Always ask for cash up front. Or in a few days. You know, when they can get it to you.

Always carry a weapon. Under no circumstances should you leave the house without a weapon. Look at me: I’ve got this nice little rolling pin I keep in my coat sleeve that I can use to club somebody the fuck out, at any damn moment. I can make cookies with it too whenever I need some sweets and there’s an oven or a hotplate nearby. Be safe. Don’t get caught off guard with your pants down.

Make sure you’ve got an alibi. My go-to and personal favorite: “I was hanging with my buddies when all that stuff went down, officer, I swear! We were playing pool, then, next thing I knew, my friend Tommy, my cousin twice-removed, has his leg blown off by some divine will. We had to take him to the ER, which makes you wait for hours just to have some nurse lady ask for insurance, which, by the way, nobody has, and then tell you to wait for an even more ungodly amount of time. Long story short: he lost the leg. So I couldn’t have been at Sal’s Pizza Place when it was held up by that handsome man with the pink stockings and the dashing 42-inch chest duster on and the limited-edition passion fruit aftershave coated on his neck that makes all the ladies purr!” Make up your own. I guarantee it won’t be as good as mine, but it will probably get you off the hook.

Keep your money somewhere safe, like behind that loose brick under your mom’s window where you used to keep the Polaroids you snapped when you were in seventh grade of your neighbor Mrs. Lefkowitz when the gout made it so that she could only wear loose-fitting clothing around the house. Boy, those were the days. You could see everything — let me tell you, everything. It was beautiful.

If you ever get hitched, ask for a receipt and make sure she doesn’t bite in her sleep. And check to be sure she’s not hiding anything. With the world the way it is, you can never be totally sure if somebody’s tucked away a penis.

If you’re ever strapped for cash, pay a friend to have their dog attack you, then sue the local government for having a shitty dog catcher. It worked for my cousin Gary. Now he’s in Cabo, selling insurance. It works — trust me.

Don’t sell meth. Tony does that already and he’s got a mad fierce hatred for competition.

Don’t sell crack, either. If you do that, you’ll get yourself killed. Just know you will. Maybe you won’t. I don’t know — I’m high. Just don’t do it.

Invest in Nikes.

The government hates everybody, especially old people. Don’t vote. Don’t pay your taxes — they’ll never know. I’ve never paid taxes and I’m okay.

Kung Fu can be listed as a special skill on a job application. So can cross joint rolling and speaking patois.

You don’t really have to speak patois. All I ever do is pretend and say “bumbaclot” a few times. It seems to work, although I’ve only done it during two high-stakes deals and both ended with my taillights being knocked out with baseball bats.

Never, under any circumstances, allow somebody to sell you a leprechaun. You will always be very disappointed. They’re not real, they’re just fictional. Trust me — I found out the hard way.

Arsonists make great lookouts. They’re also really good in a pinch. Just don’t give them matches or have them sign a lease on a storefront. They’re also horrible cooks.

If there’s one place you should aspire to visit one day, it should be the La Brea Tar Pits. Did you know they found a yeti there? They really did! Plus, there’s a load of tar and an old airplane I saw crash there in a documentary about World War II. It’s a great place. That’s where I want to retire!

I know I’m going to heaven! I’ve been sending God $1000 a month through the USPS for VIP poolside seats in the afterlife. You could do it too!

Never trust the Nigerian Prince e-mails. Besides, there are some I get sometimes from the son of a major former dignitary from Gambia that promise far better returns and a palace that overlooks a sustainable super-grotto. I don’t have any money I can give right now, just ’cause I don’t have a bank account, but if I did, I’d give it to the Gambian.

You should try your hand at inventing a snorkel that lets you eat underwater. You’d have to fix that whole stomach cramp problem, but I think it can be done. You’d make a fortune. You should give me 10% because of all the advice I’ve given and because it’s technically my idea. This advice is worth a pretty mint alone. I should write a book. I could be the next Joel Osteen or Sham-Wow guy. What did you want again? An eighth? Okay. I’ll see you Tuesday. Take care. Remember: next time I see you, tell me how this week’s Wipeout is! I still don’t have TV!