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Modern Superstitions

The world hates America because we’re superstitious. We even built Obsessive Compulsive Disorder around the idea that bad things will happen if I don’t count all these windows again. Ignoring the fact that it’s bad luck to be superstitious, all the old wive's tales are outdated. The only bad luck you get from breaking a mirror was that you broke a damn mirror. Break a condom, though and you’re looking at 18 years of bad luck. Time has come for some useable new-fangled adages:

Never let a Ford Focus cut you off.
Treat as you would an ambulance or gun-toting maniac. The minute you see one, veer into the Fast & Friendly until all fear of poor judgment has passed. Get a packet of CornNuts with the strangest flavor available and eat half with a Mountain Dew fountain drink. Every time you belch Silicone Carne, sing “Hocus Pocus” to ward off road hazards. Use your turn signal for extra mojo.

Find a penny, pick it up. All the day you’ll have a ruptured L4.

Wearing socks with sandals is unlucky.
But even more unfortunate is thinking that it’s any worse than just wearing sandals. Even more doomder still are Crocs and Loafers. The sweatpants principle applies; if you’re wearing any combination involving these types of footwear then you’ve given up on life. Dorked if you do, dirty feet if you don’t. Vans with socks = rad.. Without socks = bitchin.

He who laughs at a Will Ferrell movie can find amusement in leaf lettuce.

Don’t kiss a prostitute on the mouth.
Any professional professional won’t permit it so when you find one who will, they probably can’t supply the level of service you’ve come to expect. (Or the other way ‘round.) If you trip and brush lips with her/him go lockjaw until you can boil your face or sterilize with burning coal. Also bad luck to show your money before services rendered or to ask a pimp for a refund.

Seeing the wedding dress before the nuptials is unlucky if the best man is wearing or removing it.

If you pass a man on the stairs, you should really see a doctor.

Get a free tattoo and face a lifetime of ridicule.
Hey, that sounds like a limited-time offer. Sometimes a bargain is no bargain, and here’s one of them. Your lazy-eye cousin bought a used tat gun at the pawn shop and wants to use your bod like a coloring book. He’s charging everyone else $20 because he’s saving up for an autoclave. But since you’re tight, he’ll do you a solid. If your arm doesn’t contract gangrene, the black panther you asked for will be Huey Newton.

Baseball pitchers should jump over the chalk or be called up to testify to a grand jury over their performance enhancing tight pants. Blood packing? I think not.

If a woman coughs during sex, she will see a man-shaped hole in the opposite wall. And maybe an anvil-shaped one too.

To find your true love:
For women: throw a handful of beans against the outside of your window at Autumn solstice. The next man you meet will be your soulmate. You soon find that he already has eleven soulmates and some of them are sisters.
For men: fool around with as many as you can finesse into the sack. When you find one that makes you feel like you’ve been kicked in the ovals when you’re not with her, that’s the one. Or you can pick the one who, according to Maury, bore your genetic obligation. Either way, she will convince you to join a religious sect where the prophet takes all the women and you’re left churning butter.

If your right hand itches, good God is Sarah Jessica Parker ugly.

Step on a crack, you’ll never work on another orgy film in this town.

Greet every actor you meet with, “Good luck, MacBeth.”
This will ensure a fantastic day for you after you force them to spin around, spit, slap each other and whatever else ridiculous rituals have been added since Young Frankenstein closed suddenly due to non-SAG performers discussing “the Scottish play,” and not, as was previously thought, because it was just a really bad idea for a musical (as though there were good ones.)

If you whistle while passing a graveyard, you’re a necrophilliac.

Forward an email on Monday: You’re a jackass.

Forward an email on Tuesday: Knock it off, jackass. Delete delete delete.

Forward an email on Wednesday: I’ve had it with your persistent jackassery.

Forward an email on Thursday: Feel the wrath of my spam filter.

Forward an email on Friday: That tears it; I’m sending you and your entire address book an infected attachment.

Forward an email on Saturday: Your inbox is going to be engorged with medical grade bukkake.

Forward an email on Sunday: No, I didn’t block you. I’m having problems with my server, Mom.

-Ewan Wadharmi (Say it out loud while staring down a Pilagro.)

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