Presents
Manifestos For Living
Module One
Mister Fun returns from his not entirely self-imposed exile resulting from dog fighting charges,
having first spent a little quality time hiking the Appalachian Trail with his ultra hot Brazilian
mistress, whom he has been assured by her mentor Fredo is of the legal age of consent,
somewhere. And if you can’t be of legal age somewhere along the Appalachian Trail, where can
you be of legal consent age? The stars now aligned, his pooper pooped, his not entirely
voluntary testimony having been given and his release from the rather inconvenient commitment
to the Witness Protection Program having been secured, now is the time for that vassal of
righteousness Mister Fun to renew his ongoing symposium on the fine art of living fine. Behold,
he moves—which is a distinct change of pace. With unsteady steps and stale bacon breath,
much like a new born soft shell turtle, he commences to profess his profession. Which is not only
a change of pace but also distinctly superior to doing the opposite, except for the stale bacon
breath part. Mister Fun continues to support the pork industry in all of its manifestations,
although he isn’t entirely sure what a hog belly is even though his broker has warned that he may
have to accept delivery on forty boxcars full of such unless certain margins are paid up in full
immediately. In keeping with his customer-focused approach to life-long learning and needless
self-inflicted suffering, Mister Fun has magnanimously become emotionally pre-prepared to offer
YOU, the generals of the public and people he can innocently pass notes to while in the stall of a
public airport restroom, be they a general or an airman or even an admiral (they all say that) a
unique once in a lifetime opportunity to purchase or perhaps swap for cash said received pork
bellies along with a potpourri of credit default swaps he has previously become the repository of.
Remember, a swap is a swap is a swap and, all things being equal inasmuch as most non
metaphysical constructs are made of matter, dust being dust, Misters Fun’s willingness to offer
generous terms pervades every crevice of his being, conditioned exclusively on the receptive
party’s pre-preparedness to swap a reasonably universal matter equivalent, as long as its cash.
Lots of it. This offer will not be repeated this minute unless the urge strikes. Failing the success
of that key initiative, Mister Fun is going to have to think of something else. Pronto.
It has come to Mister Fun’s attention that y’all suck: “Y’all”
being one of those things Mister Fun picked up along the
Appalachian Trail, along with perhaps jungle rot and a
predisposition to parking his car in the middle of the front
yard. That Mister Fun’s car has no wheels should not be
seen as circumstantial to its setting, although it does fit in
nicely, nor should it be construed as a deliberate attempt
to litter along the  Appalachian Trail. Mister Fun was under
the impression that he was off park property until such time
as when Ranger Phillips informed him otherwise. In Mister
Fun’s defense it should be noted that there are many
unlabeled man made things along the Appalachian Trail,
specifically primitive shacks  IT IS ALLEGED are for the
use of fellow hikers which are deliberately not marked as
not being firewood. Or not for firewood use, with a little self
help effort. Hence Mister Fun using these not not firewood
objects as firewood (at least once, sadly, while one was
occupied) can REASONABLY BE CONSTRUED as a
mutual oversight and not the actions of a mad fiend the
FBI has dubbed Doctor Destructo. Ditto the brush fires.
We should all keep in mind that fire is
a natural part of the natural world and
should be revered in its
wholesomeness regardless of its
perhaps suddenness or expanding
prevalence. Need we be reminded that
ancient man worshipped fire as a god.
That said, however, you can have too
much of a good thing. Mister Fun is
well on record as stating that
moderation is the key to success in
everything and any of his utterances
seemingly to the contrary, such as “I
like my universe nice and toasty!”
should be viewed as taken out of
context and without the consent of
counsel, made as they were during a
time of duress, potential temporary
impairment and arrest.  Only the small
minded think in terms of retribution.
Narrow oriented nabobs obsess on the
concepts of remuneration, banishment
and other needless permutations of
legal flagellation despite the
DEMONSTRATED FACT that not a
one of the measures Mister Fun’s
accusers’ dim imaginations might
conjure will bring back into the living
world a sole crispy rabbit or balsa pine
rendered into smoky carbon. AND
THAT CANNOT BE REFUTED!  
Mister Fun, being an enlightened,
forward thinking GURU has instead
focused his mind on addressing
the immediate needs of all of
humanity, as is his utterly selfless
predilection. Sadly, it is not in
Mister Fun’s quite considerable
powers to un-burn down a forest.
Also Mister Fun lives by the axiom
“Never show up to a fire you
cannot put out”—doubly so now
that he has agreed with the court’s
strong suggestion that he stay
away from any area dedicated to
the appreciation of the wilderness
by the general public. (Which he
firmly understands would be a
violation of parole.) It being a wide,
wide world filled with many
identifiable needs that only a
person possessed of the AMAZING
INSIGHT of Mister Fun can
accurately direct remediation for,
this master of the HIDDEN
TRUTH™ has made the following
astounding observation:
Y’all suck: and not in a Brazilian mistress sort of way. Y’all suck in a sucking chest wound kind of
way. This makes Mister Fun sad. Moreover, y’all (all of you) suck in a most identifiable and
universal sort of way. YOU ARE NOT ALONE. This is the key fact that empowers Mister Fun to
address this need set in a completely non-individual way, although personalized treatment may
become available pending demand, the availability of time, and an ability to construct barriers to
entry such as odious licensing requirements which would keep loathsome shmucks from invading
Mister Fun’s turf. Or Mister Fun may just employ his certified can of whoop ass on any such
competitors, by any means necessary. Thankfully most people’s cases can be solved with one
simple reading of this manifesto.
Mister Fun is a very good driver, sober.
Mister Fun's Public Defender cried a lot.
She was not so much a captive as she was captivated.