A while back a co-worker tried to convince me this wasn't true, but he's an ass hole too, so what the hell does he know?
They would try and dissuade me of this by saying the world is full of good, and it was actually I who was the ass hole. To which I would usually respond by kicking something breakable, and storming off in a huff.
But they're continued insistence that the overwhelming majority of people were not bloated bags of flatulence, rather decent, hard working lovers of humanity, got me thinking that perhaps I was mistaken about my life long assertion. Maybe all those people I fantasized about pushing into a vat at the Waste Water Treatment Plant, were not at all what I presumed them to be.
I brooded a long time over this revelation until finally deciding to change my way of thinking to a more positive frame of mind, my only problem was I had no clue how to do this.
I had been so negative for so long that the idea of actually being happy to see people, or being interested in their long winded stories about junior's first solid bowel movement, was as confusing to me as the plot to 'Heaven Is For Real.'
That's when I hit on the brilliant idea to hire some spiritual yo-yo, to teach me how to be a better person, and maybe get them to do my laundry, as well.
My first idea was to ask a priest if he would help guide me on the road to spiritual awakening, however not being a naked, twelve year old boy, I assumed he would want nothing to do with me.
I next thought about hiring the psychic that runs the little tarot card shop on the corner, but I was worried about not being able to get her sad smell of failure out of my clothing.
And then I remembered the old hobo that sleeps in the empty fountain, downtown. Everybody knew of him, he'd been there for years dispensing wisdom and cheerfully conversing with anyone that would take the time to stop.
He was known by many names; Mr. Happy, The Drunken Guru, Fountain Man, The Guy That Shits in Public, each of which he would cheerfully answer to, were you interested enough to stop.
Yes, he smelled like wet racoon. Yes, he was a raging alcoholic. Yes, his dreadlocks were home to more parasites than a Pakistani puddle, but even with all that, he seemed to possess a deep inner peace and unbounded joy that I was desperate to emulate.
If this man, who had no home, no income, and no family, could remain in such high spirits, than surly I could learn do the same.
After a brief discussion it was agreed that he would come stay in my guest room, where I would provide him with three meals a day and a warm bed to sleep. In exchange he would teach me how to get over my loathing for the human race, and become a loving, compassionate member of society.
Our first night together was a bit strange. Instead of having a conversation about my outlook on the world and how it could be helped, which is what I expected, he told me everything I needed to know was contained in the Queen song, "Don't Stop Me," and that I should listen to it over and over all night long. He then proceeded to drink all my bourbon, piss in my dishwasher, and pass out in the driveway.
His methods didn't make a lot of sense to me, but I desperately wanted to learn how to be as happy as my new friend, and if that meant listening to music while a drunkard threw up in my neighbours mailbox, then so be it.
The next night I was told to watch "Singing In The Rain," and learn all the dance moves before sunrise, which I did (very well, might I add). He spent the evening snorting drain cleaner and washing his feet in the toilet.
Once again, I was thoroughly confused by his techniques, but I soldiered on anyway.
On the third night, as I was memorizing the ingredients to double stuff Oreo's (at my guru's request), It suddenly hit me like a coked out step-dad, that my drunken guru was out of his fucking mind, and the only reason he appeared so happy all the time, was because of the booze.
He didn't love the world. He didn't love talking to strangers. He loved getting drunk, which helped to dull the pain of reality while at the same time deceiving him into thinking people were much more tolerable than they actually were. The secret to happiness did not lie within the heart, but within a bottle.
This revelation thrilled me. Learning to like people was a difficult task, but getting drunk was something I could do with one shot glass tied behind my back.
The following night, me and my house guest drank three dozen jello shooters each. I went blind for about an hour and he fell and split his head open on the coffee table. But during this entire debacle, I never once stopped laughing and never once thought of him as an ass-hole, which was an incredible step for me.
Since that night I've been drunk all day, every day. Sure, I lost my job for slapping my bosses ass, and burnt my house down attempting to build a camp fire in the bathtub, but I also found a new friend and discovered the secret to happiness.
Now, I live with my drunken guru in the same empty fountain I once strode quickly past to avoid his company. We spend our days sipping cheap wine and conversing with passing strangers, who I never tire of speaking with, and I've never been so happy. I suggest you do the same.