Nerding Day: F**k It🌭 (Patreon)

When life's going too well, I check the self-help section. There's always a new blender for my brain.

Meet F**K It, the manual of The F**k It method. Not to be confused with The F*ck It Method.

Or The Fuck It Method.

The boldest of the Fuck Its. The author spells it out, like an adult. Since it has the best cover, I’ll use it for the quotes. But it’s not our star.

Today’s about the ultimate spiritual way. Which has robbed students in 26 languages.

Maybe the advice clicks in Portuguese or Esperanto, but it sucks bad in English. I may never find peace again. The title alone punched two asterisks in my sp*r*t. A familiar pain.

Perhaps Zen for Dipshits didn't test well. Dropout Nihilism had too many syllables, Hakuna Matata summoned Mickey’s lawyers, Cutesy Depression was too meta, and Inbred Enlightenment gave away the game. F**k It is 230 cutesy pages long, and I wanted matches after the title's first word.

I've inhaled the rest, for you. It doesn't improve.

Inspired.

Author John Parkin has a gift. Not writing, every paragraph in this millennial stroke hurts. But he can smell easy openings. F**k It takes exotic-sounding religion, forgets the sad or complicated parts, and adds glurge. I’d say "adds nothing" for a stronger punchline, but he really piles on the glurge.

With a shovel.

Two shovels.

This cloying voice fell out of fashion thanks to time, human dignity, and countless sex scandals. I can grumble about calling everything more complex than Sesame Street peak, but it’s progress.

To be clear: I’m not calling John Parkin a disgraced YouTuber. He just has the tone down. John’s got nerf attitude. He’s a heckin rebel. The loud half of a nostalgia podcast. And he’s got a simple, focused message.

Not too focused. John likes case studies, and stops often for stock jokes about cranking it to Doc Martens. But the point, when he can find it, is simple enough. In the face of crushing romantic, professional, or creative failure, detaching’s kinda like growth, if you squint.

It’s zen in the language of the people, you see. Stupid, stupid people.

That pitch will always sell, every decade. Not because of the glurge, John could've easily spared us. I'll never forgive him for keeping it. But Taoism for Toddlers has a hungry audience. Pop sutras make perfect gifts for people you don’t respect. New gurus just update the slang. Or, in John's case, censor it like a hip pastor.

The jacket copy's harder on John, albeit not on purpose:

Finally, meditation-free enlightenment. I don't have skin in the spiritual game, so consider this impartial advice. A referee call, even: if you can't handle advanced napping, you're not reaching nirvana. You're basically a talking rock. The keys to Buddhahood aren't in chain bookstores between Imagine Yourself Rich and How to Finally Fuck. They're on the next shelf, between Are You Jesus? and Cocaine: Nature's Semaglutide.

John’s parents were preachers, so he knows spiritual desperation pays. His flock just fears burnout more than death. Fair enough: only one of those is avoidable. Though paying the host of "F**k It retreats" to tell you stress is bad might not fix much.

Those retreats are real, by the way:

That spread's from the back of the book. F**K It retreats predate the book by a few years, and sound like a superior cult experience. Though if you’d like less sunlight and human contact for your money, there's an online version:

Remarkably efficient for a sloth advocate: ads for your other products mid-scam are more of a Hustle Cult move. Perhaps the divisions between frauds are arbitrary, and all cons share one vertical.

In any case, John's F**k It compound’s the perfect place to detach from your inbox and wallet. By releasing your earthly budget in the Italian countryside, you can lighten your spiritual load. Unenlightened westerners call this a "vacation," but John's kindly reinvented it. Just like breathing:

This revolution in homeostasis comes from “Essential F**k It Techniques,” the fourth dumbest chapter of F**k It. I suspect we invented conscious breathing about two minutes after breathing, but John knows the basics matter. He reinvents the wheel, with a few corners for flavor. I don’t know how many breaths it takes to unfuck a bad back, but you might be huffing for a while.

Though I'm the wrong audience, since I like reading. Like I said last week: there's a difference between reading and power-washing your brain, and F**k It is a fire hose. You'd learn more about life skimming porn titles than John’s longform vacation brochure.

Now that we know how to breathe, John moves on to ruining specific parts of your life. Like fucking up your career.

Most of us? Before I even challenge this enlightenment (The F**K It Method is a 2008 product, when most of us watched money float away like a butterfly), how's that help people outside of most? You know, the ones screwed enough to dignify a self-help book? Even karate manuals don't say "Most of us aren't being mugged. The Exploding Heart Technique is already working for you." Though I shouldn't feign shock–self-help has much lower standards than ninja scrolls.

Now you know what his author photo looks like.

Sometimes, John forgets his own stupid premise. After cribbing life is suffering, he could’ve skipped painting temping as gumdrops and meritocracy. In fact, he should skip that for consistency, if nothing else. F**k It's typical angle is less "you love layoffs" and more "stop thinking about layoffs." I’d expect “chop wood, carry water” to come up, but I guess those are four too many words for John.

John's not a consistent bootstrap-appreciator, or a consistent anything. He's detached from thinking any section of this shit through. For example, his take on discipline is much more "lie flat."

Interesting point. I endorse letting go of being an inert F**k.

For a paragraph, the writing gets livelier. John finds the notion of trying deliriously amusing, and channels some of that energy. Bleak, for the message "trying is for nerds. Absorbing Cheese Whizz through each hole is inevitable. Say F**k It to any goals you can’t achieve before this sentence ends.”

Then John congratulates himself for saying F**k It to Stairmasters:

And so the prophet was born.

Here’s a stopped clock moment: John reminded me I’m a f*cking lunatic. Because every first-draft response I wrote sounds like Fire Lord Ozai. Full-stop “you’re too weak to exist in my world” madness. I can’t wait for a live action reshoot without one frame of soul. Netflix shares Andrew’s approach to adaptation.

But forget sloth, that's not F**k It's core sin. See, John makes bank, so careers aren't a big deal. But he's not Atlas, so deadlifts are a dead end. The same myopia paints his take on Eastern spiritual ideas. John’s pretty good at breathing, so oxygen has a whole section. But Tai Chi has a bunch of moves to remember, and that’s valuable napping time. So he leaves it a one-star review (we’ll get to it). John’s ego tints his world, or at least smothers his ability to advise people that aren't John Parkin. The original title was Me: Have You Considered It?

See, John hasn't released his ego.

If a ring said this to you, you’d dump it in a volcano.

As you might guess from "what your body wants," John digs alternative medicine (unless you try too hard at it). I see the appeal, it's quite the comforting way to die. Instead of wasting energy and syringes, you can wait for health to find you. Alternative lifting's just the casual, day-to-day version. Once you manifest cardiovascular health, it'll show up on its own time.

Release the tension of thought and John makes perfect sense.

Life's a counselor at his retreat. For just half your salt mine salary (aren’t you glad you stayed?), Life can teach you to fail. She follows John.

Self-help books have a word-count minimum, unless you wrote The Alchemist. Then you can doodle thumbs-up on napkins forever. John’s not quite there, so he meanders from strife to strife. Whatever the topic, your best move is none. Take money. Maybe you’re eating out of a trash can, or just inherited a diamond mine. John’s got you:

I suspect self-help readers endure a long, trying loop. One month, John says that inhaling is crushing it, and you've already won the Homeostasis Award. You can lie flat with pride. The next, Optimal Maximization reprints Seneca without charm or context. All that napping was sin, but hating yourself for it wastes precious attoseconds.

But I’m not here to speculate. I’m not even here to insult. I’m here because John’s a couch wizard.

Are you surprised? We’ve partied for a while. It was this or whites-only yoga.

Don’t worry, couch katas are for everyone. And fix your kidneys, somehow.

The anxiety benefits depend on the show. Jury Duty makes you doubt every potential traitor in your life. Could your job be a Truman Show? Your relationship? Your Tuesday morning comedy? Who can you really trust in a world of cameras and fame hounds? The only responsible choice for you and your kidneys is moving to the mountains. Where I’m shooting my hidden camera show about reclusive madmen.

Wait, we can’t forget the sketch. You need the reference to know if you’re lounging correctly.

Watch those shoulders. New couchmasters always forget the shoulders.

This section’s called “The F**k It Form,” and offers a different flavor of inaction. Remember the cover's promise of meditation-free ascension? The ultimate spiritual way delivers, by replacing meditation with relaxation:

Energy control for screen addicts? Sign me up. I was already this close to installing a touch screen on my floor for relief during Downward Dog. I'm still doing it, but the F**K It Form sounds like great backup.

Now that our couches are warmed up, let’s try something more advanced.

Quite the name. Do I have to put my fucking leg behind my head? Reviewing Psychic Yoga hurts more than half-pipes, dating musicians, or faith in America.

I can probably handle that.

Big promises. What the hell have I done wrong until now? I’ve owned couches before, and hit this pose after every pizza. I’m typing on a couch now, and there’s a pie on the way. Yet none of my Nen techniques work, no matter how often or loudly I try. Also, I don’t feel calmer or whatever.

Hospitals should get on that.

Half-translated nonsense, and worlds more fun than John declaring that you love labor and hate dreams. Hopefully Hay House (the publishers of F**k It, among other guides to becoming rich, thin, or a wizard) noticed, and the rest of the F**k It universe is necromancy for binge-watchers. The Secret: Couch Edition is trash. The Sofanomicon is the future. Imagine Wall-E if all the blobs were chi masters. In fact, cut the robot. Both robots. Give me two weeks in Final Draft.

Even John smells potential. He declares his napping poses superior to leading brands:

This chapter’s full of surprises. While I expected John to worship/appropriate gurus, I didn't call "Tai Chi ain't shit." If nothing else, he steals in a fresh way. John hold the speedrun record for jumping from “I love your culture” to “I’ve fixed your culture.”

I’ll take delusion over the art of rotting. John can’t ruin this chapter for me.

So ends the comeback of the year.

The core "Don't try too hard, I didn't" angle kills my patience. Quickly. Not just here, where John says chi manipulation doesn't work and you could've manipulated your dick instead. But from the start, his takeaway from four distinct religions is "you're a special boy, not trying was always the answer, and you never need to try again." This approach is weak, like the rest of the couch nomads, and couchbending cannot save you.

Anyway, I like the drawings. Putting F**k It in my top three self-help books.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: David Shull, master of the final relaxation technique John Parkin has not yet monetized

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