The woman sitting next to me at JFK is reading one of those loathsome self-help books. This particular one is called Your Best Life Now: 7 Steps to Living at Your Full Potential, and it’s authored by some dude who looks like the minister at the Baptist church I went to when I was 10. She isn’t reading it, though. She’s just fondling it and jigging her knee up and down so that it knocks into my chair. She also sat on my coat. I hate her.
BTW, my flight is delayed. In case you couldn’t tell by my charming attitude.
Here’s the thing with the self-help books: They are a racket comparable only to pyramid and Ponzi schemes, it seems to me. I wish to write a self-help book called “Give Me All Your Money Because I’m Lazy and I Don’t Want to Do Shit No Mo’.” It will be 150 pages long. Each page will have approximately 25 words on it in 18-point type. On the cover, I will wear a tasteful suit and smile at you through huge shiny caps that look like dentures. You will give me all your cash, and then use the book as a $20 coaster, as God intended.
It’s taking all my strength not to lean over to this woman and say, “You want some good advice? Don’t be a damn fool your whole life. That’ll be 10 bucks, babe. Bargain rates at Dr. Hubley’s.”