Mr. T is my life coach

Apparently I'm nice and that's a problem.
(What? A Minnesotan? Nice??)

I guess as long as there are weasels and chingones and smirking frat bastards willing to screw others simply because they can, helpfulness is a character flaw.

I guess I have to shed my dysfunctionally responsible upbringing like a too-tight pair of bikini briefs.

"Please." "Thank you." "Can I help you?" Kiss my ass.

I need a cognitive makeover. ("Starting Over" is on in the background; it might be coloring my thought process a bit.) But you can take your Iyanlas and Dr. Phils and shove 'em.

I need Mr. T.

No fool receives his pity, no jibber-jabber his toleration. He kicked the ass of poverty, drunks, lymphoma, Rowdy Roddy Piper, and a bunch of pesky allergenic trees. He stands up for moms and calcium and getting an education and (for Conan's benefit) Chicago.

That's a role model.

So, if in the near future you see me wreathed in gold chains with a very narrow hair-do and a determined countenance, you can bet I've been T'd up.