| The Grim Legacy of Freud |
| In this labyrinth of daily life that we must navigate, the chewy Minotaur center is not a half-bull, half-man hybrid, nor a bull. Or a man. It's not even your unjustified fear of driving through trailor parks after nightfall. It's a concept, which, although by definition conceptual, is no less insidious than an anarchist in a room full of pimply pre-teens. "This theoretical concept of which you speak; is it a low-fat diet that still consists of great-tasting foods?", you may well be asking. And your assumption would be correct, if I honestly cared about how snug your Polo Sport jeans were fitting. "Then, pray tell, what is this abstract gestalt?" To avoid being interrupted by myself further, I shall reveal it to you. The minotaur of which I speak is the dread one of "love". And I speak not of the love between a hippie and his nugs, nor of the jungle fever displayed so flamboyantly on many a pornographic magazine. Which brings me to an aside. Do employees of said magazines actually put "pornographer" on their embossed business cards? Or do they just put some feeble cop-out like "risque photographer"? But anyway, I am speaking of mankind's need for attention from the sex of the choice, not to mention the sex. This drive leads them to do inane things like inventing the prom, writing bad poetry, and setting fire to their own hair. So the problem, for heterosexual males, is how to attract the ideal female. I decline to speak here for females or gay men, since guys are for the most part pretty stupid, and not that hard to entice into bed. Unless you have a missing limb or something, but even then, they should be easily plied with alcohol. So we'll assume you're a guy. You're hairy, you make whimsical body noises, and your magnum opus was that time you shattered a beer bottle on your own head. How the hell can your own mother love you, let alone an unrelated female who (I hope to god) didn't carry you in her womb for nine months? This is a quandary more difficult than trying to find Kid Rock a suitable replacement midget sidekick. But fear not. There is a solution, one so beautifully simple that it seems divinely inspired. And, unlike most of my solutions, it does not involve the direct intervention of any of the Wayans brothers. The answer is the art of the massive ego. Now, this probably seems deviously simple. But it's precisely that line of thinking that is making you read this in the first place, you dateless Philistine! I didn't travel thousands of miles on autogyro, do battle in drunken-form boxing with Shaolin monks, and burn a hecatomb of cattle and Modest Mouse CDs in sacrifice to the patron goddess of black metal just to have my epiphanies second guessed by some shmuck with a screenname like Sum41Punx182 or SkinPride82. (which do not different much from one another. Is Blink 182 82-style punk? Does anyone even care?) Anyway, as any supermodel dating a professional wrester, or some hot Buddhist chick dating the Lama Steven Seagal will tell you, massive egos are massively attractive. And if you have the ego and the necessary vocal chords to convey that ego (my apologies to chimpanzees and bonobos. You'll just have to make do with sign language), the girls cannot help but flock to you. Even if you have physical or mental anomilies! In fact, this can sometimes be a blessing. A brutal facial scar or some moderately deep, dark secret can only help to increase your mating success, represented by this equation: E+a^2=M where E=ego, a=inborn Awsomeness and M=mating potential. Note that being hot doesn't even figure into this (teen pop stars take note!) Because if you claim to be hot, people will eventually believe that you are, even if you haven't pruned that hairy mole or tended to your shoulder acne in days. "This line of reasong makes parfit sense!", you might say. Indeed it does, and I appreciate the use of the Chaucerian Middle English "parfit", which sounds like a epicurian food, rather than the modern English (the language, not the new wave band) "perfect", which sounds like a tired remnant from poorly translated Street Fighter games. "But, kindly Author, how can I boost my own ego to such unfounded proportions? I'm just a scrawny subculture kid who emulates Trent Reznor and wears dog collars, though I own no dog." Don't lose hope, my contemptable friend! There are techniques that one can use to shoot up egos faster than William Borroughs with a syringe of Demerol. And, offered here, as my gift to you, the secrets of nurturing the Freudian ego. 1. The "Captain Awesome" method: Inform people that you are hot and awesome. Repeat till all parties believe it. 2. Consistently brag of your own accomplishments. This can range from writing a symphony, to tying your shoes correctly or putting your shirt on the proper way. Unless you're a member of Kriss Kross, in which case the traditional way would symbolize some abrupt mental retardation. 3. Invent a new fashion style, weaponless means of killing, triangle-based architectural style, etc. Then claim it as your own and let the accolades pour forth like church confessions the day after Mardi Gras. There's plenty of room for creation. For example, I have noticed a poverty of bionic arms that fire lasers, have grappling hooks, etc. Or you could create a style of music that fuses rap and metal without sucking. 4. If you have a royal title, use it to your advantage. Chicks dig noble saps who can fence and own ponies. If you're a peasant, get your friends to bestow a title upon you like "Duke" or "Count". Or you could do what I did and become an ordained minister. Hopefully this has given you a good start in acquiring that obnoxiously favorable self-image, and puts you on the fast track to breaking hearts. Of course, Camus deemed hope the greatest evil, so maybe in reality I'm just wishing you to die. Alone. In the rain. Either way, the road to booty country is yours to tread! Happy tapping! |