>>> The Lady's Shave
By staff writer NG Hatfield
April 16, 2006

It’s a warm July evening. You’ve just hit three lines off a hooker’s back in some scenic little back-alley, smoked a jay with your charming, Tom Selleck-looking connection, and drank a fifth of cheap whiskey in a porcelain bathtub of a house you’ve just stumbled into. Of course, you’re feeling fucking amazing. You play Halo 2 or watch Looney Tunes for a few hours until your buzz wears off enough that you’re able to drive home without getting harassed by the Fuzz. You somehow make it to your parking spot and stagger through your door into a dark house, ready to take a hot shower and eat an entire bag of kettle-cooked Lays.

Surprise, bitch! Thirty of your closest friends are now sitting all up in your shit. Kelly’s beside your meth lab crying in the corner. Andy’s gritting his teeth and pointing at naked pictures of his sister that you use as coasters. Josh is eating your chips (hey fucker those were expensive!), and Matt and Laura are drawing an elaborate flowchart of your spiral into drug dependence on your squeegee board. Billy and Amy are holding hands…and today, they just don’t look like they’re up for a game of “Please Fuck My Wife.”

A this point you’d probably be asking yourself, “Why the hullabaloo?!!” Well, you see my friend, you’ve just been interventioned. No, this is not just another Ashton Kutcher spin-off. This is no joke. For the next 16 to 28 hours, you’re going to hear an overabundance of sob, horror, and penthouse stories as to how your drug habit has fucked up your friends’ cars, houses, children, jobs, and sometimes even pets. I hope you’ve got that kinda time.

Now, I’m not saying that this has to happen. You could quit your drug habit right now and become a considerate, contributing member of society. You know, by getting a desk job, marrying some Mormon bitch, knocking her up, marrying two other Mormon bitches, buying a minivan, building a white-picket fence around your middle-income residence, and finally capping it all off with a little dog named Goliath or some other cutesy ironic bullshit moniker.

Though, I’ll keep it real with you, reader. That life sucks. It sucks dick. And not only does it suck big donkey dick, chances are, your ’92 Aerostar’ll break down, your wives will fuck Preacher Dave in your bed, your fence’ll rot and your kids will put Fluffy in the microwave after the yappy little fucker chewed their favorite Xbox controller’s joystick off. Then one day, when one of your cheating wives bitches at you for throwing away the coupon section of the Sunday Littletown Times, you’ll hang yourself from the oak tree that you planted when you first moved in. Then, I’ll have to fucking read about your suicide in the paper. And you know what? You’re probably not a fuckhead, so your obituary won’t generate any sort of pleasure for me.

So, for you, and for me…I present…

An Idiot’s Guide to Preventing Interventions

Part I: Intervention-Proofing Your House

First, you’re going to need two, 5-gallon cans of paint, some rope, a bag of marbles, a tape of a black and white gangster movie, a BB gun, and a precocious 10-year-old blonde boy named Macaulay. Just kidding, your friends are probably cleverer than Joe Pesci and Daniel Stern.

I’d say a 12-gauge shotgun, three bear traps, a plastic statue of your height and weight and two bags of poisoned chips will do the trick. If you sell drugs, you should already have all of these at your disposal—if not, visit your nearest Kmart.

Anyway, the whole point I’m trying to make here is that you need to prevent the interventioners from entering your abode, by any means necessary. Protect your house or apartment as you see fit. I personally dress a big Arabian guy up in a sultan outfit, give him a big ass ax and tell him that anytime somebody touches my property he should chase them yelling, “Assaan! Chop!”

You might not have the money to do that, but I hear ADT has a similar service for half the cost of Assaan.

The thing is, if your “friends” figure out that they can’t attack you directly, they’ll try to trick you into coming to their houses. And this is fortunate, because you’ll already be able to spot the dead giveaways of a trap. That is, with the help of me.

Here’s a few that I’ve encountered…

1. There won’t be any glow sticks, techno music or naked women perceivable from the outside.
2. If your Baptist friend Christian says he’s having a heroin orgy, he’s probably not having a heroin orgy.
3. All the good drug raves don’t send out engraved invitations.
4. All the good drug raves don’t have balloons on the mailbox.
5. You’ll probably notice the few dozen Camry’s parked in the driveway.
6. There shalt be a cool zephyr scuttling from yon East.
7. If there’s a steeple, it’s a church.
8. The party is hosted by engineering majors (or engineers, if you’ve graduated)

Just for shits, arrive an hour early or four hours late. Either you’ll catch them in the act, or they’ll be so frustrated they’ll go home.

Now that you’ve got all of that taken care of, we can move on to the heart of the matter: the interventioners.

Part II: Trust. No. One.

No, I’m not talking that faggoty Trekkie paranoia bullshit; I’m talking in-your-face, carry-a-switchblade-at-all-times awareness. Everybody wants a piece of the action. People yearn to see you break down, get on your knees, curse your lifestyle choices, oil yourself up, and take as much dick as your body can accommodate.

You see, as a part of the human species the only desire we have is to see others fail. Why do you think Christianity is so popular? I mean…c’mon…Hell? Talk about a vengeful pussy’s approach to self-consolation. And I’ll be honest, if you do get sucked into pivot-man in the circle-jerk that is an intervention, I’ll laugh. I’ll laugh hard, and I’ll laugh long. And I’ll laugh while I fuck your emotionally-distraught sister.

But I digress, with the knowledge that you can’t depend on any other person, you’ve got to set shit straight. Your first objective is to identify which of your friends are likely to “care” enough about you to belittle your self-image, waste your time, and steal your chips. These usually include friends that ask you go to dinner or movies, acquaintances that get angry about your insistence on skinny-dipping in their pool during lunchtime, or even business associates who aren’t willing to go to a Harry’s Bar with you at 2AM and wingman off some fat broads in jean jackets, so that you’re able to bang a blonde desperate slut named Brea. Even though you let that fucker go on a break during YOUR designated time.

Proof again, that you can’t trust anybody. Yep, it doesn’t matter if you take pictures of their fourteen-year-old daughter and posted them online. It doesn’t matter if you sorted through their trash for cotton swabs soaked in rubbing alcohol or set their car on fire. People will fuck you over even if you don’t do that stuff. You just can’t trust anybody.

Part III: Stop Using Drugs

[See Dodge’s website for details on a brand new Caravan.]

Part IV: A Survey For the Sake of Our Friendship

To conclude this guide and improve your anti-intervention arsenal, I’ve decided to give you my unquestionable, legally-binding survey that you may give to anybody you know in order to prevent an intervention.

Side note: If you’re actually able to trick your friends into giving you a legally-binding document that grants asylum from interventions, I’d keep a laminated copy in your wallet and stick the original to the side of your gigantic bowl. Just remember: watch the carburetor.

1. If I stole $400 out of your wallet and spent it on X, would you be upset? If yes, why? If no, where’s this wallet of yours?

2. If instead of paying me for a pound of crack, I had your mother sit on my dick, would you be displeased? If yes, why? If no, Congratulations! She’s pregnant!

3. If I needed a cigarette so bad that I chopped up your cat with a hatchet, pumped it for blood and then sold bags of it on the Chinese black market, would that cause you grief? If yes, why are you so attached to that fucking thing? If no, may I pet sit?

4. Got any weed? If yes, gimme gimme gimme! If no, why are we even Facebook friends?

5. I will never ever put [your name] through the hell of an intervention.