I don’t know if there are any empirical studies on this phenomenon but if you put these words into a search engine:, “Why do bad people outlive nice people?” you get some pretty convincing, albeit anecdotal, evidence. Even religions struggle with this question but they usually come up with the tired philosophy that God works in mysterious ways.

Everybody I know thinks of me as a nice person. I go out of my way to help people; I’m unfailingly kind and compassionate; I give money to charities without thinking about the tax deduction; I treat people with respect and patience, even customer service reps who require me to spell my last name 35 times.

But from now on, I’m going to be an asshole. How, you ask?

From this day forth, all my Facebook comments will consist of shit pile emojis.

Unfortunately, all this niceness will probably put me in an early grave. 

And then there’s the phrase, “The good die young,” not to mention the book, Why Bad Things Happen to Good People.

So I’ve decided to abandon niceness and become an asshole. 

The next time I’m at a strip club I’m putting coins in the strippers’ panties.

On my next wedding anniversary, I’m giving my wife a diet book.

If I see a slightly plump woman, I’m going to ask her when the baby’s due.

Want me to let you slide in ahead of me in merging traffic? Not going to happen. 

On rainy days, I will make a special effort to speed through puddles that are near pedestrians. 

I will eat copious amounts of broccoli before every trip and fart as often and as loudly on the plane as humanly possible. 

That elderly woman limping toward the only vacant seat on the bus? Forget it, lady. I’m getting there first if it kills me.

Allergic to cats? I’m bringing mine over the next time I go to your house. 

I will flush the toilet 15 times when people are in the shower at my health club. 

My best friend is late for a flight. Will I drive him to the airport? Not in this lifetime. 

That homeless guy who panhandles near Barnes & Noble will now get an out-of-date Bulgarian coin the next time I see him. 

I’m wearing an umbrella hat at theaters that feature subtitled foreign films. 

From now on, I’m eating garlic before every dental exam. 

Disposing of dog shit when my dog craps during a walk? Forget it. 

The next time I’m invited to a gourmet dinner party, I’m bringing the host a bottle of Thunderbird and placing a box of Pepto Bismol on my bread plate. 

From now on, I will never use the words “spoiler alert” when telling a friend about a movie. 

I’m going to wear a Grim Reaper costume the next time I visit a sick friend.

Who’s the asshole that put Krazy Glue on the barbells at the health club? That would be me. 

The next wedding present I give will be a fifty-dollar gift certificate for a divorce attorney. 

Instead of throwing a shovelful of dirt into an open grave at the next Jewish funeral I attend, I’m renting a bulldozer. 

Anyway, you get the picture. If you don’t, do me a favor — drop dead.

• 

EXCERPT:

“One aspect of Samantha’s personality that drove me nuts was her tendency to reveal herself via literary allusions. She called it a quirk, but it was more of a compulsion. Her mother was Lady Macbeth; her father, Big Daddy. An uncle she liked was Mr. Micawber, a favorite governess, Jane Eyre; a doting professor, Mr. Chips.

This curious habit of hers quickly made the voyage from eccentric to bizarre when she began to invoke the names of literary characters to describe moments in our relationship. When she thought I was treating her rudely, she called me Wolf Larsen; if I was standoffish, I was Mr. Darcy; when I dressed too shabbily, I was Tom Joad.

Once, in bed, she yelled out the name Victor as she approached orgasm. I assumed she was referring to Victor Hugo because she’d been reading ‘Les Miserables.’. It didn’t really bother me that much though it was a little odd being with a woman who thought she was having sex with a dead French author.”

 

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