The Answer

In moving recently, I un-covered a dusty little
paperback book entitled, "Don't Sweat the Small
Stuff". It went right in the trash. This was quite a
popular book awhile back, so chances are you were
gifted this self-help stocking stuffer at some point
as well. Consider, for a second, the title's catchy
yet obvious advice. Everyone except the pimply doufus
on the short bus knows it's best, for health reasons,
to not stress over minor issues right? Then who, for
Godsake, found this book compelling? My guess is that
it served as a nice "bridge" for the neat fella who
just adored "Life's Little Instruction Book", but
wasn't quite philosophically ready for "Chicken Soup
for the Soul." This is the same butthole who thought
"Tuesday's with Morrie" deserved a Nobel Prize, and
blew a thick wad in his pants watching Forrest run.

Here' a little secret: it's all small stuff. What you
think of as big stuff is just a bunch of small stuff
crammed together. Take, for example, a "life-event"
most of us would classify as being in the "big stuff"
category: the wedding. Yet, a wedding in its truest
essence is really just expensive invitations,
ostentatious table settings, a depressing banquet
room, mediocre wedding cake, a shitty band, bloated
bridesmaids, embarrassingly white-trash family
members, drunk friends you actually hate, and already
married couples thrilled two more assholes drank the
Kool Aid. All small stuff. Please do not find this
hypothesis cynical however, for believe me when I say
this, sweating the small stuff is absolutley vital.
To understand this, envision your normal everyday
retirement home. You would think that the inhabitants
within, folks stumbling towards deaths doorstep, would
be too busy sucking the last vibrant marrow from
glorious "living" to bother with petty things. In
fact, if Grandpa were not able to complain about the
goddamn thieves who work there, how Gladys rips dust
farts in line at the cafeteria, that the TV changer is
broken again, how the meatloaf is green Alpo, or the
cunty nurses giant assess, there would simply be no
reason to continue existence. Omitting his ungrateful
whore of a daughter-in-law from the will is what gets
him out of bed in the morning.

So, I sweat the small stuff. I embrace the small
stuff. I want to rub small stuff all over my balls.
I refuse to feel guilty about the fact that my new
Sharper Image nose hair clipper is more important to
me than Iraq's recent democratic election. Perhaps if
coalition forces handed out a nose hair clipper to
each Iraqi, the country would cease to be such a
shithole. Small stuff is the answer. If the Iraqis
want Bush out of their country, all they need to do is
trim their fucking nostrils.