Read The Seven Deadly Sins for Free Online Page B

lives. Think about it: the person driving in front of you who is either looking for an address or severely medicated. The people at the airport who have all the time in the world swerving languidly, interrupting the flow of pedestrian traffic. The morons
who hold up the line at McDonald’s, spending twenty-five minutes “ummmm”-ing for something that is on a menu older than most people reading this book until they inevitably order the same #2 with a Coke they always fucking order. Mall walkers, dog walkers, speed walkers, slow walkers—these people are so frustrating they make us all want to chew and ingest stained glass until we pass out from internal bleeding. Impatience can breed fatal fury, in which case we wish the most dastardly and fucked up demises on those eating up too much of our precious fucking time.
    God knows I have.
    And if you say you are too “mature” for that, you are either a liar or in denial. We have all “Jack the Ripper”-ed our way through a crowd of people before, albeit in our profound little imaginations. It is that “self” shit again, the attitude in which “the only one who exists today is me.”
    That is all fine and fancy, but take it from me: There is nothing worse than passive-aggressive anger. I am just as big a cynic as the next guy, but when a close friend’s bitterness manifests itself in shitty smart-ass comments that knock the twinkle off of your twilight, then shit has got to stop. I am the first motherfucker in line to admit I have been extremely lucky in my life. I am fortunate to have a career, my family, even the opportunity to write this book. But when people I have known for decades come at me with this “remember where you came from” nonsense, it drives me straight up Homicidal Avenue. It is even worse when people openly refuse to recognize what you have achieved in life and instead treat you like you are still in second grade and it is your Friday to split the milk money.
    Grab some pen and paper, children, here is another free lesson. The best friends you will ever have are the ones who do not
make you feel like you owe them a damn thing. Some of my “friends” have a tendency to insert themselves in places they did not earn the right to be. What the fuck do you do there? If you call foul on the play, somehow you are the asshole, and that is five years in a small city. If you do not, it is your own damn fault and you wallow in it alone. See the conundrum? It is even better when your family tag teams you—thank you, Christmas. You are officially the worst thing ever. I blame Coca-Cola: god damn jolly old St. Lick My Staff, sitting in judgment on harmless fucking toddlers with their acolyte trolls—you can call them elves if you want, I know the truth—and it is the same shit every year. Wish in one hand, shit in the other: Do not get me wrong—I love ties like the next guy. But I draw the line at singing ties. Horse shit, whoever invented the singing tie should be lined up and beaten with every fucking singing piece of shit they are responsible for bringing into a world that did not ask for them. And do not even get me fucking started on Pete Rose. God damn Cincinnati Reds—I get it, one guy can make the Hall of Fame because he had huge hands, but ol’ Petey makes a couple bets and he gets fucked. Do not even pretend that the other players are angelic—they are all fucking crooked.
    Where in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, did that come from?
    Quite frankly, that just made me pee. But only just a little. It will be dry by the time I get up from my counter space where I am allowed to write in the kitchen, giving me time to have a cigarette, change, and be piss-free by the time my wife realizes I am in bed. That, my friends, is time management. It is also the story of Jesus. Really. Most people would save their mangers for last when it came to cleaning them, so the last place on