backup dancer, had two kids, gained forty pounds, got divorced, started going out in public without panties on, went crazy, checked in and out of rehab a few times, shaved my head, and attacked an SUV with an umbrella.
  Wait, was that me?


  Incidentally, if you haven't seen Craig Ferguson's take on the self-destructive media darling phenomenon, you really should. It's much funnier and more thoughtful than anything I could contribute.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  Who do you think is the father of Anna Nicole's baby?
- Culture Vulture
Dear Vulture,
  I have this fevered nightmare where the horrible, voyeuristic leering of millions of lifeless tabloid readers somehow coagulated in her womb, creating a queen pop culture bee who will one day mature to reign over a twitching hive of buzz-junkies, combing the Internets for the sweet nectar of public humiliation. Except I'm pretty sure that's what's printed on Perez Hilton's business cards.
  There is no real value in knowing identity of the true father of that poor, almost inevitably damaged little girl. In many ways, she's been turned from a person into a social experiment. We all know how sad the "nature" contribution to her development has been. Now, we'll get to wait and see if whatever "nurture" she'll receive can keep her from becoming an overexposed chew toy for the rabid public. Jeebus knows that Entertainment Weekly will keep us clued in to how the whole thing develops.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  How do I ask a question?
- Insanely Curious
Dear Curious,
  All you have to do is click here to leave your question as a comment to this post, or send an email to lbb(at)suburbanpanic[dot]com. Your question and answer will appear on the main page at some indeterminate future time.