In all my years of watching CourtTV/truTV and its true crime shows, I have only seen the murder victims described by interviewees as The Most Wonderful Person Ever. They are also usually incredibly popular high achievers in school or work, often on their way to becoming a doctor or a scientist, and they never fail to leave behind photos of themselves in a family photo with the warmest, most comforting smiles. I no longer find it strange that I never hear the interviewees say, “Well, that bastard really got what he deserved.”

Given my refusal to believe that the network has a bias towards good, sympathetic victims, I have come to two possible conclusions: either human beings are inherently good and most have been a positive part of somebody’s life, or the old adage that nice guys finish last is untrue. Nice guys, apparently, get finished first. If you, like me, choose to believe the latter, then there is only one course of action that will prevent us from ever being murdered: be a total dick.

I have already begun my life change by dumping my girlfriend over a text message that reads, “i brk up, k?” That was hard to do, because I truly love her, but it was either that or someday getting shot in the face. Sorry, honey, I’m pretty superficial like that.

I also borrowed a lot of money with no intention of paying back from someone who seemed like a huge Sopranos fan, always dressed up in mafia cosplay, and saying things like “he’s just breaking balls” before punching me in the face. Haha, he was so into it too.

Generally, I’m confident in these activities, but there was that time when I was at the checkout in a Pavilions supermarket and was asked if I would like to donate a dollar for cancer research. I said, “no,” believing that to spend 80 dollars on chips and not be willing to spare a single dollar for cancer research must be approaching the apex of the dick curve, and my success would no doubt be ensured. But now I often wonder if by avoiding getting murdered, I have put into motion a series of events leading to my dying of cancer. Damn, do you think it’d be too strange to go back there to give them the dollar?

If they gave out awards for excellence in procrastination, I would no doubt sweep the event, but most likely I would not attend the ceremony because I could do that some other time. Maybe after one more game of Who Has the Biggest Brain on Facebook.

I do not stand alone, however. Just like Michael Phelps would not have achieved the record of eight gold medals without his relay teammates, I would not be so apt at procrastinating if it wasn’t for my wife, whose skill in the non-activity closely matches mine. She was the woman who gave birth after a 15-month pregnancy, and I still remember that magical moment like it was yesterday, holding my baby in my right arm, and letting my wife hold my left. Tears of joy rolled down my cheek as my wife whispered, “See? I told you I would get around to it.”

I can’t say I’m proud though. My acts of delay have allowed me to betray those around me, particularly those who believed I could churn out a piece of writing every day. And to them, I apologize. I can’t say that it won’t ever happen again, but I promise that come the next time procrastination awards are handed out, I will try to kick less ass.

My bad past experiences with regular dogs have led me to purchase one of those robotic ones, and technically, I should’ve been absolutely in love with Robie. His urine was formulated to emit the aroma of springtime flowers, he guarded my house with precise laser eyes, and whenever I told him to sit, he would get into the lotus position, with the option of turning on soothing Buddhist chants.

But something was not quite right. One night, I saw him sitting by the window, his antennae extended, beeping out signals of some sort. Then when I called his name, he hid the antennae and pretended like nothing had happened. I was convinced that he was scheming to kill me and take my place.

Before I pushed him into the bathtub though, I had to make sure. I asked him straight out, and unexpectedly, he broke down. He wasn’t sending out signals, he said. He was crying.

It turned out that night he had just watched Transformers, and he was depressed he could never live up to that kind of expectations. I put my hand on his head and explained that all those robots were digitally enhanced, and that no real ones actually worked that good. With computers these days, Hollywood has created impossible standards of capability. I told him I never once expected him to be able to transform into a truck, and that was the way I liked him.

Robie nodded, understood. And that evening, he made me the best strawberry ice-cream ever.

I was arguing with a friend when he told me that with my hair, I could pass for a chimp at the zoo. This was followed by a “Burn!” in a slightly higher-pitched voice.

Excuse me, sir, but I do not believe I was ignited in the least. My silence was caused by my inability to decide whether my comeback was supposed to come back to your original insult (in which case I would suggest losing your weight lest you get mistaken for an pregnant elephant) or your ignorant assumption that I was burnt (in which case I would say nuh-uh).

Nonetheless, I have figured out a proper comeback, and it is not too late, even though the sun has long since set, and I see you sleeping in your room. I hear you like cocktails. Might I suggest the Molotov?

No, no, this one is on the house. Your house, especially.

Ah, the smell of victory. Looks like I have to run. Unlike you, however, I will not declare your incineration. Gentlemen leave that for the doctors.