The Douchebag Bible (51 page)

cupcakes. Dieting isn’t worth being miserable. Food

is supposed to give pleasure and life, not be a

substance you fear and dread.

When someone sees you eating bacon and says,

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a diet?” then say back

to them, “Aren’t you supposed to be minding your

own fucking business?”

Trust me. I’ve actually lost weight. Most people

who give diet advice are people who have always

been skinny and don’t know what the fuck they’re

talking about.

My diet is that I try to eat less shitty than I want

to eat. For instance, I want to eat fried chicken

slathered in gravy with a side of mac and cheese and

some cake for dessert; wash it all down with a coke.

Maybe I overhaul the whole meal and get

grilled chicken, steamed broccoli and water. Not

likely though! I’ll usually get at least one of the

things I actually want. I’ll get the grilled chicken, but

still do the mac and cheese. Or I’ll get the grilled

chicken and steamed broccoli but still treat myself

to dessert.

The one thing I certainly don't try to do is

believe in myself. Believing in yourself is too damn

hard. I try, instead, to believe in the science of what

a diet is. I can believe that lowering my intake of fats

and carbohydrates will make me a thinner person. I

can believe that with stretching and exercise, I can

make myself healthier and more desirable to many

people. I believe all of that, because there are facts

behind it. There are verifiable results as I discover

that I weigh a little bit less each week.

But I can’t believe in myself. I know that I am

weak-willed. I know that I am going to feel like I

could conquer the world one minute and feel like a

worm on a hook the next. I know that I can’t rely on

my own willpower, because it will falter.

Granted, my bullshit zen is a form of will-

power, but it’s not derived from total self-reliance. It

is instead derived from reliance on the external facts

that are true regardless of how I think or feel about

them.

9. THE UNBEATABLE

I have strong opinions, and strong opinions create

strong backlash. And since I don’t take anyone’s side

completely, everyone feels like I’m against them. I’m

not accepted on the left or the right, by the feminists

or the MRAs (that's Men's Rights Activists, and yes,

they exist), by the active or the apathetic. I’m just the

subhuman schmuck who calls everyone on their

bullshit, and no one can call me on mine because I

preemptively call myself on it.

They can’t beat me, because I’m not even

playing the same game they are. So, they lash out

with as much vitriol as they can, trying to demean

me, to tarnish whatever reputation they think I have.

I don’t let it bother me on a personal level, but

I wish that they would be more open-minded to my

perspective for their own sake—because they’re

making themselves look bad, not me. They’ve shown

that truth means nothing to them. They’re hacks

wearing their ideological bias on their sleeves.

And perhaps someone could turn that around

on me. Perhaps to someone else's view I am a drone

too and a hypocrite to boot. Well, so what if I’m

hypocritical? I think that puts me on even footing

with the other seven billion hypocrites on planet

earth. Do you think you’re not a hypocrite? Do you

honestly believe that your thoughts and feelings

conform 100% to some cockamamie notion of

rational consistency that you’ve cooked up?

Not only am I a hypocrite—I am proud of my

hypocrisy. I am proud that my passions are powerful

enough to overwhelm me and create those

interesting instances of cognitive dissonance that

are really the things that make a person interesting,

complex and vital.

Why should I care if I seem hypocritical or

unlikable in the eyes of people who have no

comprehension of my words and view everything on

a superficial, surface level, never looking at the

subtext, never reading between the lines, never

doing anything but reacting to their buttons being

pushed. I love to mock those who are pitifully

predictable, and coerce them into making my points

for me—all while lacking awareness that they’re

being played like a cheap fiddle in the hands of a

master musician. Do you think I’m unaware that I

often come across as brash and arrogant? Do you

imagine that I am incapable of feigning humility the

second it suits my agenda?

Am I revealing my true feelings now, or am I

leading you deeper into the mire of some grand

deception? I am too clumsy to perform sleight of

hand, but I can use the principles of magic to

misdirect you with one idea while actually espousing

another. It’s all a game for me.

Or is it?

I suppose I come across as a bit egotistical here.

I should probably contextualize it a bit. You see, no

one ever thought of me as intelligent when I was

growing up. I was always primarily considered weird,

and it was a distinction I reveled in and an identity I

heartily embraced. I never had to dress weird. My

behavior and esoteric interests were enough to

brand me indelibly as “that weirdo.” At some point,

I engaged in strategic propaganda, designed to

enhance this reputation. I’d do things like stand up

in the middle of class and shout, “I AM A VAMPIRE!

YOU ARE ALL BENEATH ME!”

That behavior is ultimately what led to my