Manifestos For Everything

To live a life of percentages.

A 50 percent chance here.

65 percent there.

Rain. Snow. Sleet. Hail.

Throwing statistics around like they’re stripper cash.

Then using them to screw (stripper pun intended) with people’s heads.

The luxury of living in perpetual indecision.

To be paid to kinda make up your mind.

But leave open the possibility you have no idea what you’re talking about.

When people listen to you, you’re wrong.

When they don’t, you’re dead on.

Did you make some deal with the Enemy of Righteousness?

In return for a salary way above your pay grade, and mediocre notoriety, you mess with lives and give him something to laugh at?

The great people of America are not going to take it anymore.

Well, there’s at least a 50% chance they won’t.

Weathermen. Whatever, we still get paid.

The empty seat next to you.

The universe of room between you and the person in line behind you.

The no-fly zone around a pregnant woman’s stomach.

All beacons in the night for personal space invaders.

In their world no moment is too awkward.

No encounter too close.

No physical contact out of the question.

Where others see a nearly empty row, they see an opportunity to get fresh with the sleeve of your sweater.

Where sensible human beings offer a pregnant woman their seat, they rub her belly.

Where the rest of the world chooses privacy, they enthusiastically choose proximity.

Their leg unnecessarily nestled against yours.

Their belly happily cocooned inside the arch of your back.

Their love parts unlovingly poking your side.

Their world exists in inches.

Especially the ones in-front of your face.

Personal Space Invaders. Can You Hear Us Breathe?

They say opposites attract.

That differences can bring two people closer together.

But why can’t similarities do the same thing?

Why can’t our commonalities make our little hearts flutter to the beat of Isaac Hayes.

And our loins tremble to the sweet sounds of Shakira.

The thing is, there is a place where they already do.

Just above the nose, where two identical brows of hair meet in the middle.

And join together in an eternally awkward union of hairy lovemaking.

A union so strong it’s impervious to facial trimmers.

Razors.

Even common sense.

A union that extends the bounds of love.

And ensures you’ll never experience it with an actual woman.

The Unibrow. Life’s Greatest Expression of Love.