Why We Suck_ A Feel Good Guide to Staying Fat, Loud, Lazy and Stupid - Denis Leary [99]
Millions of Americans are so desperate to be drugged they sign up to be saddled with addictions-that's how lazy they are. Why spend the money with a therapist figuring out what your problem is when you can just pop a little pill and feel different? They'd rather spend the day doped up and wearing a diaper than confronting the fact that-most of the time-life just kinda sucks.
Even the threat of a heart attack, blurred vision and temporarily going blind hasn't stopped millions of American men from taking Viagra and its sister pills-which proves that men would rather walk around with a cane, a Seeing Eye dog and a four-hour erection than ever hope to read a book again.
American ingenuity invents new diseases and the new pills required to treat them on a week-to-week basis.
Restless leg syndrome-this is a new disease where you find that your foot or leg-even both legs-will not stop bouncing up and down or otherwise rhythmically moving-especially at night. There are three ways to solve the problem:
1. Buy a set of drums.
2. Join a band.
3. Skip Steps 1 and 2 and take Ropinirole.
The only problem is, Ropinirole apparently has a number of side effects-one of which is an uncontrollable urge to gamble.
Any possibility the Indians are putting some of their newfound casino wealth into prescription drug research? Let's check the labs for free passes to Huey Lewis's next show at Mohegan Sun.
A few years back, doctors announced the "discovery" of a new disease called SAD-seasonal affective disorder. Victims claim the symptoms begin sometime in September and often last until March or April and include depression, despair, misery and guilt combined with a desire to oversleep or extreme napping as well as overeating.
I'm sad to say that-in THIS doctor's estimation-SAD is not a disease. It's called WINTER, asshole. It happens every year right after the leaves fall off the goddam trees.
And you are not a victim-you are a fat, human sloth who wants to suck down boxes of Twinkies and wash them through your cellulite-enflatulated system with a two-liter bottle of Orange Crush and you feel guilty because you slept for nine hours last night but just had a forty-five-minute nap while you were watching Ellen cry about a dog she gave to her makeup specialist who somehow ended up in Paris Hilton's backyard with twenty-seven other Chihuahuas and only half a Snickers bar for all of them to share.
Here's my prescription: get off the fucking couch and buy a set of skis. Or skates. Better yet-buy both. And don't eat the yellow snow.
Case closed.
The car companies are developing corn-fueled cars AND larger seats for fatter-assed Americans at exactly the same time. I say we ignore the irony and indecision implicit in that arrangement and instead plod on with cars that have larger seats that are in fact just comfier versions of toilet seats so you can drive, eat and shit almost simultaneously-the engine built to run on methane which will be produced by the farts you emit as you drive and gorge your way across the country. Fart-fueled automobiles. Short trip over to see Ma? Down a cup of peanuts and some soda. Headed down south to watch spring training? Swallow three hot dogs, put a case of canned pork and beans in the backseat and away we go. Now if we could just come up with a kidney that turns urine back into beer as it passes through your penis, we'd be all set.
I'm tired of the denial. I'm tired of the fat the loud the lazy and the stupid.
We've drugged the fat we've stapled their stomachs we've reinvented the vacuum cleaner so we could attach it to their huge asses and suck out all the fat but still-still-they insist on eating.
Well, eat up.
That's right.
Eat.
Eat as much as you want. I'll explain why in a little bit.
They just announced a study that proves Botox may enter the face, but it settles into the brain stem-not only freezing elements of your visage but