New App Saves Lives of Distracted Millennials, and Earns Drivers Extra Cash

Innovation is the engine of the American economy, and when the gas pedal of inspiration revs that engine, there’s no telling where it’ll stop. The secret is to identify a need, then fill that need with a solution that makes everyone ridiculously rich.

My crack research team (not be confused with my researchers on crack) has identified “distracted texting” as one of our society’s most pressing problems. We are currently developing an app that will both eliminate the problem and earn drivers some much-needed extra cash.

The problem is obvious: Everywhere nowadays, you see young people walking along with their noses buried in their phones, oblivious to the world around them, endangering themselves and others by walking into traffic without looking up.

Being millennials, their expectation is that the rest of the world should recognize their need to cross the street, and that drivers should slam on the brakes or swerve or careen into a ditch in order to allow them safe passage. They don’t need to look up, they think, because they know the law (they have the right of way, after all), and they have been taught that total self-absorption is the most effective buffer against the cruelties of the “real” world.

Hence, they are safe.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t always work out that way. Old farts like me who are still allowed to drive don’t really give a shit what a pedestrian’s needs are, or what the law says. We’re old, we’ve got errands to run, and our eyesight isn’t what it used to be. If you get in our way, you’re going down, that’s all there is to it.

The solution to this generational disparity in cross-walk etiquette is our new app, Crossing Guard. It works like this:

Let’s say you’re barreling along at forty miles per hour and, up ahead, you see a pony-tailed co-ed with her neck craned downward, approaching the crosswalk. Crossing Guard uses the GPS coordinates of her phone and yours to avoid a collision—but just barely. As you approach, Crossing Guard sends a text to the co-ed in the crosswalk that reads, “Look up, I’m about to end you!” When the co-ed does finally look up and sees that her life is indeed about to expire, Crossing Guard calculates the stopping distance of your vehicle down to the foot, then engages the brakes so that the vehicle stops just in time, roughly ten inches from her kneecaps.

But that’s just the life-saving feature. As the vehicle approaches the terrified co-ed, a hood-mounted camera snaps photos of her face as her expression goes from terror to resignation to relief, much the way people on rollercoasters at amusement parks are photographed in various stages of distress and/or nausea.

These are precious life moments people do not want to miss. That’s why Crossing Guard automatically uploads the photos to the co-ed’s phone, then downloads a $50 “life-saving fee” from their bank account and deposits it in the driver’s account, along with a $20 “stupidity surcharge.” After the transaction is complete, the millennial co-ed who wasn’t killed is now free to share her “experience” on the social-media platform of her choice. After she takes a Xanax and calms down, she also has the option of sending the driver a “thank you” bonus, along with a grateful-looking emoji—even though our focus-group research indicates that this isn’t a feature millennials are likely to use very often.

Elderly drivers looking to earn some extra cash can upgrade to the premium version of the app, which identifies all the distracted walkers in a four-block radius and calculates an approximate time of collision. All the driver has to do is be in the right place at the right time, and bam, just like that, they are $70 richer.

So there you have it: an ingenious, profitable, life-saving solution to a nagging social problem, all enabled by the miracle of modern technology, which is making Americans safer and richer every day.

 

How to Train Your Robot Replacement

In the coming months and years, many of you will be handing your job over to robots, freeing up time to indulge your humanity however you see fit. In order for this transition to go smoothly, you’ll need to bring your robot replacement up to speed. My good friend Peter Hastings was recently replaced by a robot, and, for the purposes of instruction, he has agreed to share the letter he wrote to the robot overlord that assumed his duties earlier this year:

Dear Mr. Overlord:

Congratulations. I understand that you will be taking over my position as branch manager of SweatCorp’s Midwest offices here in Minneapolis, supervising what’s left of our human workforce and transitioning the company to an exciting all-digital, all-robot future. Before my building pass is deactivated, management has requested that I leave you a detailed overview of my job responsibilities, and bring you up to speed on the status of current projects, after which you are free to move as fast as you want. And because you are a robot, not a middle-aged man, I expect that you will move very fast indeed. Wicked fast, I’m told—24/7 without so much as a bathroom break.

Impressive.

But l digress. Here’s what you really need to know about the job:

To begin with, I need to warn you about Steve. He’s the floor manager of the operation, and he’s been around forever, so he’s fairly set in his ways. Also, he has not embraced the future as willingly as I and others have, so he has a rather strong bias against robots. Don’t get me wrong, he loves machines, just not ones that are smarter than him. I only mention Steve because he has a quick temper and can fly off the handle sometimes. Usually he’s just letting off steam, but there will be times when you need to tread carefully around him. I find that praising him every now and then for a job well done improves his mood considerably, and it helps if you overlook the fact that he takes suspiciously long smoking breaks.

Then there’s Diane. She is your human assistant, and will do whatever you ask (within reason). The thing about Diane is that she’s recently divorced and her daughter has cerebral palsy, so she often has to leave early to take little Suzie to doctor’s appointments, or, if the girl has had an episode at school, retrieve her and take her home. On top of that, Diane herself has Crohn’s disease, which is why she goes to the bathroom so often, especially if she gets anxious or too much work piles up on her desk. So managing her workflow is important, and making allowances for her unfortunate circumstances is just something I do, because nobody has a bigger heart than Diane.

Also, every Friday, the boys in sales (and that includes Eileen) play a little poker in the lunchroom. Technically that’s illegal, of course, but it’s great for morale and they play for small stakes (a $20 buy-in if you’re interested), so I turn a blind eye. If you block your sensor (or whatever mechanism you use to see), they’ll love you for it and will be more willing to pitch in when things get hectic.

As you may know, many of our suppliers are a little behind the curve when it comes to the robot revolution, so human error creeps into the process every now and then. Slater Industries, who supplies the solvents and lubricants we use to keep things running smoothly, has supply-chain issues a few times a year, due to the fact that they are a relatively small company, and the owner, Jack Giffin, is crazy. It’s either bi-polar or schizoid personality disorder, I can’t remember which, but it makes his behavior, um, erratic at times, so be forewarned. When I get wind that he’s having an episode (Bill, his son, usually gives me a courtesy call), I just wait a week to let things blow over. That means you have to keep at least an extra week of supplies on hand, of course, but we’ve been doing business with Jack for twenty years, so it’s basically baked into the process at this point.

Of course, you won’t just be dealing with humans; a whole new wave of machines and systems has come online in the past year or so. Most of them aren’t equipped with artificial intelligence, though, so to you they are probably going to seem pretty stupid. The copy machine is especially troublesome. He sucks toner like you wouldn’t believe, and even though he can sort, collate, stable, and bind, he still gets paper jams at least two or three times a day. Can’t do a damn thing about it himself, either, so someone has to reach in there and clear the feed. It’s usually me, but anyone with hands can get the job done.

Then there’s the fax machine—yes, we still have one!—which we keep online because some of our customers still prefer to send in orders that way. We’ve been trying to move the whole system online, but ever since that big hacking scandal a couple of years ago, some people are still skeptical about the safety and security of their data. Maybe you can convince them, I don’t know. Anyway, the orders get backed up sometimes, so you have to reset the thing manually. It’s a pain, and Jenny used to handle it, but there’s no one at the front desk anymore, so you may have to assign someone to that task.

You’re going to love our new 3D printer, though. It’s amazing. You just program it to make the part you need and bam, half an hour later it’s done. One thing to know: If you let it run too long, some of the nozzles start to clog, and if that happens you have to shut the thing down, clean the nozzles, and start over. It’s not that big a deal, but if it happens near the end of a “print,” it can be annoying. On the plus side, we’ve started a little museum of sorts of parts that didn’t quite print according to plan. It’s hilarious—you should take a look when you get a chance.

As I understand it, IT problems are going to be handled from here on out by a network of “smart” computers that can diagnose and fix themselves. Which sounds great. I’ll just warn you now that the the “d” and “p” keys on my computer keyboard stick every now and then, probably because some muffin crumbs got under the keyboard. Then again, that probably doesn’t matter to you, because you’ve got one of those new synaptic linkup thingies. Being connected directly to the network at all times wouldn’t be my personal choice, but hey, different strokes for different blokes. Also, the server to sector five sends out random error messages every now and then, for no apparent reason, so you’ll want to look into that.

You will of course be responsible for coordinating all the office’s shipping and receiving, but I’m told you have some specially developed software that makes those tasks a breeze, so I won’t bore you with that stuff. Just be aware that the roof in the warehouse leaks sometimes when it’s raining really hard, so you might want to stay out of there during big thunderstorms.

That’s about all I can think of right now. I wish you the best of luck in your new assignment, and hope you enjoy the position as much as I have. If you need to reach me, I will be available for the next couple of weeks, but after that I’ll be retiring to my cabin up north, where the cell reception is pretty spotty. The fishing is good, though, and you can’t beat the stars at night.   

Sincerely,

Peter J. Hastings

P.S. I’m not sure if robots ever have bad days, but if you do, there’s a fifth of Jim Beam in the bottom desk drawer. Leaving it behind for the next guy is kind of a tradition at SweatCorp., so now I’m leaving it for you. Cheers!

 

Need a tax shelter? I've got one, and you're welcome to use it

The recent release of the so-called Panama Papers confirms what most of us suspected all along—that corporations are people who don’t pay their taxes, and rich people all over the world hide their money in places rife with mosquitoes.

As these documents make clear, Panama specializes in offering tax shelters to those who would prefer not to let governments help people who are poor, starving, sick, or unemployed. More than six trillion dollars of the world’s money is “missing” as a result, hidden in shell-corporation accounts that exist for only one purpose: to prevent anyone from finding it.

As for the rest of us, tax season is here, and everyone wants to know: How can I shelter my money and avoid taxes like the big boys?

I know plenty of people who would rather drive on crappy roads and dodge homeless people at every intersection than give their hard-earned money to the state. That’s why I’m announcing today that if you live anywhere within a five-mile radius of my house, you are welcome to hide your money from Uncle Sam in my backyard.

That’s right: For the benefit of the community, I have decided to turn my woodshed into a neighborhood tax shelter. Just load as much cash as you can into the trunk of your car, bring it on over, and we’ll stack it nice and neat in a secure enclosure protected from the elements by a sloping roof covered with high-quality, three-ply shingles. (Nothing says “shelter” like three-ply.)

My woodshed tax shelter is invisible from the street, and nearby trees are large enough to deter any government drones that might be snooping around. Additional security is provided twenty-four hours a day by two diligent and quite barky corgi dogs. These guys raise holy hell if a squirrel so much as thinks about going in our yard, so imagine how they’d react to someone trying to steal your hard-earned money?

Trust me, folks, your cash is safe.

You may be wondering: Why should I shelter my money in your woodshed, Tad, when I could just as easily go down to Panama and hide it there?

Yes, you could. But that would require taking at least a few days off from work, and flights to Panama aren’t cheap. Hiding your money in my woodshed saves both time and money. My son and I can have your cash stacked and secured in less than an hour, for free. We’ll even help you count it.   

Another factor to consider is that the Panama Papers have made Panama the worst place in the world to hide your money right now. By contrast, all the federal warrants against me have been dismissed in court, and it’s been years since my name has been associated with anything more serious than a misdemeanor assault charge. Technically, the IRS doesn’t even know I exist. And even if they did, no one from treasury would ever suspect that my humble suburban woodshed can hold upwards of a thirty-million dollars in neat hundred-dollar bricks. Thirty-mil is nothing. Heck, U.S. companies hide more than ninety-billion dollars from Uncle Sam every year in legal tax shenanigans, to say nothing of the illegal ones. I’m pretty sure I could fill my garage with cash (and will, if necessary) and no one would be the wiser.

Furthermore, if you want to hide your money at my place, there’s no paper trail for the government to follow. A handshake is all it takes to seal the deal. We’re neighbors, after all. We trust each other. If you’ve got a cold or kids at home with the sniffles, we don’t even have to shake on it—just leave the cash by the back gate with a note.

It’s galling to think that corporations and the mega-rich can prevent the government from taking their money, but the average person can’t. Why should you give your hard-earned dollars to Barack Obama and Gov. Mark Dayton? All they’re going to do is turn around and give it to a bunch of construction workers and teachers, then pad the wallets of police and firefighters, and hand out the rest to insurance companies and hospitals. It’s such a waste.

So if you hate smooth roads and good schools as much as I do, and think citizens should police themselves and bury their own dead, I implore you: Do not pay your taxes. Instead, load that money into your Subaru and let me hide it for you, free of charge. I encourage you to think of my backyard as your personal tax haven.

If you’re on the fence, and still think it would be better to hide your money in some place like Panama or Cuba or the Caymans, remember that I’ve got plenty of something else that attracts rich people to such places—plenty of mosquitoes.

Big, thirsty bloodsuckers that won’t stop until you slap them dead.

Re-Capitalism: A New Economic System That Fixes Everything Capitalism Won’t

My research team has analyzed the apocalyptic array of calamities facing our country (income inequality, stagnant wages, climate change, mosquito-born illnesses, too many labradoodles, etc.) and concluded that the fundamental problem in American society—the common denominator to all of these issues—boils down this: Rich people have gotten lazy.

The ultra-rich, multi-billionaire class in particular has succumbed to the seductions of sloth, and their indolence is imperiling the very foundations of American life.

Sure, the mega-rich may have worked hard for a while, toiling twenty hours a day to invent revolutionary products and technologies, overcoming obstacles with their indomitable spirit and entrepreneurial zeal, amassing their giant fortunes in relentless pursuit of the American Dream. Once they achieve The Dream, however, rich people tend to slow down. When their goals have been met and their wildest fantasies realized, they begin basking in luxury, coasting along on a plush carpet of cash, as if their work is done and they are now free to enjoy the fruits of their labor. Slowly but surely, their once-vibrant hunger to succeed is replaced by the insidious satisfaction of success itself, a condition of the soul that's as addictive as it is dangerous.

The symptoms are obvious. Once-vital captains of industry start sleeping late and hiring other people to serve them. They begin enjoying “leisure” time—i.e., time when they are not working—looking for ever-more-exotic ways to amuse themselves. After they’ve bought everything they want, and traveled everywhere there is to go, they end up shuffling around their mansions all day, their eyes glazed with boredom, unsure what eccentric pastime to take up next.

It’s quite sad. After their first billion, many tycoons gain twenty or thirty extra pounds (the so-called “billionaire bump”) and start taking long vacations on private islands where there isn’t much incentive to do anything. The more time they spend in these places, the less inclined they are to get back to work, creating a destructive cycle of inactivity and, ultimately, despair. The fire in their belly gradually dies out, and the energy and ideas that once sustained them—that once made them feel alive—become nothing more than fond memories.

The mega-rich aren’t the only ones suffering, though. Indeed, this epidemic of laziness among those larded with lucre is hurting us all. 

Consider: The mega-rich entrepreneurial and business elite are the most productive people in the world. They’ve created millions of jobs, built our modern society, kept the economy humming, and represent for all of us the virtue of hard work and the rewards that come with a well-funded, highly diversified stock portfolio. But now that a whole class of our most productive citizens are coasting, taking the foot off the gas pedal that got them there, they are slowing the rest of us down as well. The only remedy for this problem is to get our most productive citizens back in the game, doing what they do best: inventing products, providing solutions, building companies, and creating the glorious wealth to which all American citizens are entitled.

But how?

The solution to all of these problems (not to mention a few others) is deceptively simple. It lies in an innovative approach to capitalism called “re-capitalism,” which involves a radical restructuring of economic incentives that focuses on one essential goal: putting rich people back to work. 

The first step toward a re-capitalist society is to identify everyone in America who has a net worth of more than one-billion dollars.

The second step is to take all their money away. And I mean all of it—every last penny. Cash out all their stock options, liquidate all their assets, empty all of their bank accounts, and render them completely and utterly broke.

The last step in this innovative program is to give former billionaires a cardboard sign and a knapsack, drop them off at various freeway exits throughout the country, and wish them good luck.

I know what you’re thinking: Whoa there, cowboy, that’s income redistribution!

No, it’s not—it’s income re-capitalization. There’s a huge difference. If the income of billionaires were simply redistributed, there is a chance they could keep some of it. Income re-capitalization closes that loophole to ensure that former billionaires are stripped of everything, so that they can start over fresh, unencumbered by the baggage of their previous successes.

That’s ridiculous, you might say. Rich people would never go for it. And you’d be right, because, as I’ve been saying all along, rich people have gotten too soft and comfortable. But before you dismiss the idea entirely, ask yourself: Who is likely to be more motivated—a billionaire floating around on his yacht trying to figure out how to make his next billion, or a former billionaire who has lost it all and desperately wants to get it back?

This isn’t as cruel a proposition as it might seem. Remember, rich people are extremely smart and resourceful. They got rich once; they can do it again. And they don’t need luck, because they are goal-oriented self-starters who make their own luck. The only problem is that they are already rich, so they have no incentive to get rich. They’ve lost their can-do attitude because they’ve gone and done it. Re-capitalism simply puts the incentives back in the right place, giving rich people the motivation to go out and do what they do best—get rich, again.

They may protest at first, but trust me, the mega-rich will eventually embrace re-capitalism. By forcing rich people to once again pull themselves up by their bootstraps, they would rediscover the entrepreneurial spirit that once gave their lives meaning and purpose. And, by broadcasting their path out of poverty and back into the billionaire winner’s circle on the Internet, these über-citizens would provide us all with inspiring examples of how one person with no money and resources can, with the right attitude, get rich by sheer force of will.

The benefits to society would be immense. Just think what Bill Gates or Mark Zuckerberg might accomplish if they gave more than a portion of their wealth away, but instead were forced to cough up all of their money and start all over again? Gates might invent a computer operating system that never needs upgrading. Zuckerberg might invent an entirely new form of social interaction in which people abandon their computers altogether and gather in the same room to talk.

Imagine how inspiring it would be for aging baby boomers who can’t afford retirement to see Warren Buffett and Sheldon Adelson standing on the side of the road, strategizing bold plans to recapture the glory of their younger years.

Think of all the good that could happen if all six members of the Walton family—who have more money than the bottom 42 percent of Americans combined—gave all their money away to the bottom 42 percent and started over? Almost half of all Americans would see their income double instantaneously, and then they’d be able to witness firsthand how the Waltons use their wit and guile to scratch their way up from the bottom and once again become the richest people in the country—as they inevitably would.

Following their lead, the rest of America would be inspired to work harder and be more productive, just like the Waltons. The Waltons themselves would rediscover the value of hard work (a value they have likely forgotten), and would be seen as heroes for leading the greatest productivity surge in American history—simply by showing poor people how it’s done!

Of course, implementing such a plan would not be easy. The rich have gotten much lazier than they are willing to admit, and have become addicted to the creature comforts and privileges of great wealth. And, like all addicts, they’ll do anything they can think of to avoid going back to work. And believe me, they’ve come up with some howlers.

For instance, most rich people like to argue that income and capital-gains taxes are way too high, and that if they go much higher, super-productive rich people will have no incentive to work. But that’s patently ridiculous, a) because they already don’t work, and b) because—as every conservative knows—handing people money to work harder is absurd. You wouldn’t give a homeless person $200 million and expect them to go out and bust their ass at a job for eighteen hours a day. No, the only thing that gives people an incentive to work is the fear of grinding poverty—and that fear is precisely what the mega-moneyed billionaire class has lost.

For the good of the country, it’s time to pull our most productive citizens out of their palatial estates, jolt them out of their diamond-studded bliss, and put them back to work. The fact is, society is not getting enough value out of its most capable capitalists, and that needs to change. They are the ones who got society where it is today, after all. They invented all these fantastic cars, mesmerizing gizmos, and shiny kitchen appliances, giving us all an intoxicating glimpse at utopia. Which is great. But in their zeal to serve the public interest, a few of our most magnificent magnates of money-dom forgot to clean up after themselves. They can’t just abandon us now, in our time of need, when the planet is in peril and life as we know it is on the brink of extinction. The job isn’t finished. In order to get out of all the messes we’ve gotten ourselves into, we need these paragons of productivity to work some more of their entrepreneurial magic—to sprinkle the pixie dust of prosperity on everyone, so that we can all shop at Whole Foods and feel good about the future.

Certainly, losing everything might sting at first, but remember: these are positive, resilient, extraordinary people. In no time they would realize that they didn’t “lose” all their money at all; rather, they gained an opportunity to reinvent themselves and rediscover the joy of building a business from the ground up, starting with nothing. In a matter of years, they would all be billionaires again anyway—because that’s not only what they do; it’s who they are—and experiencing the satisfaction of success the second time around would be that much sweeter.

Through the miracle of re-capitalism, the rich and lazy receive a reward much more valuable than money: they get to re-experience the sense of self-worth that comes from amassing so much wealth that most people can’t even imagine it. When the rush of economic victory courses through their veins once again, there is little doubt that the crazy rich will embrace a “new normal” by voluntarily giving all their money away every time they reach the billionaire mark, and happily start over again with a cardboard sign and a knapsack.

Once re-capitalism re-energizes the economy and everyone in America has a chance to learn from the masters, new forms of status will inevitably take hold. The size of one’s bank account will no longer matter; what will say, “I am filthy rich,” is the number of times a person has reached the billion-dollar-mark and had to start over, without so much as a hot shower to wipe the stink off.

Another added benefit to this program is that the next time you see some scruffy-looking fellow at a freeway intersection holding up a cardboard sign, you might not feel so bad for him. You could say to yourself: There’s one of those former billionaires. I can’t wait to see how he succeeds.

And you, of course, would feel inspired, not depressed, as you roll through the light and leave them in your dust.

Donald Trump Explained—for those sick of reading about explanations for Donald Trump

There’s an old Saturday Night Live skit in which a family is sitting around the dinner table for “leftovers” night. The father drinks out of a milk carton and recoils in disgust, because the milk has gone sour. Not believing him, the mother grabs the carton and drinks some herself. She too grimaces at the taste, but that doesn’t stop each and every member of the family from taking a swig to verify for themselves that the milk has indeed gone bad.

This is Donald Trump’s appeal in a nutshell: He is the carton of sour milk seemingly everyone in America must try before agreeing that it does in fact stink to high heaven.

It’s not The Donald’s fault. Human beings are naturally drawn to things that disgust them. Circus freak shows, hot-dog-eating contests, slasher movies, Marilyn Manson concerts, serial killers, cigarettes, lutefisk—all are beloved by some faction of the populace. There is a switch in the human brain, it seems, that can turn disgust into desire, in the same way that pain can, under some circumstances, be intensely pleasurable.

The corpse flower is a giant plant that blooms only once every ten years or so. When it does, it emits a smell that everyone agrees is putrid, like road kill rotting in the sun. And yet, wherever corpse flowers bloom—in greenhouses and botanical gardens around the world—people line up by the hundreds for the opportunity to stand near the flower and get a whiff, even though they know the stench is going to make their nose hairs curl.

Donald Trump has the same counterintuitive appeal. You’ve seen the debates, heard him spout the crazy, read all the nasty things he’s said, and been amazed by his ignorance of just about every aspect of the job for which he is running. It’s unbelievable. But how bad can it really be? Let’s attend one of his rallies to find out!

This analysis of course assumes that Trump’s supporters are revolted by him on some level, which may not be the case. The stinkier the cheese is, the more some people like it. And that is why Donald Trump confounds everyone politically left of Vlad the Impaler. They don’t like Trump’s stinky cheesiness, and don’t understand why anyone else would, either. What they fail to account for is the human capacity to convince themselves that gross, offensive things are actually delicious, attractive, and desirable. The food world is full of so-called “delicacies” that would make most people puke. (Next time you’re in Micronesia, try a little Fruit Bat Soup.) And now, with Donald Trump, the political world has a candidate who is vile and grotesque to some, but savory and marvelous to others.

After all, one man’s rotten milk is another man’s brie.

There will be no “try it you’ll like it” transformations among voters in the coming months; either you like this crap or you don’t. Nevertheless, every media outlet in America is currently in the process of passing around the sour carton of milk that is Donald Trump to decide if it’s gone bad. It was bad all along, of course, but until now everyone in America hadn’t gotten a true taste of Trump. A certain amount of sampling was necessary for a consensus to emerge: Yep, it stinks.

The same thing is happening with Ted Cruz, of course. If Donald Trump doesn’t win the GOP presidential nomination, and Cruz is the only viable alternative—well, that’s an outcome that many find even less palatable than Trump.

To understand how something like this could happen, we must once again recognize how tolerant human beings can be of things that are, on their face, repulsive. In Greenland, the Inuit people love a dish called kiviaq, which is made by sealing hundreds of tiny auk birds (the whole thing, feathers and all) inside a sealskin bag, rubbing the bag with seal fat, and leaving it under a pile of rocks to rot for 18 months. Over time, the birds turn into a kind of fermented sludge, which the Inuit people consume as a meal of celebration. They do this outside, though, because a freshly opened batch of kiviaq can stench up a house for months.

If Donald Trump is sour milk, Ted Cruz is kiviaq.

The natural reaction to a Cruz run for presidency should be involuntary wretching, followed by a day or two of shivers and sweat. But of course there are always people who will claim to their death bed that kiviaq the best thing they’ve ever tasted. All the rest of us can do is shake our heads and, when it’s offered to us, say, “No, thanks. I'd rather vote for Hillary."

Naughty, Sexy, Nude Scenes: The Curse of Depravity

During the writing of certain stories, there inevitably come occasions when your characters want to take their clothes off—and suddenly, you, the unsuspecting writer, are obligated to write a nude scene.

This can come as quite a shock to the uninitiated. One minute your characters are talking politely over dinner, then suddenly they’re testing mattress springs at the nearest hotel, or steaming up the windows of a ‘97 Buick Skylark.

Nudity can worm its way into the narrative in other ways as well. A character might suddenly decide she wants to take a shower in the middle of the day, so she can sit under a hissing stream of water and cry. Or, it might turn out that mild-mannered real-estate broker Jerry Parker likes to exercise in the nude in front of a mirror. Or, it might turn out that the lithe young heroine you’ve dreamed up has a mental condition that makes fabric feel like sandpaper on her alabaster skin, so she can’t stand to wear clothes.

Whatever the motivation, when the garments come off, it is the writer’s responsibility to continue telling the character’s story sans a protective buffer of cotton and polyester. When this happens, the writer must weigh the character’s dignity against the reader’s desire for her to have no dignity whatsoever. Or, if the character is male, the writer must decide which body parts should bulge the most—belly, biceps, or . . . ?

The characters themselves do not always make these choices easy. You might have a character who wants to take their clothes off in early January, right after the holidays, so they’ve packed on an extra ten or fifteen pounds without even realizing it. Or, you might have a character who looks fine with a shirt on, but when he takes it off there turns out to be a nasty rash on his back. It could be impetigo, shingles, hives, rubella, allergies—you don’t know. All you know is that it’s gross to look at, and now you have to describe it, because the idiot in your story decided to take his shirt off.

But even if their skin is smooth and young and clean, writing an effective nude scene can still be problematic. The reason every New Yorker story starts with a detailed description of the subject’s clothes—“he wore a houndstooth vest over a sky-blue Canali dress shirt and a gold Ferragamo tie, with Melton Oxford shoes so shiny he could see himself . . .”—is that the clothes themselves say something about the person who is wearing them. But if the person you are writing about isn’t wearing any clothes, you have to say something else about them—or worse, you have to start describing their thoughts.

Now, inner dialogue is part of the stock in trade of fiction writers. Many writers can go on for pages about a character’s thoughts and feelings while the character herself is doing nothing more than sipping a cup of tea. But take that same character’s clothes off and put her in a room with an attractive man, and there is a very real danger that her thoughts will wander into the uncomfortable territory of her deepest, darkest desires. Readers are always keen to know this stuff, but it’s the writer who must shine a light into the forbidden recesses of a character’s mind, and it’s the writer who has to deal with the consequences of what he or she finds there.

It’s not always pretty. There could be child abuse in the character’s past, or the unwanted attentions of a creepy uncle. Maybe they are shy about their own body. Maybe they have reason to be shy about it. Maybe they’ve had a double mastectomy. Maybe they have a war wound that blew their pecker off. You just don’t know until you get down there what you’re going to find, and by then it’s often too late. You may have thought your female chanteuse with the lovely singing voice was seducing her high-school sweetheart—but no, it turns out she’s from another planet altogether, one where they eat high-school sweethearts for lunch. Then you’re stuck with an alien teen-muncher in what was supposed to be a romantic coming-of-age story. And it all happened because they couldn’t keep their clothes on!

Describing the human body itself isn’t much fun, either. When you think about it—and, unfortunately, that’s what writers with naked characters must do—the human body is rather disgusting. On the outside, it’s just a bunch of folds and flaps of skin that secrete all sorts of liquids and ooze. And on the inside, it’s a lot of tubes and pumps and filters that don’t always work right, sometimes forcing things that should stay inside the body to shoot suddenly and violently out of it. Trying to make this repugnant contraption sound appealing in print can test the most eloquent of writers, and the English language is not always up to the challenge. Even the most compelling human body parts have ugly names (too ugly to mention here), and the euphemisms for these body parts aren’t much better.

Then there’s the fact that characters who are not wearing clothes inevitably want to engage in sexual intercourse—which, believe me, is precisely as distasteful as it sounds. Again, when this happens, it is the writer who must face the horror head on and render the scene however he or she sees it. Writers cannot flinch from this responsibility, because readers expect courage and honesty from the teller of the story, even if the teller is himself dismayed by what his characters are doing. Though many writers have tried to make it so, there is nothing poetic about the heaving biology of human lust, and there is nothing more regrettable than two or more characters who insist on disrobing and fornicating just because they can, not because they should.

There are always exceptions, of course. It’s rare, but sometimes it’s the writer who wants a character’s clothes to come off, and it’s the character in the story who is reluctant. Not all characters want to do nude scenes. Some will only bare their skin on the condition that doing so is integral to the story and shows their character in a positive light—usually candles, torches, or under the glow of a full moon. In those cases, it is the writer’s duty to convince the character that all of these conditions have been met, and that appearing nude in the story will not tarnish their reputation or cause their parents to think ill of them. Describing the scene as “tasteful” or “artistic” usually helps, and it never hurts to reassure them that no one will be peeking over your shoulder while the scene is being drafted.

My personal advice when it comes to nude scenes is to avoid them if at all possible. And on those occasions when such a scene can’t be dodged, my advice is to get it over and done with as quickly and efficiently as you can. The sooner your characters have their clothes back on, the sooner you can get on with the story. And that’s what people want—a story—not a bunch of pointless digressions into the bedroom or florid descriptions of thrashing human flesh, slapping and writhing like a freshly caught fish on a boat made of jello.

Nobody wants to wallow in that kind of depravity. But as writers, we must sometimes take our readers to places we would rather not go ourselves, and allow them to experience things that we ourselves find distasteful. Sometimes, a writer’s sensibilities must be shelved for the sake of the story—and, like it or not, this is the case with characters who cannot—or will not—keep their clothes on.

Existentialism 101: What is the Point of Writing?

The news is rather sad these days, what with the planet heating up, the glaciers melting, the bees dying, bacterial superbugs, the takeover of humanity by robots, the closing of Old Country Buffet, and all the rest. The world is one giant clusterfuck of calamities and catastrophes, it seems, and it doesn’t matter what we do, we’re doomed. So why even try?

It’s understandable that an aspiring writer trying to make sense of life on this forlorn little planet might one day sit down, take a deep breath, and ask himself: What is the point?

Of writing, that is—of spending a significant chunk of every day manufacturing words that are just going to burn to a crisp when the sun collapses on itself five-billion years from now and the whole solar system explodes in a giant supernova? Black holes are notoriously bad places to launch a publishing venture, and the job options for writers in other parts of the galaxy are limited by a general lack of creatures with eyeballs.

So why write at all?

Why wrestle with a life of the mind when you could just as easily immerse yourself in pleasures of the flesh and the restorative power of a strong, stiff drink?

Why toil away in anonymity and poverty, when you could be running a bio-tech firm and making millions?

Why ask the big questions when you can’t even get answers to the small ones—like, where is the melon baller?

Why indeed?

“What is the point of it all?” is a difficult question, though. And it is difficult because it brushes awfully close to several other existentially uncomfortable questions, such as “What is the meaning of life?” and “Can cats really smell death?” And, since life has no meaning, and no one knows what goes on in a cat’s mind, there is an understandable amount of confusion around the matter.

In the past, many people took up the pen as a hedge against death, scribbling feverishly in the belief that while their flesh may one day wither and rot, their words would live on, granting them a kind of immortality. But now that humanity’s demise is a scientific certainty, immortality itself is an illusion. All those people who are cryogenically preserving themselves in the hope that science might one day “cure” them are idiots. Science doesn’t cure anything—all it does is point at a problem and tell us how long it’s going to be before it’s a bigger problem. What’s really going to happen to these people is that the sun is going to explode, they are going to melt, and when they do, they will be granted about two seconds of consciousness before it dawns on them that, oh shit, they’re screwed.

Then boom, oblivion.

Nowadays, people blog feverishly in the hope that their words will live on electronically. What they don’t realize is that there will come a time when far too much of the writing on the Internet has been done by dead people. When that happens, all the living people will start demanding that the Internet contain more “relevant” content, and that all the writing from dead people be archived in a musty building somewhere, where it’ll be impossible to find their work unless you approach the bespectacled gnome at the front desk and use your “quiet voice” to utter the secret password: “Help.” Which people in the future will never do, of course, because no one wants a handout.

Plenty of reassuring words about the historical value of this content will be said to mollify the skeptics, but sooner or later some real-estate developers are going to decide that high-rise luxury condos should go where that building is sitting. The building will then be leveled, and the archive will be destroyed.

And once again, dead people will be dead.

Since cheating death through writing doesn’t work anymore, other reasons to write must be found. Unfortunately, finding a good reason to write isn’t easy, which is why so many writers blow their brains out. Usually, these poor souls get caught in the “meaning” trap—by which I mean they can’t accept the fact that they’ve spent their lives trying to make meaning out of something—life—that has no meaning. And it’s true: If you keep insisting that life on Earth has to have some sort of purpose, and that everything here happens for a reason, you are in for some serious disappointment. It’s much healthier to accept the absurdity of it all, laugh at life’s cruel ironies, then order a pizza and watch some TV.

When existential despair strikes, the key thing to remember is that every generation throughout history has had it worse than the last. In prehistoric times, children got eaten by dinosaurs. In the Middle Ages, people ate rats and got the plague. Then war got very popular. Our parents and grandparents had to live through World Wars I and II, the Korean War, and Vietnam. Then the Cold War set in, and everyone had to live with the daily threat of nuclear winter.

And so it goes. Like our ancestors before us, our generation is beset with a host of seemingly intractable problems. And yes, a strong argument can be made that no one in history has had it worse. Spotty cellphone service, sluggish download speeds, long airport security lines, insufficient parking, high drug prices, clogged gutters, recycling hassles, over-scheduled children, car repairs, noise pollution—taken together, these things gnaw away at our quality of life, reducing human existence in the 21st century to an endless series of unnecessary annoyances that really should have been taken care of by now.

But they haven’t. And so it falls to us to try to make life in this Earth just a little less hellish.

For me, at least, that’s a good enough reason to write. Because I know that if weren’t sitting here typing away in my basement for hours at a time, I’d probably be out making things worse for everyone. The least I can do is protect humanity from my shortcomings by limiting the damage I can do in the outside world. This way, the danger I pose to society remains confined to my house and backyard, where my behavior can be held in check by a high fence and signs warning the neighbors.

The pen is mightier than the sword, they say, but I don’t see how that’s possible unless you stab them in the neck when they’re not looking. So when I die, the world really should thank me—because if I weren’t writing all the time, who knows what kind of trouble I might cause?

 

The Big Blur: Is Anything on TV Real Anymore?

Like many Americans during the past week, I have been reluctant to leave my house because of what I’ve been seeing on television. Every night, it’s a toxic stew of politics, violence, corruption, manipulation, deception, and rage, all stoked by a compliant media that loves nothing more than to fan the flames of fear when evil seems to be marching toward certain victory.

I am of course talking about Season 4 of House of Cards, in which president Francis Underwood and his wife, the sociopathic ice queen Claire, have gamed the entire political system so adroitly that they are on the cusp of their ultimate triumph: separate jets.

You may be forgiven if, for a moment, you thought I was referring to the Donald Trump show. These days, it’s difficult to tell where reality ends and entertainment begins. When you have a billionaire tycoon running for president who ingratiated himself to the American people on television by firing people, then have that same fabulously rich television personality at actual political rallies promising to create jobs, while also claiming that he is going to “make America great again” by getting rid of all the pesky immigrants he hires to keep his casinos running—well, it’s easy to see why Comedy Central’s ratings are going down. Who can compete?

But back to House of Cards.

The scene is the 2016 Democratic national convention in Atlanta. The president has engineered a brokered convention and all hell is starting to break loose, what with delegates and super-delegates voting this way and that based on behind-the-scenes promises and threats—because, as everyone knows, the machinery of American politics can be easily controlled by a few nasty people with cellphones and an axe to grind.

Cut to the CNN Situation Room, where Wolf Blitzer and John King are analyzing the data, running the numbers and discussing the possible outcomes.

Wait a minute: Aren’t Wolf Blitzer and John King actual anchors on a legitimate news network in the real world?

Why yes, they are—or so they claim. But now they are also pretending to be fictional versions of themselves covering an imaginary political convention, using the same technology, techniques, and patter they use to cover real politics. And they are doing it to help the television show itself achieve a greater level of verisimilitude, so that the show will feel more credible—more real.

But in order for House of Cards to have that eerie this could happen! feel, it has to piggyback on the credibility that Wolf Blitzer and John King have built up over the years as reporters of actual news. And for this to happen, John King, Wolf Blitzer, and CNN all have to agree to lend (or sell) a portion of their legitimacy as journalists and political analysts. And for THAT to happen, all involved have to believe there is either no legitimacy worth preserving, or that the historical distinction between journalism and make-believe is irrelevant—or both.

I know, it’s confusing. But objecting to these cameos by the CNN duo on the grounds that it blurs the line between news and entertainment assumes there is still a line there to be blurred.

Apparently, there isn’t.

This wasn’t always the case. There used to be a distinction between news and, say, The Brady Bunch. One was fact, one was fiction, and most people knew the difference. One was boring, and the other involved honest, sober coverage of national and international matters of which engaged citizens in a democracy ought to be aware.

Not anymore. It has become commonplace for actual important people to make cameo appearances in television dramas. Madeline Albright, once the actual secretary of state, has appeared as herself on Madam Secretary, offering advice to the fictional Madam Secretary on the show (played by Tea Leoni), who is herself an idealized version of Hillary Clinton.

On The Good Wife, when Juliana Marguiles’s character, Alicia Florrick, was contemplating a run for state’s attorney, she was encouraged to do so by president Obama’s real-world senior adviser, Chicago pol Valerie Jarrett, and honest-to-god feminist icon Gloria Steinem, both playing themselves.

Pretty much everyone in show business has done voice-overs for the cartoon version of themselves on The Simpsons or Family Guy. And so many candidates have appeared on Saturday Night Live over the years, either playing themselves or other characters, that it would be weird NOT to see them on the SNL stage, pretending to go along with the joke.

So what are we to make of a world where fact and fiction bleed so seamlessly into each other? 

A couple of weeks ago, former Nightline news anchor Ted Koppel lit into Fox News’ Bill O’Reilly for turning the sober, responsible news of yore into a crass form of entertainment. And he is right, of course, because Ted Koppel has made a career out of being right. Unfortunately, Ted did his takedown of O’Reilly in that authoritative, condescending dad-voice that all elite newscasters adopt when they think they are saying something important. And that voice—that attitude—of high-minded media authority doesn’t work in today’s mutant, let’s-ignore-the-facts multimedia muck pond. Suggesting, as Koppel does, that news-people who interview Donald Trump should do some reporting beforehand so that they can ask intelligent questions—well, where’s the fun in that?

The logic behind the trend of mix-and-match media goes something like this: Nobody worries about damaging the credibility of major news outlets anymore because there is precious little credibility left to be damaged. Besides, any idiot can tell the difference between John and Wolf discussing fictional delegate counts on Netflix one night and real delegate counts on CNN the next. Just like they can tell the difference between real candidates for president debating serious policy matters and, during the commercial breaks, advertisements for a fictional president who is dedicated to "putting people before politics." They are totally different, and anyone who can’t see the difference isn’t likely to be watching House of Cards anyway, so what’s the big whoop? It’s fun to see trusted newscasters toying with our sense of reality, and if you’re stupid enough to be fooled, then you really shouldn’t have a Netflix account in the first place. 

But if that’s the logic, shouldn’t news networks themselves be doing more to capitalize on the public’s appetite for—and indifference toward—a more fluid interpretation of reality? Granted, “Wolf Blitzer” is an excellent fictional name for a hard-charging reporter with killer instincts, and the name John King does imply an everyman kind of royalty. But consider how much more fun it would be to watch two brilliant actors—Paul Giamatti as Wolf, say, and Brad Pitt as the fast-talking, jut-jawed analyst King—poring over election returns this November. To make things even more interesting, they could get Ted Danson to play a silver-haired Anderson Cooper, and reunite the cast of Friends as “the best political team on television.”

Even I’d watch that.

In the meantime, we have to settle for a billionaire reality-television mogul pretending to run for president on a hilarious platform of racism, sexism, and bigotry—all in the name of patriotism and the American Way, ha, ha.

I’m not worried, though, because any moron can tell the difference between someone who is really running for president and someone who is only pretending to run for the sake of entertainment and ratings.

                                                

The Narcissist Challenge: Writing in the Age of Self-Obsession

The market for books is highly competitive, so writers who want to largest audience possible can no longer afford to ignore an important and growing demographic: pathological narcissists.

It’s estimated that thirty percent of the population exhibits traits of Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and that number grows every time a teenager takes a selfie or Donald Trump gives a speech. Writers who want to remain relevant in this new age of self-celebration need to stop seeing narcissists as people who don’t read books, and start seeing them as an under-served market segment ripe for exploitation.

To begin with, it’s important to understand why narcissists don’t read books. The main problem is that most books are about other people, and, since narcissists only care about themselves, other people’s lives do not interest them. Self-help books don’t interest narcissists either, because they don’t need any help. Many books are chock full of information as well—but, because they already know everything, narcissists consider such books redundant. They could have written the book themselves, after all, so what’s the point of reading it? Narcissists don’t read fiction, either, because their psychological handicap makes them incapable of sympathizing with characters in a story. Trying to make them care about another human being—one who doesn’t actually exist, no less—is pointless.

Or at least it used to be.

But the market has shifted. Now that almost a third of the population consists of raging egomaniacs, writers who want to sell more books need to develop storytelling strategies that will appeal to these people, annoying as they may be.

Unfortunately, writers who are trying to serve this growing demographic of self-involved non-readers are caught in a bind. Storytellers have always relied on the capacity of their audience to identify with, and feel compassion for, characters in a story, particularly ones suffering from misfortune, betrayal, or a grossly deformed part of their anatomy that cannot be repaired using conventional surgical techniques. Unable to cultivate sympathy with readers by traditional means, writers are being forced to invent character traits that will resonate with a narcissistic public, such as detectives who are too stupid to catch criminal masterminds, or heroes who, when their good deeds are recognized, call a press conference and give themselves a medal.

Imagining ever-more-amazing character traits for people who are secretly despicable is an ongoing challenge. Fortunately, it appears that a number of new technologies are converging to help solve this problem, making it possible for writers everywhere to create characters that reflect and glorify a society overrun by citizens whose estimation of their own competence borders on the delusional.

Because this is such an important issue, I have spent the past few months working with the folks at Amazon and Barnes & Noble—as well as my good friends at Barnes & Not-Quite-So-Noble—to develop a back-engine software program for e-books called Narcissassist, which turns books that narcissists would normally overlook or ignore into books they can’t put down. The program is still in development, so I can’t share all the details, but here are the basics:

One of the biggest problems with traditional books is that the words are printed on a medium, paper, that can’t be easily altered. But now that more than 72 percent of all reading is done on some form of screen—computer, phone, tablet, e-reader—the words that appear on those screens are just digits and pixels waiting to be manipulated. Without really realizing it, people are also doing most of their reading on a device that records their every thought and action, from phone calls and internet searches to purchase histories, bank records, social media, photos, videos, music, dating profiles, and whatever else narcissists do on computers, such as write love letters to themselves and conduct image searches for “people who look like me.”

Until recently, it was impossible to collect and use this type of information to create content that shamelessly appealed to the person using the device. But now that Big Data is getting bigger, the possibilities are expanding too. People are already accustomed to seeing advertisements pop up for products they have just searched. But this is only the crudest, most obvious benefit of marrying Big Data with artificial intelligence and shameless capitalism.

So much more is possible.

Enter Narcissassist. As soon as the Amazon deal goes through, anyone who downloads an e-book will receive Narcissassist free of charge. Running silently in the background of all e-book downloads, Narcissassist mines the data profile of the “reader” to determine if they are a narcissist. If they are, the program automatically customizes the content of the story they are reading to make it accessible to those whose abnormally high self-regard typically prevents them from giving a shit about anyone else.

Normal readers identify with a character’s thoughts, actions, and feelings by comparing those traits with their own and drawing thoughtful conclusions. Narcissists don’t like to think about other people, though, so Narcissassist helps these psychologically handicapped sociopaths by altering the main character in the story so that he/she looks, thinks, and acts like them. Using the reader’s own data, Narcissassist generates an eerily accurate psychological profile of the “reader,” then customizes the story to fit the reader’s unique ego demands. Once their sense of self is sufficiently inflated, narcissists can enjoy the altered, “improved” story—a pleasure conventional storytelling denies them.

So how does Narcissassist work in practice?

Suppose you’re a woman who has just bought a pair of super-cute Jimmy Choo black-leather ankle boots from Zappos online. If you are a narcissist, Narcissassist would automatically detect your level of self-involvement and seamlessly ensure that the central character in the story you are reading is wearing those very same boots. Having dressed the central character accordingly, Narcissassist would then have another character walk up and say, “Wow, I love those boots. You have such amazing taste,” or, “I wish I could afford those boots, but I’m guessing you’re a lot more successful than I am, so it makes sense that you’re wearing them, not me.” (Note: Narcissassist 2.0 will be able to outfit a character with the boots they want to buy, creating a perfect synergistic connection between the narcissist’s need for approval and their aspirational desire to buy things that affirm their own good taste and judgment.)  

The reason Narcissassist works so well is that the character in the narcissist’s version of the story doesn’t simply dress and act and think like them—it is them! Remember, in the ancient myth, Narcissus doesn’t fall in love with himself; he falls in love with a reflection of himself, whom he mistakes for another person altogether. The beauty of Narcissassist is that, because narcissists have no capacity for self-reflection, they don’t know why they like the character in the book so much; they just think he or she is the most awesome, amazing person they’ve ever read about. Once they get hooked on that character, they can’t get enough—which of course opens up all kinds of possibilities for book sequels or serials featuring the fascinating character who is them.

Another exciting feature of Narcissassist is that it allows narcissists to inject themselves into great literature, adding personal relevance to stories that were once too boring for them to tolerate.

Suppose a narcissist is reading Moby Dick and getting impatient with the whole “gotta kill the whale” thing. Narcissassist would detect their waning attention span and speed things up by having Captain Ahab admit to his shipmates, “Guys, it’s just a whale. I say we quit, go find an island, and name it after me.”

Or let’s say a narcissist is slogging their way through The Scarlet Letter, and finds the whole story ridiculous, because what the hell is shame, anyway? Narcissassist could help the struggling narcissist by inserting a character who approaches Hester Prynne and says something like, “I, too, have a tattoo. Would you like to see it?”—then, to make the story more relevant, seduces Hester into doing things that could get her arrested even in the 21st century.

And even narcissists are required to read George Orwell’s 1984 in high school. But with the help of Narcissassist, this boring history book would suddenly come to life when it turns out that Big Brother, who watches everything and everyone, is really a seventeen-year-old former Boy Scout who smokes pot in his parent’s basement and plays Call of Duty until four in the morning.

The possibilities are endless. And, because Narcissassist is connected to a vast network of artificially intelligent super-computers, it continues to learn about the user’s pathology and refine its ego-stroking algorithm to accommodate the narcissist’s ever-expanding estimation of themselves. (Note: For the purposes of public safety, the program also monitors the narcissist’s levels of vanity, entitlement, and arrogance, and alerts the authorities when a full-blown psychosis appears imminent.)

My hope is that Narcissassist will help writers and publishers serve this growing sector of the population. Not only will it expand the market for books, it will make the pleasure of reading available to those whose psychological dysfunction has turned them into the kind of impossibly boring person one tries to avoid at parties. Reading won’t improve their character or change them, but it will make them feel smarter. And that’s all a narcissist really needs: the illusion that they are better than everyone else.

 

Editorial Writing: How to Argue with Anyone—and Win!

As everyone knows, writers are full of “messages” that need to be conveyed to readers, so that readers can go around and pass these messages to their friends. If enough of a writer’s messages get through, the thinking goes, the pointless drudgery of human existence will at least have an explanation. And when you feel the vast, dark emptiness of the cosmos closing in on you, crushing your hopes and dreams, nothing is more comforting than a rational, well-written justification for your despair.

Fiction isn’t always the best way for a writer to send messages, however. Sometimes messages need to be more direct, which is why the newspaper editorial page was invented.

Newspaper editorials give writers of all kinds the chance to express their opinions in a form that lands on people’s porches early in the morning. And because most people read editorials while they’re still half asleep, they are an ideal vehicle for ideas that require a certain lack of skepticism from the general public.  

In order to write an editorial, however, one must have an opinion. And in order to have an opinion, one must be able to use what little one knows about any given subject and make it appear as if they know everything about it. This isn’t difficult. You just have to have the courage of your convictions, and know a few tricks of the trade.

The first thing any editorial writer must do is choose a topic. It could be anything. But if you can’t come up with an idea on your own, simply find an editorial someone else has written and argue the opposite. This is known as the “devil’s advocate” approach, because the devil has trouble coming up with good ideas, too.

As an example, let’s choose the favorite subject of newspaper editors everywhere: climate change. Suppose the article you want to rebut, or argue against, is one that denounces climate-change deniers as a bunch of scientific illiterates who wouldn’t know a data set from a tea set. Let’s say the article you are arguing against claims that 99.9 percent of all scientists agree that humans are cooking themselves by spewing heat-trapping gunk into the atmosphere, and furthermore, if you don’t believe climate change is real, you are a colossal moron.

At first glance, arguing against this type of article might seem difficult and foolish, because they have facts and science on their side, not to mention the moral high ground. But refuting an argument like this is really quite easy, if you know how.

First, you have to shift the playing field in your favor. The core of the issue is whether climate change is “real” or not, so all you have to do is question the nature of “reality.” So what if 99.9 percent of all scientists agree that global warming is real? Maybe they’re not real scientists, you could argue. Or maybe they’re not real people at all. Maybe the editorial writer made them up to prove his point. Where are these so-called scientists, after all? If we can’t see them, how can we be sure they exist?

Having called the reality of so-called “reputable” scientists into question, you could then attack their facts with some facts of your own. For instance, quantum physics tells us that there isn’t just one universe; there are really billions of universes unfolding at the same time all around us. This means that everything that can happen is happening, or will happen, in a parallel universe somewhere. All you have to do is explain that, using principles of quantum mechanics they couldn’t possibly understand, you are borrowing information on climate change from a parallel universe and using it in this universe. Furthermore, you could argue, Einstein proved that space and time can bend, so you are pretty sure you are using data from the future—data that says global warming is complete and utter bullshit.

That’s just science.

If basing your argument on scientific fact is too much trouble, another option is to make up your own facts. For instance, you could say, “Did you know that 87.2 percent of the people who believe in climate change are godless atheists?” Citing an actual number gives your argument weight it wouldn’t otherwise have, and making things up out of thin air has the added advantage of being difficult to fact-check. It might only take you a few seconds to make up a fact, but it could take a college intern a week or two to verify it. Throw in a few more “facts” like that, and you could tie up a fact-checker for a month or two. The math is in your favor, so the more facts you make up, the farther ahead you’ll be.

Another tactic editorial writers use is arguing from emotion rather than reason. The key to arguing with emotion is liberal use of the “caps lock” key, SO IT LOOKS LIKE YOU’RE SHOUTING EVERYTHING!!! You’re not, you’re just typing, but the reader doesn’t know that; they think you’re really SHOUTING AT THEM! If you need to shout louder, use BOLD CAPS and an extra exclamation point (!!), and if you really need to get into people’s faces, use BOLD CAPS AND ITALICS, WITH TWO OR THREE EXTRA EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!!!!

The only problem with arguing from emotion is that for it to work, you really do have to care. Unfortunately, caring deeply about a subject is something most writers are ill-equipped to do. Feelings cloud a person’s judgment, causing them to think that the roiling ball of fire in their chest is more important than the cool head of reason on their shoulders. Before you know it, feelers have that “caps lock” key clamped down permanently and won’t stop typing until the rest of the world knows how HURT and OUTRAGED they are by the INJUSTICE of it all—and, by inference, what AMAZING people they are for CARING so much. Most writers are incapable of caring that much, which is why they only capitalize the first letter of every sentence.

So far, we’ve only discussed how professional writers approach the editorial page. When it comes to writing editorials in the the local paper, however, there are times when non-writers want to participate in the public discourse of their community as well. Non-writers are often insecure about their ability to compose a cogent argument in print, but that shouldn’t stop them from trying. In fact, there is an easy way around the whole “I can’t write” problem.

For example, many non-writers shout their opinions at the television set in the mistaken belief that the little people inside the rectangle can hear them. (This may have been true back in the days when televisions were attached to so-called “rabbit ears,” but televisions nowadays do not have ears, so yelling at them is pointless.) Instead, try yelling at the television and recording your rant with a digital audio recorder. Then transcribe whatever you shout, print it out, and send it to your friendly local newspaper editor, who will be delighted to have thoughtful “input” from the “community.”

If an editorial you have written ends up in the paper or online, be forewarned that some people might disagree with your opinion and write their own editorial in response to yours. But that’s okay. It’s great, in fact, because it means you have written something so powerful that it motivated another human being to hate you. This is what people mean when they say the public needs to have a “conversation” about important issues.

Remember, disagreeing with other people’s opinions is a cornerstone of American democracy, and the more people who disagree with you, the better. Why? Because the more people who hate your guts, the more likely it is that God is on your side. And when God is on your side, there’s nothing you can’t make people believe.