Mykle’s Comments (group member since Sep 22, 2009)

Mykle’s comments from the Bad Advice from Mykle Hansen group.

So many questions! So little time! Let me try to tackle these one by one ...

1) Why is your job so dumb?
All the smart-person jobs went to China.

2) Why is this your job?
It's karma. In a previous lifetime, you were William Strunk, Jr.

3) Why are you paid to make these people sound awesome?
So those people will get jobs making children sound awesome, so those children will grow up to make themselves sound awesome, and become the prime movers of a new hyperbole-based economy that will be, like, so awesome ... it will be incredible. Literally.

4) Why are there so many families anyway?
Only because I have not yet perfected my orbital penis removal lasers!

5) Is it 2012 yet?
Yes. Somewhere beyond the intergalactic dateline, it is already next year. I can take you to this place if you can help me perfect my orbital penis removal lasers. There we will sip champagne together in zero gravity, and vaporize the genitals of the illiterate by remote control.

Having said that: you should also consider the possibility that your baby is simply melting the tube with its heat vision because it is embarrassed to be seen jogging with earthlings.

The short (but actually very long) answer: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/70...

The longer (but actually much shorter) answer:
Assuming you didn't puncture the tube with your own tools, it's likely that a pointy thing is still embedded in your tire's rubber tread. It might be a piece of glass, a nail, a blackberry thorn or one of those caltrops I spread all over your driveway last week. You must remove the tube from the tire and explore its inner surface with your fingertips, tongue or penis, until you find the jagged little bastard. Or, if you can take out the tube while remembering which way it went in, and inflate said tube in a tub of water to see where air bubbles ooze out of the leak, you can then hold the leaky tube against the tire and use the location of the leak to pinpoint the location of the pointy thing in the tire.

Once you find the culprit, you must bring it to justice. Tweezers, needlenose pliers or waterboarding can help with this. Exile it from the tire, remount the tire with a new or repaired tube, and inflate with asshole-scented air from your bourgeois $400 hand-mitered digital bicycle pump. Jogvergnugen is assured!

Have you tried putting lotion on it?

But officer! Half of those people weren't even aroused!

Honestly, I think you're just screwed. Sorry.

Maybe you could just change your name, move to a new town ...

Prayer, maybe?

Have you tried ... um ... aw, jeez ...

gosh, this is awkward.

How frustrating for you! Autoantipriapismic oscillation, the malady you describe, was first described by Jorge Luis Borges in his influential monograph "Penis Labyrinths." This syndrome is widely recognized by modern sex researchers, who titter or chortle when they read about it.

Fortunately, there is a cure! Simply follow these simple, easy-to-follow, step by step instructions -- it's sexual child's play!

1) Construct a time machine.

2) Travel backwards in time to a flaccid moment in your personal history.

3) Convince your past self that he must drop his trousers and expose his genitals immediately, to prevent some sort of hyper-spatial time collapse or something. Just make up some bullshit. Consider buying him a drink first.

4) Affix your gaze upon his lovely limp eggplant, and wank onward! Your own proudly displayed tumescence will guarantee your past self's flaccidity, and vise versa. Just don't look down!

5) Towel off. Assure your past self that this doesn't make either of you gay. Return to the present moment in your slightly sticky time capsule and never tell a soul.

6) It would be a thoughtful gesture to send your past self some flowers.

7) If time machine construction is beyond your skill level, ask a parent or other adult to assist you. But if you are chronophobic, or "scared" of time, consider achieving the same result through human cloning. Consult your high school science teacher for tips on this.

Dear Carbuncle,

Sorry for the delay in getting back to you. I was recovering from the heartbreak of eczema. Also I lost my job. And my dog died, then rose from the dead and killed my cat. It's been a rough week.

To answer your question: it is always wise to avoid contact with persons less happy that oneself. In your case, this means all of humankind. Therefore, I suggest you construct a reinforced plate-iron cottage in the Everglades for yourself, your wife and your penis. Stock it with pure spring water, delicious canned foods and festive ammunition. Then weld the door shut and never leave. Our problems will never reach you there. Good luck!

-m-

Limited edition collectibles, you say? Why, that's like printing your own money! Take them off the market now! As your fame expands they will doubtlessly skyrocket in value. You only need to hang on to them long enough, and perhaps die. While you're waiting, why not stow them in a safe place, such as:

-- in my safe deposit box?

-- aboard my yacht?

-- under the floorboards of my mansion on my private island?

-- inside some acid-free plastic bags on a high shelf in a snooty comic book store in Philadelphia?

-- in a double-insulated titanium strongbox at the bottom of a deep deep well?

-- in the tank of Donald Rumsfeld's toilet -- a place where no one ever goes?

-- in the vaults of Goldman Sachs, where an advanced financial product can be engineered around their foolproof appreciation?

-- inside of a dog, where it is too dark to read?

I'm sorry, you're both wrong. Everybody is always wrong. Even I am wrong. Ergo ... you are right! Congratulations!

However, just because your stuffed animals aren't bears doesn't mean they couldn't morph into bears while you're sleeping, and then eat you. Stranger things have happened -- read the Bible if you don't believe me.

Therefore, I recommend you always carry a shotgun around the house with you, and never sleep.

No worries! Only the retailer suffers when you shoplift. The author and distributor still get paid. Is this a great country, or what?

Dear Drunk,

Re: suing me ... if lawsuits like that were viable, I'd be a fucking millionaire. Just yesterday I was incensed to learn that someone has stolen my ten-year-old, entirely un-acted-upon idea for a comedy cooking program. The nerve! And don't even talk to me about lasers ... anyway, my point is: if you are too lazy to bring your ideas to fruition, you are way too lazy to sue me. Remember the first rule of crime fiction: action creates character!

Re: badness ... there are many kinds of bad. Clint Eastwood was bad, yet he became mayor of Carmel. E. Coli bacteria are bad, yet your intestines are crawling with them. Beer tastes terrible, but I cannot stop drinking it.

You can only be what you are, and do what you be. Stop beating yourself up about your failures, your unreliable friends and your dickheadedness. Embrace these things! They are what make you special!

One word: shoplifting! Not only will you get all the books you covet -- for free! -- but also, someday you'll enjoy a long prison sentence in which to catch up on your reading.

See! Your success is assured.

Dear H,

My condolences on your poor kimchee performance! Food poisoning is a constant peril of the writing life. And kimchee -- a spicy fermented pickled cabbage mixed with cat brains -- is a difficult food to test for spoilage. I feel your pain. Be comforted that you are neither the first not the last victim of food-induced writing spasms; Marcel Proust suffered severe flashbacks after eating tainted madeleines, yet he soldiered on.

Here's what I'd do: take a look in the mirror. A good long look. Four or five hours at least, standing completely nude in front of a full-lengh mirror in a cold room. You are permitted a nice hat.

While looking, ask yourself: is this poor body of mine ready for rejection, failure, humiliation, poor nutrition and critic-induced eczema?

If not, then I suggest you shelf both of your charmingly un-sellable projects for now, and instead focus your considerable talents upon a desk calendar featuring red pandas. These will sell like hotcakes! Everyone needs a desk calendar, and everybody loves red pandas. They are like cute, furry money!

Dear Illiterate Loser,

My condolences on your poor performance in bed! These things occasionally do happen to certain people, or so I'm told. And when such a thing happens to me -- although it never does -- I find it constructive and relaxing to blame the problem on my partner. Perhaps your book was "difficult," "esoteric" or "modern". These words are all synonyms of "frigid"; avoid such books at all cost.

On the other hand, if you find yourself tucked in with a cheap, slender, easy read, yet you still can't keep your eyelids up, it is possible that you are suffering from what doctors call "gay eyelids". There is no known cure, but a variety of gay eyelid support groups do exist on the internet; I am told that gaybears.com is particularly helpful, although I have never, ever looked at it myself.

If none of that helps, then you may simply be experiencing pure exhaustion brought on by overwork, stress and the abuse of stimulants. If you feel this may be the case, why not try increasing your dosage of stimulants? It never fails to perk me up.