When the going gets tough, the tough donate plasma: I have no money. What with working for The Man and paying taxes to The Man and getting defaulted-title-loan calls from The Man's collection agency, I've been trying to better myself by hanging around with the hobos in the library and reading books. The library is free, and the hobos are secretly at the cutting edge of pointy-headed literary theory, because instead of having houses and jobs, they have bad, hacking coughs and a thirst for knowledge. They hang out in the Ferdinand de Saussure Memorial Reading Room all day and go through books about narratology and semiotics.

Mostly I listen to them talk and take swigs from the bag-wrapped bottle they pass around and pretend I know what they're talking about. On the frequent occasions when I say something stupid, I've voiced my original thoughts; the rest of the time, I'm probably quoting something I read in Penguin's Dictionary of Literary Terms and Literary Theory. For instance, when I say that semiotics in literary theory refers to the complete signifying system of a text and the codes and conventions we need in order to understand it, you should know that I actually derived all of my knowledge of semions from the song "Signs" by the Five Man Electrical Band, who said:

Sign, sign, everywhere a sign
Blockin' out the scenery, breakin' my mind
Do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign?

Therefore, I've always thought of semiotics as a system of pervasive and culturally understood messages that keep the Five Man Electrical Band off my fucking property. So far, it's worked out great! No hippie Canadians have jumped the fence and a-yelled, "Hey! What gives you the right?" while I was trying to eat my vegetarian burritos and watch The Wire. But when I said this to the hobos in the Ferdinand de Saussure Memorial Reading Room, they stopped offering me swigs of their plum-flavored MD 20/20 and started talking in French so I couldn't understand what they were saying.

The point being: I'm not a smart man, unlike fancy hobo semioticians. Correspondingly, I'm not a rich man, very much like fancy hobo semioticians. The other day, due to some kind of mix-up that placed my name on a call list of rich people, the Democratic National Committee called me on my cell phone to ask me for money. "We see you haven't yet donated the maximum $2,300 during this election cycle," the woman said to me.

"What do I look like? Mr. Moneybags? Why do you think I'm not a Republican?" I shouted.

Then she wanted to know if I was interested in participating in local volunteer efforts to get out the vote, so I pulled off my hat and said, "Imagine that! Me! Working for you!" Which I thought was pretty funny, and a good burn on the stupid Five Man Electrical Band, although the visual aspect of the joke was completely lost on her as she couldn't see me acting out the words of the song.

If I were rich, it's not like I'd suddenly turn into a Howard Hughes-like reclusive eccentric — I already spend all my nights at home with the blinds down, listening to the police scanner. On the other hand, I'd trade places any day with genius inventor Ron Popeil, the George Washington Carver of crap, who made his fortune with such innovations as the Pocket Fisherman, a tiny fisherman who lives in your pocket and has crazy adventures. But I'm just a simple, smelly man. I'm Mr. Proletarian Working Joe Lunch-box Six-pack. I have three jobs, two of which — plasma donor and pharmaceutical research subject — have begun to interfere with each other in metabolically hilarious ways. As an acknowledgment of the pharmaceutical-induced pointlessness of this post, I've invited the Pocket Fisherman to post a guest blog for today's Daily Briefs:

GUEST BLOGGER
The Pocket Fisherman

How I Came to Jesus
Posted 9/11/2008 by The Pocket Fisherman

One of the problems with auto-erotic asphyxiation is that after the first few ER resuscitations, your friends stop wanting to hear about your out-of-body near-death experiences. It's the same every time. I lose consciousness, and suddenly I'm walking on the beach with Christ, when I notice that during the difficult periods of my life, there is only one set of footprints. When I point this out to Him, He says, "My child. My precious, precious child. During those times when you see only one set of footprints, that is when you were in the garage hanging by your neck with your pants down."

Usually, the CPR kicks in at that point, and I return to my body and see my girlfriend looking at her watch and waiting for the doctors to discharge me. On the ride home this last time, she stopped me in the middle of recounting my near-death experience and said, "Jesus is right: If you spent less time asphyxiating yourself, maybe we'd have more sex." And then: "I'm tired of dressing up like a French courtesan." And then: "By the way, Astroglide is not 'Foreplay in a Bottle.' " WOMEN!

I decided that my asphyxiation-enabled visits with the Lord constituted a religious awakening, and I started attending services at a local Assemblies of God mega-church-plex. Last Sunday, Pastor Glen called me up onstage and asked me how I came to Jesus. I got as far as describing the network of bungee cords and velvet-lined leather harnesses I use hoist myself up, when they hustled me back off the stage and into the parking lot. CHRISTIANS!

In conclusion, praying is one way of communing with the Lord, but there's a faster way right out in my garage!

About The Pocket Fisherman: The Pocket Fisherman was created by Ron Popeil in 1975. This is the famous fishing pal that has thrilled generations!

Double-flex rod is hinged into closed position when stored away. Simply unfold from this position until it snaps into fully extended position.

Automatic Anti-Reverse prevents the handle from turning backwards. It's always ready for the fish to strike.

DAILY BRIEFS ARCHIVES, you guys.