Surely we have all watched with curiosity as “Occupy” protests have erupted around the globe, even in futile places like my scenic home town of McAllen, TX. This fervent movement spread like wildfire all over the world in a matter of weeks, garnering support and media attention faster than a marital lawsuit against Kim Kardashian. Personally, I hate the government and the rat bastard Wall Streeters that landed people of my age group the envied title of “The Lost Generation,” so I was anxious to join the fist shaking, albeit from the comfort of my own home. After all, as The Secret tells us, all we have to do to get things done is send out positive vibes into the universe, right?

These Occupiers, if I understood correctly, were protesting the fact that much of the wealth in the United States (and the world in general) is concentrated in a small group of people, the “1%,” while the majority of people, the “99%,” are languishing in varying levels of dissatisfaction, if not poverty. I can get on board with that. I’d rather most people be provided for, working, and content than otherwise. Who, honestly, wouldn’t prefer that? I’m not sure even those stone-hearted, baby-tear-drinking, dream-shitting-upon one percenters would disagree with that sentiment down in their heart of hearts.
So, we established that we’re discontented about the state of things and as such, we decided to have us an Occupation. Alright, cool. Go team, I like it. Let’s be the change that Obama left on the campaign trail. But after the initial shock-wave of excited rebellion dissipated, people began to ask a very, very important question: What did they want? We know why they were protesting (I’m pretty sure), but what objective were these Occupiers seeking to accomplish?

And that’s where no amount of ugly glasses, varying forms of unkempt facial hair, or unemployed angst could provide a cogent answer. The Occupy protest turned into a really, really large, angry two year-old. It was mad, its arms were crossed in unyielding defiance, but it could not, to save its life, tell you what would get it in the damn car seat. That is why, to date, I would call this movement a failure.

One might pipe up and say “No, Irishman, they have not failed. They raised awareness about the populace’s dissatisfaction with corporations and rich people, fiscal inequality, and percentages.” Okay, I hear you. The problem I have with that is that a movement of this magnitude had a lot of power. To use it just to raise awareness about something with which most people are quite well acquainted is irresponsible and, I would even say, stupid.

What do we do now, then? How could we make this movement into more than a global temper tantrum? I have a couple ideas in mind that I think both sides of the aisle could get behind.

First: Term limits. Think about it. How do corporations get the power that they have? Why do politicians seem so disinterested in accomplishing anything that could benefit their constituents, despite the political consequences? We have a system where politicians are much more concerned with their careers than they are concerned with service of their constituents. This means doing favors for corporations and lobbyists in order to garner the monetary support of numerous political action committees, both for their campaigns and for personal gain. If you limit their terms, the idea of a “career politician” becomes null and void, forcing our leaders to actually lead rather than obsess over partisan rhetoric and accomplish nothing.

Second: regulation of the derivative market. These obscure financial instruments are largely unregulated and, many would say, (including the critically acclaimed PBS production Frontline) played a large part in the financial meltdown in 2008 and in the recent collapse of MF Global. Obama promised strict regulation of this risky market, but has not succeeded in passing anything, maybe because of the strong financial lobby that manipulates career politicians who can be in power for a lifetime.

These are just a couple valid, realistic goals for the Occupy Movement that would benefit our entire country and make their protests more than just an angry blip in history.

Luckily, even though the closest thing I’ve had to a child was a flower some chicks gave me in college that died because I forgot to water it for a week, I’ve been inspired (probably by God, but no guarantees) with a few hundred words of wisdom to guide you through the crap-caked puberty maze that is child rearing.

Part 1: Babies

Let’s get one thing straight. You hate babies. I get it. They don’t talk, they force you to abandon sleep, which you love more than almost anything, and their digestive tract is connected directly to hell. Babies are dumb and selfish and mostly no fun. And super, super breakable. One second the baby is having a good time with the weed-eater, the next second child services is trying to tell you how to be a parent. The hell do they know, right? After nine months of sitting on their asses and literally leeching off of you, you’d think babies wouldn’t be such… babies.

Here are two easy steps for handling these useless nightmares until they’re old enough to contribute:

1. Neglect:
If there’s one thing I learned growing up in an Irish home, it’s that you have to fend for yourself. Teach that lesson to your baby. Why should you have to change a diaper? You didn’t crap your baby’s pants did you? No. That baby knows damn well where the toilet is, it’s just being lazy. A few days of wallowing in its own filth will teach it to get up and take its nasty-butt business to the commode, where it belongs.

And breast feeding? Yougottabekiddingme! First of all, Oedipus, gross. Second of all, Maxim has taught us that boobs are for smashing into bras that are three sizes too small. That is NOT for you to munch on, munchkin. Toss your baby a Powerbar and a half gallon of milk. When the baby gets hungry, it’ll figure it out.

Got something to do? Got a TV? Problem solved. Plop that baby in front of the TV with an episode of Skins and go take that much needed siesta, my friend. TV is the baby opium that moms have been praying for since opium was outlawed. It really doesn’t matter what you put on the TV. Babies don’t give a crap, they’ll watch anything. No standards, the monsters.

2. Take Your Baby Everywhere:
Babies don’t know anything about the world. They’ve spent the first nine months of their lives sitting around and mooching off of their moms like some sweaty WoW addict. No more of that, kiddos. Going to see the latest horror flick, “The Exorcism of the Haunted Scream Halloween Saw: REAL3DTOtheMAX”? Bring your baby along. Everyone in the theater is going to respect you for it. You’re making the hard decision. Sure, maybe your baby will cry, scream, and beg you in baby language to take it home, but you’re the parent that clearly knows best. Stop crying and learn English, baby, and then maybe we can have a real conversation about how watching demons explode out of people’s eyes will put hair on your chest and prepare you to be a well-rounded, non-cannibalistic, non-satanic, non-serial killer when you grow up.

Pretty much every other place you might go is a good place to bring a baby. Crime scene? This is real life. Get used to it. Gym? You’re fat, baby. The world hates fat people. Booby bar? I know you love boobies. Look but don’t touch.

If there does happen to be a situation where, for some weird reason, you decide you’d rather not bring your newborn child, just leave it in the car.

And that’s it. Two easy steps for getting by until your baby becomes a human. Give me a week or twelve and I’ll hit you up again with the next step in How to Cope with Parenting: A Guide. Until then, get out there and show the world a new standard for parenting.

Have you ever gone to a friend of yours – someone you trust to care for and embrace you in your time of need – and bitched about that bad day, as unextraordinary as it might have been? You groggily stumble over to their desk/cubicle/house or lethargically shoot them a text message and talk about the excruciatingly verbose and unnecessary lecture you just received about the company’s policy on section whatever-dot-whatever in the procedures for whatever-the-hell-it-was, hoping to receive a little emotional “I got your back, bro” from your friend. I don’t think that’s too much to ask, really.

But, somehow, it apparently is too much to ask, because that asshat of a friend just has to respond with the most annoying that-doesn’t-help-at-all response:

“It could be worse.”

No way? It could be worse? Damn, I hadn’t thought about that. I feel so much better now that you pointed out that my crappy, frustrating day could be even crappier and more frustrating. You’re so right. I could be crippled. Or bald. Or Rachel Maddow/Sarah Palin (take your pick based on your political preferences). You’re always getting me to look on the bright side of things, friend.

Well...

Except that’s not at all how you feel, because that’s not at all a helpful thing for someone to say when you just want to have a bit of an innocent bitchfest about something that anyone would call obnoxious. In fact, it’s rarely ever a helpful thing to say. It doesn’t make something crappy better to know that there is something crappier out there. If I just broke one of my legs in a wild break-dancing related accident, it won’t make my leg hurt less if you tell me that I could have broken both of my legs. I still broke my leg you stupid jackass. That still sucks.

If you happen to voice this concern to your mentally inanimate friend, you may receive the following defense:

“It happens to everybody.”

If everyone got kicked in the balls at the same time, that doesn’t make getting kicked in the balls feel good. It’s still a kick to the balls. The fact that it happens to everyone just means that everyone has a pretty legitimate reason to piss and moan, not that they should just shut up about it because “it’s the standard.” If the standard sucks, then complaining about the standard becomes the standard.

Think about it. You’ll get it.

The social universe has an unspoken balance in place that ensures that life makes sense. We hang out with people as cool as we are, we date within our acceptable range, and people that are born into wealth and status run our countries. When some son of a bitch tries to upset that balance, bad things happen. Remember the French Revolution? That happened because one of Quasimodo’s descendants landed a smoking-hot art model. The Civil War? Some mustachioed sea donkey from the North decided she wanted to date a studly land owner from Alabama.  Name any natural disaster and it can be traced back to some fugly idiot not following the rules of romance. If you mess with the balance, the universe compensates with blood.

Despite this delicate equilibrium, matchmaking is never perfect. Occasionally it is so uneven that it elicits a deep sense of injustice from our communal soul, sort of like any time Keanu Reeves gets another acting gig. You know something isn’t right. You can feel it. Someone is getting something they don’t deserve.

So, you walking dumpster, how do you make things right once you have a hottie in your white-knuckled, kill-me-to-take-it grip? How do you cope with dating someone that is hotter than you? Grab your Moleskine and take a seat, my child. We have much to discuss.

One rule: Over Compensate
She’s a 10 and you’re a 3. That’s a pretty sizable gap, almost as significant as the one between your two front teeth. You’re going to need to string a rope-bridge across that dark chasm. When people see you with your deafeningly hot significant other, the comments will go something like this:

“Damn, (he/she) is so (hot/attractive/sexcellent). Why is (he/she) with that Seth Rogen look alike? Well, I guess (he/she) is at least (fill in the blank).”

That blank can be filled with a few different things that will help even the score between you and your walking fantasy.

That is one unattractive dude.

1. Get in ridiculous shape.
You can’t help having a Haitian Earthquake for a face, but you can blast your pecks into beautiful oblivion. Work out constantly, get really into triathlons, get ab implants – whatever you want. You need to work your way into the “butterface” zone so people may be able to shrug off the 7 point difference between you and the Greek sculpture you’re dating.

2. Get rich and/or famous.
Ideally this would happen before you start dating a walking masterpiece, but if you somehow win the lottery before buying the ticket you still have options. Are you talented? You’d better hope you are. It doesn’t matter if you’re the world’s greatest tap dancer or if you start the next Google, you just need to be on top of something. It can even be something nerdy like math or writing internet humor, people won’t care as long as they have a good reason not to kill you for upsetting cupid’s system. Hell, you may even be able to get away with being a second or third string celebrity/musician/mogul, you’ll just have to deal with more public anger and ridicule than you would have if you were Seal.

Apparently he's a great musician.

3. Get a horrible disease.
If all else fails, there’s always the “Make-A-Wish Foundation” route. This is the Hail-Mary of dating-up excuses, but it is also one of the hardest with which to argue. Example:
“Damn, that girl is fine. What’s she doing with that retarded hippopotamus?”
“Bro, you’re an asshole. That guy has EbolasyphillAIDS. He’s already died like three times.”
You’re clearly not otherwise qualified to bask in the magical fairy-glow of hotness that shines forth from your spouse, but somehow you’ve earned it by suffering so hard that even Job says “yikes, that sucks.”

Follow these rules and you might be able to avoid getting hit by a meteor for dating someone that even blind people can tell is better looking than you.

Enjoy pointing out who got the sweeter deal in a relationship? Roll on over to SheWonHeWon.com and vote on hotness to your heart’s content!

I’m not sure which scripture translation you are using this month, so I will greet you in the language of your four favorites – guten tag, konnichiwa, howdy doody, and shalom.  I am new to The Talking Mirror so you’ll have to forgive my unfamiliarity with “open email” etiquette.  Do I need to ACTUALLY email it to you, or is it safe to assume you have one of those “google alerts” set to search for your name along with the words “open email” a half dozen times a day?

If I was you, I’d probably set the search for “James Dobson” and “photoshopped to look like Satan” but that’s just me.  Actually, I hope you haven’t done that because then you’ll probably never read this – unless you see it on Victoria Osteen’s Twitter feed or something.  (Didn’t you and her have a thing once?  Did I hear that?  Maybe not.)  Maybe I should photoshop a picture of you to look like Satan just to be safe…

Oh gosh, you know what I just realized? All those questions I just asked about open emails are irrelevant (like the magazine! LOLZ!).  If you read them, I guess we already have our answer. Ha! Can you believe that? Isn’t it funny how life just works itself out sometimes?  Unless you’re Ted Haggard that is.  Things aren’t really working out for him.

Oh man, this email is getting long, and that’s the one thing my editors told me about writing an open email, they told me it’s like robbing a nursing home, “get in, get out, get some pudding.” Not really sure what they meant by that last part, but I’ve got some Snack Packs in the fridge and that’s where I’m heading now.

Thank you for your time Dr. Dobson. I appreciate you reading this open email no matter how you came across it. Hopefully in our next correspondence I will be able to address a few of the hot news items being discussed on FoxNews and elsewhere in the world, like the Christianity Today blog.

Peace, love, NIV,

Matt Browning

Managing Editor who also contributes

The Talking Mirror

P.S. We haven’t really talked about my title here, so that might change. Just didn’t want you to call our office and not be able to get a hold of me if my title changes.

P.P.S. I talked to Conor, he said we don’t even have an office, and that I’m the only Matt Browning writing for TTM, so don’t worry about the title changing.

P.P.P.S. Do you really think Obama’s a Muslim?

Flying balls!

Have you ever stared at something and wanted it to fly? I know I have. Like last night after I got done slamming Irish Car Bombs down at the old watering hole… I stared at my car for about an hour trying to get it to fly. Damn thing wouldn’t budge!

Well guess what! That’s what this game is all about, apparently. You put our little headset on, and you get to make balls fly all over this game set. Hah, that sounds wrong… or right? Either way, it sounds like tons of fun to me. Stare at balls and make them jump all over the place. Not quite moving a car, but it’s a step in the right direction. And that direction, my friends, will cost you about a hundred bucks! Only at skymall!

Remember all those cool spy shows from the 60′s? I know I don’t. Apparently though, some guy with a decent amount of investment capital did.

BAM! Here’s a watch that is also a cell phone. It doesn’t have any lasers for you to burn women’s clothes off Bond-style, but don’t worry. You won’t be talking to any women with this thing on your arm. But you’ll be able to get rid of that bulky belt-clip phone holder that has been scaring women away up until now! And all for only about $300 after shipping! What a bargain!

Ever hear of the Snuggie? That thing was such a prude! It’s time for you to get with a backwards robe/blanket substitute that knows how to party! Meet the Slanket, Snuggie’s slutty little sister.

This blanket thing will wrap around you in ways you never, ever thought possible. I’m serious. I’ve seen some things, man. Some crazy things. But I’ve never seen anything like the Skanklet in action. Slanket, I mean. You’ll be sitting there, reading a book with your Snuggie on – or worse, a normal blanket – and you’ll just feel bored. I’ve been there. No more, friends! Pour some scotch and soda all over that Snuggie and you’ve got yourself a rascally Slanket that is ready to rock your socks off! Or at least make you warm enough to not have to wear socks anymore. People love it! Seriously. 45 people have reviewed it, God knows why. It’s about 40 bucks. If you don’t know how to cut two holes in a normal blanket, then buy this, I guess.

Regular, beige, old, refrigerator. Did those words make your heart skip a beat? Me neither, man. Nothing does, anymore. My sponsor says that changes with time and the serenity prayer, but I think I need this bad boy. How many times have you gotten a drink out of your fridge and thought “damn, that would have been a lot cooler if my fridge was a vending machine?” I know! Almost every time! Not anymore. Got $600 lying around? What the hell are you waiting for? Deliverance is here, man! You can do this, man. I know you can. I believe in you so much. I see a lot of people come around here, but you’re different. You’ve got what it takes man.  Get yourself a vending machine. You owe it to yourself and to the rest of us who will never be there. Thank God for SkyMall, right?

Go ahead. Try pooping.

Good fences make good neighbors. Nietzsche said that, I’m pretty sure. He was a smart guy. Kind of pissed at the world. He’d probably be such an emo queer if he was alive now. Anyway, I digress. You know what else makes good neighbors? Giant hairy monsters in your yard. Chilipepper the Chihuahua will have a helluva time taking a dump in your yard now that you’ve got Big Foot there, hanging out. If dog deterring isn’t in your game plan, then you’re probably pretty interested in having your neighbors think you’re a weirdass that watches too much scifi, right? This will definitely get you to that point. Nothing says “avoid me, I probably don’t bathe and know far too much about Star Wars” like a Big Foot Garden Sculpture, only from the saints here at SkyMall!

So I was at the post office the other day, mailing something to my special lady friend. It’s long distance so you really have to send letters and what not to keep points on the scoreboard, so to speak. I had tried FedEx and UPS, but their prices were astronomical – $60 bucks when USPS was $10 – $20.

There I was, putting some stuff in a box and filling out all the appropriate forms, when some girl came in to ship something. It was only the two of us there at the Post Office, so I could easily hear her conversation with the USPS employee. The girl was trying to pay for her purchase with a credit card that said “See I.D.” where the signature bar is on the back. The USPS employee was not down with that. You see, their policy is that you have to sign your cards. “You can sign your card right now, but we won’t take it if it’s not signed,” the employee told the young lady – the damsel in distress, you might say.

Logic isn't in their policy.

“I work at a bank,” the girl protested. “We tell all of our customers to write ‘See I.D’ on the back of their cards because it’s more secure. Your I.D. has your signature and your picture on it. It helps protect against theft.”

“Hard to argue against that logic,” I affirmed her silently in my mind. This was, after all, the same policy that I myself practiced.

“Our policy says that you have to sign the card,” the employee persisted.

“But you can just see my I.D.” the girl continued in futility.

“Ma’am you can either sign the card now or pay with cash,” repeated the error message, reminiscent of the infuriating experiences we’ve all had with some type of electronics that malfunction despite all forms of reason. The customer yielded, her white flag waving as she handed over the cash for her purchase. Her head hung low as she marched out of the building, defeated.

“Not me,” I thought rebelliously. “You’re gonna see my I.D., and you’re gonna like it.“ I walked over to the counter, my chest inflated with an air of defiance. Having rung up the costs of shipping my blindingly romantic, swoon-inducing package, the employee asked for my payment. I offered up a credit card that pleaded for the merchant to ask for my I.D.

“We don’t take cards that aren’t signed,” the employee spouted like a recording as she pointed to the little sign with their policy printed on it, the section regarding I.D. highlighted.

“My Father works at a bank. Putting ‘See I.D.’ is more secure,” I said. True story, my Dad really does work for a bank.

“Do you want to talk to the post master?” the employee said, appealing to their ultimate authority. “Finally” I thought, “I can speak to someone with a mind.”

I was wrong.

A bald man in his 50′s or 60′s puttered out from “the back room” where the dark alchemies of postal service are performed and came up to the counter to speak with me. “Is there a problem?” he said.

“Yes. I am trying to pay with my credit card. It is unsigned, but it says ‘See I.D.’ on it. This is actually more secure than signing it, because if someone steals my credit card then they would need my I.D. as well. Then, were they daring enough to offer up both the purloined card and the I.D., you’d be able to quickly tell that you were observing a fraud because their face would not be my face.” Triumph filled the air, echoing off of the walls with my flawless words. My tone was clear and stern, but peaceful. I did not yell or scream like an undersexed suburban mother, protesting the end of a sale at Kohl’s. No, I just presented truth calmly and succinctly. I had changed the world in a small way, for the better.

“Our policy says that the card has to be signed or we can’t accept it,” the man said nasally, extinguishing the fireworks of victory.

“But didn’t you hear what I just said? That’s not secure.”

“Well if they steal your wallet they would have your I.D. anyway,” he said, making that face that people sometimes make when they feel threatened, as if they are clenching their ass cheeks in anticipation of a punch to the face.

“Right, they would. But they wouldn’t have stolen my face too, would they? Unless we’re dealing with an Eddie Gein character, in which case I would suppose credit card theft is the least of our worries.”

“It’s our policy. Our national policy.”

“Understood, and I’ll pay with cash. But maybe you could use your Postmaster powers – great as I assume they are – to affect a positive change in the system?”

“I have. This is our policy.” He said, still standing with a slight lean backwards, ready to flee.

“Okay then.” I said. I left the Post Office, my faith in humanity and customer service shat upon once again by reality.

I then began thinking, as thinkers like myself tend to do. What if this were health care? While I agree that the American health care system works just as well as punching yourself in the face does for relieving headaches, do I want to have this experience every time I need to get some kind of medical work taken care of? The talk of death panels is sensationalistic crap, the talk of communism/fascism is bloated rhetoric, but I can’t ignore the experience I just had with a business that is operated by the government. It is so mired down in bureaucracy that the idea of “customer service” is as present as the days when MTV actually had music on it. It’s a vague memory and a happy one, but the present is such a stark contrast that the pictures in the photo album are faded beyond recognition. These Post Office employees literally have no motivation or incentive for being flexible for a customer. What the hell do they care? There’s still going to be a Post Office tomorrow whether I continue to patronize their establishment or not. They have their mouths firmly attached to the government’s bountiful teat, why on Earth would they choose to “go the extra mile” to have “service with a smile”? The customer may always be right, but they don’t give a damn about what’s right. If “right” isn’t in their policies, then “right” means nothing to them.

Are my fears well founded? Or am I just being a pessimist? I ask you the question that Third Eye Blind once asked all of us: How’s it gonna be?

Hey there Chicagoans. Go ahead and pause all your Kazaa, Limewire, and BitTorrent downloads for a second. I want the page to load quickly as this is something you’re going to want to read.

If you haven’t heard yet, it’s “illegal” to download music online without “paying” for it. It’s hard to believe, but being a fan isn’t accepted as legal payment anymore. They call it “piracy,” and the consequences for it can be very, very dire. Therefore, I’ve compiled a list of other crimes that I suggest you look into before you decide to download “Sweet Child of Mine” or “Poker Face.”

First, let’s look at the fines in the only two music piracy trials that have taken place to date. The first is the case of Jammie Thomas, a single mother of four from Minnesota. She downloaded 24 songs off of Kazaa. A jury of her peers decided that she owed the RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America) almost $2 million for her crimes, a ruling which the Obama Administration recently told a federal judge was constitutionally sound. The second is the case of Joel Tenenbaum, a young grad student at Boston University. He downloaded 30 songs and was slapped with a fine of $675,000. If the verdicts stand both will file for bankruptcy.

I know. Yikes. I was hoping to commit a crime today, but $2 million? Damn. Don’t worry, my villainous friends. They may have foiled our evil plans to put Metallica out on the street, but there are plenty of other crimes you can commit here in Illinois that won’t get you a punishment even vaguely that severe. Here is a list of 7 ideas to get you started, but first we should make a few rules. Some of these “crimes” have imprisonment as part of their sentence. That being said, I’m going to equate one year of prison with a $50,233 salary which is the median household income as of 2007. I.e. you would have made $50,233 each year you’re in prison were you not becoming intimately acquainted with Wade, your cell mate.

That, of course, doesn’t factor in the cost of “freedom.” I tried to get into contact with Toby Keith to figure out how much freedom is worth in American dollars, but he was busy writing songs about how terrorists can kiss his ass or something.

One final thing to keep in mind here: Obama promised hope and change, and he certainly brought it in the case of piracy and the RIAA. In between stints of walking on water and saving us from ourselves, Barack has appointed five RIAA lawyers to positions in the “justice” department, in addition to upholding the federal limit of $150,000 per instance of piracy.

Here are the sources I’m using for crimes and their penalties:
The Illinois Criminal Code

Charts of Crimes and Penalties:
First one
Second one

Seven Crimes to Consider Before Music Piracy

1. Steal Music? No! Steal a child, preferably from a recording artist.
That’s right, the fine for regular old, Class 4 Felony child abduction is $25,000. It can also include one to three years in prison. So, if you get spanked as hard as possible after ganking a silly named celebrity child, you’ll be down $175,699.

2. Steal the actual CD.
Damn, that new Black Eyed Peas song is infectious, am I right? That chorus is so genius; “boom boom boom,” who thinks of that? I want to steal it. So instead of Kazaa, I’m going to swipe it from Best Buy. Retail theft of less that $150 (which is like, what, 10 CD’s?) is a Class A misdemeanor. The penalty? Up to one year in jail and/or a fine of $2,500. At most you’d be down about $52,500. Definitely manageable. If it exceeds $150 though, you’re in for a Class 3 felony. That bad boy will result in two to five years in prison and/or a $25,000 fine, so you’re risking approximately $275,000. Beats $2 million though, huh?

3. Rob Bryan Adams.
There’s Bryan Adams next door, tooling around on his new John Deere riding lawn mower. That would definitely make mowing the lawn easier huh? Fun, even. Can’t afford one, can you? No problem! Punch him in the face and take it! That’s a Class 2 felony. The penalties come to a meager $376,631, which is a full $298,369 less than even the weakest RIAA judgment.

4. Set Lars Ulrich’s house on fire.
Being a pyro sounds fun. You get to see lots of pretty flames, hear fun explosions, and watch things get destroyed. Plus, doesn’t Metallica have a song about setting shit on fire? They probably do, it’s Metallica. What could go wrong? Not as much as if you decided to pirate music. Arson is another Class 2 felony. ($376,631)

5. Stalk Reba McEntire.
Hang out in her front yard, take pictures of her driving and shopping, send her weirdo letters – you name it, stalking is awesome! And what’s the penalty? It’s just a Class 4 felony! Phew! Just about $175,000 and you’re done.

6. Learn from Michael Vick: Start a Dog Fighting Empire
Dogs are pretty cool, huh? You know what’s cooler than a dog? Dogs killing each other! That will get you a paltry $50,000 fine and one to three years in the pen. What does that amount to? A max of about $200,000! Not too big of a deal when viewed against the dire backdrop of music piracy, huh? Suck it PETA!

7. Murder Someone, Second-Degree style.
Basically all “Second Degree” means is that you were provoked in such a way that it would cause you to have an “intense passion,” i.e. you downloaded a few songs and then you were fined an amount that has more numbers than most of us will ever see in our bank accounts. When that happens, if you sort of go Incredible Hulk and shiv somebody in the kidney, you may be found guilty of Second Degree murder instead of first. Second Degree murder is only a Class 1 felony, rather than a Class X, which stands for X-treme. Class X is like the Mountain Dew of crimes. Anyway, a Class 1 felony can result in a fine of $25,000 and/or 4-15 years in prison. So, according to our numbers, you could POTENTIALLY only lose roughly $225,932. If you have a real bastard of a jury though – kind of like Jammie Thomas did – then you might get the full 15 years, which would amount to $778,495. So that’s worse than Mr. Tenenbaum, but still not even close to Ms. Thomas.

There you have it, my Chicagoan criminal friends. Stick with this list of crimes, and you’ll be able to satiate your devilish desires and still come out hurting less than a music pirate.

About the advice you gave me… Look, let me just start by saying that I know you had good intentions. You meant well, and I appreciate your well-meaningness.You’re a good friend/mentor/parent/random acquaintance who asked “how are you” and got way more than you bargained for. I value you as a person and the fact that you cared enough to pull something out of your ass to try to guide me through life. I really do.

But we know what the road to hell is paved with, don’t we? American tax dollars! Just kidding, it’s good intentions like the ones you had. Your advice was not good, and since I’m the kind of ungrateful doucher who criticizes gifts freely given, I am going go critique you so that you can do better next time. Take a seat.

Let’s start with your tone. You see, I’m at a point in my life that some might define as “hopeless,” “disillusioned,” or “on the verge of joining the military.” What I need from you is pure, unadulterated, unfiltered positivity. You’re my cheerleader right now. You don’t have to be stupid or slutty. You just have to be positive. Tell me everything is going to be okay, even if you don’t know that to be true.You’re not an oracle. I know that.  Don’t tell me you don’t know the future. I don’t need to hear that, and we’re focusing on my needs because I’m a selfish bitch.

Too many advice givers make the mistake of thinking that I need to hear that “the real world is a tough place” and that I need to hear a perspective that isn’t “sugar coated.” That’s just back asswards. Life is kicking me repeatedly in the crotch. I don’t need you to tell me that life is hard. I know that very intimately. What makes you think that not sugar coating your advice is going to do me any good? I’ve had tons of sugarless life. My life-glucose level is dangerously low at this point. I need a high-sugar life candy bar to keep me alive. So come on now. Say something positive. Throw out a cliche you read on a bumper sticker or on a Christian bookmark. I really don’t give a damn. You’re my Obama, so give me the false-hope that I need to survive.

And now for your message. I asked you for advice on discerning my purpose in life, and you told me to “get out there and just do something.” What the hell kind of advice is that? Should I deal drugs? Should I move to Vegas and become a male prostitute? Hell, ponzi schemes seem lucrative (thanks for the idea Madoff!), why shouldn’t I do that? I realize I need to do something, I came to you for help figuring out just exactly what that something is. For you to repeat my question to me as an answer just puts me back at square one. Either that or square zero, having been discouraged so much that I lost a damn square. I need those squares right now man. I can’t afford to lose one.

So just for future reference, if someone like me asks you for advice about something and you really don’t have any good advice to give, just say “everything is going to be alright.” Because hey, guess what? It just might be true.

You know who is awake at 4am? This guy right here is. That’s right, I wake up every day at 4am. Why? Because I have to get the worm. That’s my thing. I get up early, and I get the worm.

And I hate it.

Think I have a choice? I don’t. It’s built into my genetic material or something. I try everything I can to sleep in, but nothing can do it. Ambien, alcohol, severe head trauma – no matter what, I end up waking up every morning with the urge to go out there and get that worm. And I do get that worm, let me tell you. But what the hell is the point? It’s a worm. When was the last time you wanted to wake up early to get a worm? It’s not “Early bird gets the million dollars and the Maserati,” or “Early bird gets the winning lottery ticket and the marriage with Denise Richards,” is it? (That’s right, I’ll take Charlie Sheen’s scraps any day)

And please, don’t start throwing ridiculous sayings at me to make me happy about this. I’m early to rise every day, but I’m not healthy, wealthy, or wise. Going to bed early and waking up early isn’t going to cure the Bird Flu is it? No it’s not. And you can go ahead and check my bank account to verify that wealthy hasn’t entered into my life story either. And wise? What the hell is wise about waking up before the Sun gets out of bed to get a slimy, brainless, and generally useless piece of moving flesh out of the ground? Nothing. I’m a piss poor, dirty addict.

I’m going to say it, whether you like it or not. This isn’t my fault. I didn’t choose this life. I was born into it. My parents were addicts, my grandparents were addicts – we’ve all had the same unstoppable desire to dig that damn worm right out of the ground. We can’t stop. Why do you think so many baby birds end up jumping out of their nests to their doom? You think it’s because we want to learn to fly? To hell with flying. We need the worms. Do you think we like holding down side jobs as musicians and property saboteurs? Of course not. I hate having to sit by your window and sing my way into a pathetic career as your alarm clock, but you know what? I have a habit to support. It beats prostitution, and I know. I’ve been there.

So why don’t you think twice next time you start singing the praises of how we Early Birds get all the worms. Count your blessings, and next time you hit the snooze button on your alarm clock, think of how fortunate you are to not be sprawled out beneath an oak tree, covered in your own filth and vomit with bits of worm strewn about you. That’s what being the Early Bird really looks like.