A short while ago a Canadian clinical psychologist decided that the world needed a bit of a slap and a wake up call. His name is Jordan Peterson and he has gone on to make a good deal of money putting liberals and feminists ‘in their place’ for daring to transgress the laws of God. He agues that women and nature are both chaotic. They are actually ‘Chaos’. Women are so because they are closer to nature than men because of their baby producing capability. This idea has a long history, especially among the three abrahamic faiths that fear female sexuality and women’s ability to tell men to fuck off at will. As most men are focused on impregnating anything that looks and feels soft, and of course human like in form especially with tits, access to the channels of fecundity is a) the only thing they think about and b) are terrified they are not up to it and c) will die lonely and old, wanking themselves into oblivion while more handsome men are allowed into the female fold. To avoid the tsunami of involuntary celibacy, and to ensure that any money they spend bringing up a child is spent on bringing up the right child – i.e. his own seed – they needed to control women’s legs. Specifically who they spread them for. So men came up with the idea that just as the nature (wind, rain, crops and volcanoes) is often beyond our control, so could women because they are nature. Therefore they need to be controlled.
So you need rules. You need to exert control and order though rules. To prevent modern post industrial technologically advanced societies going the way of Rome, there has to be Order. So Peterson came up with ’12 rules’, which is a load of old bollocks about petting cats, letting kids skateboard and not telling fibs. Who knew?
If Peterson can do it, so can I. Here are my 12 Rules for Life.
- If you enjoy a few pints of Guinness and a curry, never trust the first fart of the morning. Never trust a fart in front of your new mother in law. Never trust a fart on a bike. Never trust a fart in India. You’d be best trusting a fart like you’d trust a Nigerian Prince with an investment who needs your bank details.
- If you come across a cat in the streets, don’t go near the fucking thing. It might have airborne tranmissable syphilis and a penchant for ripping its claws into the faces of unwary human beings. Cats are dangerous and only tolerate humanity for what they can get out of us. A stranger on the street is to them an unreliable source of food and smell strange. When did you last have a tasty titbit to offer a feral ginger while out and about doing your shopping? Thought not.
- Treat yourself like you deserve everything there is on offer. Don’t listen to those who call you a vacuous wastrel, a useless freeloading bastard and a complete waste of skin. You are beautiful (probably on the inside at least) and the opinions of others are not to be trusted even if you do call them ‘mother’.
- When going for a ‘back, sack and crack’, ensure you have a) a sack and b) a bag of amusing anecdotes to keep the beauty technician in a good mood while they administer hot wax and bonhomie. If you don’t have a ‘sack’, ask for an anal bleach instead. Any self respecting beauty salon should be willing to dive in between your cheeks with gusto and whiten the starfish before you can say ‘porn star’.
- Choose your friends wisely. Ideally they should be loaded, free with their generosity and easy to get pissed. Look for the gullible, the naïve and the weak. Their moral sensibilities should be non existent and their suggestability should be off the scale. Getting naked in public should be a given.
- Wear sun screen, nipple wax and thong cream.
- Don’t go anywhere near children. Especially your own. Other people’s will at least fuck off at tea time. Never drop your guard and let your friends who have kids feel even the tiniest bit welcome when they visit. If you do, you’ll be hoovering up biscuit crumbs from behind the sofa for the next fortnight, putting in an insurance claim and discovering they have pissed everywhere except the toilet bowl. If they want a poo in your new bathroom, don’t let them. You will find smear stains in places you’d never think could stain.
- Criticise everything and everybody. You will feel a warm glow of superiority and your friends and work colleagues will thank you for pointing out their errors and misjudgments. People say they don’t like being criticised but they do. Most people are stupid useless wankers who have an endless capacity for ignorance, mistakes and self delusion. If you are new to the game, start by criticising a junior colleague’s hairdo by making reference to old standards such as ‘birds nest’, ‘hedge backwards’ or the more modern reference to ‘poor genes’ and ‘the eugenicists have a point’. Work your way up to peers before trying it out on the Head of Department by calling them a ‘useless c*nt. who only got the job by shoving their nose between the CEOs buttocks’. However, avoid doing this to the tattooed scaffolder in the pub.
- That reminds me: “Try not to be a c*nt’, then ’Don’t be a c*nt’. If it is too late, then ‘Stop being a c*nt’. Remember the acronyms: TNTBAC, DBAC and SBAC.
- Swear. It is good for the soul and makes you feel really nice. Don’t listen to the prissy naysayers who bang on about it being a christening/wedding/funeral. Liven up your best man’s speech or your eulogy. Sprinkle the well worn cliches with the odd bastard, fuck and twatface. These words bring fresh life to a cliche like a defibrillator does to the comatose. Learn to leave the C bomb until its really ripe for doing so. Your maiden aunt and the vicar will love you for it.
- Don’t go near any religion. That’s the road to hell, to pinch a phrase. You are at heart a boozing, swearing philanderer who likes nothing more than than a piss up and porn. You love a Guinness, a curry and farting as you give the best man’s speech. This is true even if you are a woman. Religion will strip you of your sense of humour, your intelligence and the utter joy of an uncomplicated and guilt free wank. Especially avoid austere Protestantism and the more literal forms of faith. They tend to frown upon your favourite weekend pursuits and will separate you from foreskins and labia with a rusty knife and a prayer given half a chance.
- Don’t listen to anybody who tells you there are ’12 Rules for Life’. There aren’t. There is only 1: Live it. You are born an innocent, as pure as an uncut kilo of cocaine. You are not a bad person, just a curious one. And if you do bad things, try to learn from it. The second Rule for Life is simply go out there and exercise love for others and the world.
That’s it. You can fuck off now.
2 thoughts on “My 12 Rules for Life”
Bravo Zulu dear boy!
Brilliant stuff as usual old chap. I am just a bit confused though, in Number 12 you say there is only one rule of life then you give us two.
Can I add rule three ? When attempting a Karate kick whilst playing charades, dont under any circumstances fall of your deck, it hurts, your leg will swell up to twice its size and three days late it will turn black. Good job I was wearing my beer blanket. 🙂