Upsetting Day: How to Believe in Your Elf

I feel a bit calmer.

Ah, there it is. The hose of nonsense that keeps me from growth. Once, this was a Buddhist t-shirt. Now it’s elf. Over 130 large-print pages of elf, without one idea or magic panther. Sun Tzu elf. Jesus elf. There’s probably Nixon elf in here somewhere. None credited, mind you—that’d take a whole hour. Just theft via elf.

I hope that resonated, because we’ve peaked.

The balance is restored. I had a sanity-healing week, despite actively tanking my karma for years. Finding How to Believe in Your Elf was fate. I won’t mime shock to find it in my remedial bookshelf, unexplained. But I am surprised at my reaction. It grates on me more than Confederate Fractions. Maybe I still hope we’ll outgrow Afrikaner History Month, but I know self-help glurge will reach space.

You might expect a guide to controlling invisible pygmies, like DanDaDan for schizophrenics. If only. We’re vibrating far lower today. First, I’ll let Prof. Oddfellow introduce their stillborn. In person, the preface looks like this:

Don’t worry, it’s illegible live too. I’ll retype it in a font with self-respect.

I remember “Sense, shortness, and salt.” Alliteration bans “effort” but invites “scum-sucking scams.” Maybe I’m biased, as vice chancellor of word counts. Maybe I’ve read How to Believe in Your Elf. Maybe I’m stomping a novelty author’s liver until headlines improve. It’s all subjective, beyond me being right.

Somehow this reached the magick section, next to books by madmen with ideas and personalities. Easy mistake: when someone promises a world beyond science, my first questions are immortality and demons. Preferably in that order, lest the demons charge overtime. With spellbooks, I’m less of a skeptic and more of a pissed-off customer. Oddfellows hits like a burger filled with shit instead of burger.

Forget my discovery of witches. How to Believe in Your Elf drowns in shallower water. To understand the energy, peek at the back cover:

Synthetic glee. This tone’s an excess from another time, like amputating thieves’ hands. Prof. Oddfellow sells holdouts books. I’m not sure what punishment’s fair, but there’s this one old trick for thieves.

At least it comes with some vocab. You’ll sound like a Paris tourist, but it’s new information. Don’t expect any more today. This is a knowledge hole.

Every page of How to Believe in Your Elf looks like this:

Self-help’s special: in most niches, we call this much white space graft. Here, it’s inspiration. And in poetry, a wholly charlatan-free space. Don’t dwell on that, it’s mean to your elf.

Each page stars a cliche replacing “self” with “elf.” Turns out that’s my kill trigger. I’ve carefully built a zen lie over time to stay out of prison. Yet “Never doubt your elf” made me wish gout on someone. Another human, with creative dreams. I’d like to be above that, but I’d also like them to get gout.

Now, I’ve read worse than “Scratch your elf with your own nails.” With a forgiving heart and gin waterfall, I can see an off-kilter joke. “Doubt whom you will, but never doubt your elf” hurts. I know why you said it, and what you hoped it meant. But I can’t forgive.

Here’s the first elf.

It could be. Or gout. Pushing jagged crystals out of your urethra might be tougher than gaping at your unemployed reflection and mumbling “Who am I?” If it helps, I know your elf. Your elf is a pro mouthbreather, selling books to amateurs. Your elf’s the life of the party, because people need absinthe to tolerate it. At their lowest, friends know they’re better than your elf.

I give everyone a second chance. No one uses it, but it helps my gout curses look sane. Here’s Prof. Oddfellow’s second impression:

It’s tempting to accuse Prof. Oddfellow of plagiarizing Sun Tzu. But Prof. Oddfellow’s crafted a dumber, more useless idea. While the original quote’s a nice thought exercise for keeping Iron Age heads attached, this is someone’s last thought before calling Guan Yu a pussy. Oddfellow likes ending sentences on “elf,” and burying context with the dwarves.

I’m giving Oddfellow a third chance, because I have a fantasy. That’s like a dream, but less likely to get me shot. I want one of these books to improve halfway through. In case today’s my day, we’ll check the last entry before more abuse.

Nope.

These are affirmations drizzled in sloth. Based on his catalog, Prof. Oddfellow specializes in glurge dipped in New Age paint. Other titles include Pencil Magic, How to be Your Own Cat, and now I’m pissed again. Hopefully those words didn’t replace any major history. Let the Dept. of Updated Truth work for it a little.

But wait! Oddfellow’s still in the game. Per my fantasy’s terms, he could put an adult human idea halfway in and earn my respect. I’ll try page 65’s wisdom.

Let’s meet the book on its stupid terms. In each elfism, your elf can be your inner child, your sense of wonder, your secret magic powers, or empty nothing from a dying mind bilking dead minds. In this case, consulting your whimsy makes you unhappy. In a manchild first, Oddfellow says to be a tool. Smother your inner light, stuff your head in your phone, and enjoy your open office chair. Otherwise reality’s cruel lash will reach you.

I’m not one to ignore simple orders. Instead of questioning bullying, I’ll march on. Besides, 131’s an odd number. A decent lawyer could get Oddfellow a page 66 retrial. Let’s get ahead of it:

Nice! My dream is dead. I’m impressed Oddfellow found a phrase that the elf angle actively ruins, instead muddles. And kept it! Granted, there’s a clear gag for once. It just sucks. This is the jokebook they read deportees to convince them there’s nothing in America worth coming back to.

I could call it here, or back in the opening quote. Unfortunately, that’s off-tone. Half these images are defectors from elven North Korea. Or, depending how the year wraps up, Elven Texas. Oddfellow gets a seventh chance at redemption.

This gimmick kills lines. I read this three times, and it meant less each time. How judgy is my imaginary friend, exactly? Because I liked myself more before I met my elf. He sounds like someone scrambling for a personality anchor, and finding vapor. I’m not calling it a loser, I’m just saying it hasn’t been to a party without a ball pit.

Per Jamaican tradition, Oddfellow gets an eighth chance. There’s no such thing, but I’m certain Oddfellow, his readers, and his elf are all snowdrifts. So I’ll stick to the lie. To be clear: plenty of us are this dumb. They just die.

This one’s Juvenal! Or was, before elf. Juvenal’s like a Bronze Age Hotdogger, without the restraint, manners, or love for the mayor. If you follow Juvenal’s lead for anything but diss tracks, you deserve what happens. For example: this guide to advanced stinginess. It’s a good way to run out of friends to exploit you.

Or maybe you have a tiny Stand. Splurge on it, I guess. Buy it a tiny pimp hat. Your therapist will find it delightful.

I have a fucking headache.

Though it’s nice to hear that Oddfellow shrugs off haters. We need the challenge. It’ll make it more satisfying when he gets gout. I’m not ignoring his elf: I hope it gets gout too. There’s enough dick agony to share.

Again, these brain segfaults still suck on their terms. This one says to dilute your annoying spirit to fit in. While likely a gift to anyone around the reader, that abandons the spirit of the project. To the extent that find/replace has a spirit.

There can’t be more. How to Believe in Your Elf is mostly white space, laid out like a child’s illuminated manuscript, wafer thin, and still endless. The repeats must be merging, like gout crystals. If I seem hung up on that, it’s because Oddfellow keeps giving me the same input. How to Believe in Your Elf refuses to even suck a second way. It’s one straight jab of stupidity, over and over again, until your brain dies with it.

I hope this line changes someone’s life. That they sever a ten-year friendship after an elf tip. I’m not picky: it doesn’t matter whether they’re dead weight or a paladin. I just want all this to mean something, somewhere. And for Oddfellow to get gout.

Yeah, that was pretty mean. I’m still not playing along enough.

I should make my own elf—I had a few in my D&D days. The DM would ask if it was a drow, and I’d ask if he could go fuck himself. So I guess I’ve always been testy. I’m learning from How to Believe in Your Elf already.

If memory serves, the three D&D classes are wizard, monk, and falling asleep. So I’ll go with MoonElbow LeafKnees, a backflip expert from that block in Ip Man. But Elvish. My DM hated me. In fact, I think that’s why he made that drow joke. Clever guy.

Nah, MoonElbow’s chaotic evil. But the kind that lets you stay a monk. He saw all that spider priestess art and made his choice. Could anyone on MagiTech Hinge resist? Life’s short, especially when your DM wants to kill you in both worlds. Mine tried to adapt MacBeth. I thought MacBeth needed more elf karate, and stand by it.

Now we’re getting somewhere. I didn’t get projecting your ego onto a made-up elf, until I recalled being a 12-year-old idiot. Okay, 17. Anyway, now I’m down with Oddfellow. Insults to MoonElbow are insults to me, and I won’t be bullied. I don’t care if a so-called “dragon” allegedly “ate me” after I “charged in alone.” I did a flip, that raises your defense. Agreed? Or are we arguing until 2 AM?

This is the growth I want from self-help. What’s next?

Not one false syllable. From now on, I don’t need DMs—the LeafKnee brand’s past that. I need parrots to repeat MoonElbow’s success back to me. If they’re not down for the job, I’ll go solo with the Unrecalled Kingdoms, my original fantasy setting. They may look like the Forgotten Realms, but I get paid instead of a bunch of nerds. Other nerds.

Very insightful. One question: what the fuck are you talking about and why? I’d found a vein of new-project delirium, and Oddfellow had to ruin it by writing like the world’s smartest dog. I was only two thousand pages into MoonElbow’s adventure—less than half the length of a modern fantasy novel. I’ll have to let HBO improvise the rest.

We’ve learned a lot today! Like how easy it is to lie. To clarify: I don’t think anyone should get gout for a table book.

Except this one. Other elf books get a pass.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: CommonCentz, who always says "He who conquers his elf is the mightiest warrior." and also "Elf-knowledge is the beginning of elf-improvement." and also "Elf-reliance is the only road to true freedom." and also [ERROR MAXIMUM ELF LIMIT REACHED - TERMINATING ARTICLE]

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