The Billionaire Could've Been Anything

It's been a lazy Sunday afternoon. The billionaire's been hanging out at my place. He's usually a fireball of activity, but like everyone he has to cool his jets sometime.

This is what I like. It's what I liked when I was with the Pink Professor, doing nothing in particular, just hanging out like two old slippers. Small talk. Comfortable body language. I looked over at the billionaire, wondering what his dreams must be like. I hope they're not all of exploits and conquests, the next gold-laden rainbow, etc. As much as I like the billions, I'm still a romantic at heart, and like to slow down.

Anyway, there he sat -- the man himself -- a guy with the world on a chain. Even without the billions he'd be a great guy. I can picture him a total success no matter what. Having him asleep gave me time to think over the possibilities.

How about a dashing cowboy hero? Of course he wouldn't be from this generation. We have cowboys, but there's very little call for them to round up rustlers or head off bank robbers at the pass. In which case we would've never met. But he could've been in the Old West. He has his feet on the table at the saloon, dozing off. There's a guy there saying, "Even if he weren't a dashing cowboy hero, he would've been a success at something. Like if he lived in the far-off future, an important mogul in the world of high finance. I'm picturing him as an eccentric billionaire." Then the future goes fuzzy, our cowboy hero wakes up, tips a glass of whiskey, and takes off to protect water rights for the settlers.

Or he could've been a great talent in the arts. Since to be a truly great artist you have to let yourself go, and not be afraid to face the scorn. As for me, I've never let myself go in the arts, so I haven't painted any masterpieces. I've had a blank canvas for the last five year and I'm afraid to touch it with paint. The billionaire might've been born in France, like the guy in the illustration obviously was. He has that look of French insouciance. He's there in France, doing art, with many fans. One fan wonders, "If he weren't such a great artist, I wonder what he might've been. He's too eccentric to ever be wealthy. He'd waste his money in a second and be found drunk or dead in his garret. As it is, he needs a keeper! He'll get knifed in a bar yet!"

I can also see the billionaire as a brave soldier in battle. Brave in the extreme, because he has very little reserve; if he wants something he goes for it. His wealth proves that. It's no stretch to imagine him as instrumental to a major battlefield rescue. The commander says we need someone to run through that minefield and carry out our fallen battalion. He can't do it alone, so he goes to a farmhouse and barters for several stallions. Which he lashes together side by side, then he steps on the middle horse and drives them into the fray. The battalion sees him coming, and they're ecstatic, shouting their admiration like, "That crazy son of a bitch! I never seen such a beautiful bastard!" Even the enemy's beside themselves. Meanwhile, back at the farmhouse, the farmer's telling his wife the story: "That guy could've been anything, dammit, I'm tellin' ya! A cowboy! An artist! In the future, a billionaire!"

Finally, the billionaire could've been an average man of any little town. I have my doubts here, but there's no telling. My dad was an average man in a little town, and he was extraordinary in various ways. He met my mom, and believe me, other guys didn't! So who's smartest? Obviously, my dad. But the thing about the billionaire is, What would he have done as an average man of a town? Even he might not know. He would've paused, thinking, and really going over it: "Is there a place for me in the arts? Or perhaps the military? Anything would be better than this trash route! But it pays the bills, and people like me. They honor me each time as one of the nicest guys they know. And that's success as well.

I was about to go on ... forever ... when the billionaire woke up. Being a genius, he saw I had something on my mind, and goes, "What'd I miss?"

The Billionaire Goes Garage Saling

You probably saw the signs today all over town, on every post, tree, and stump, trumpeting a fantastic event -- a golden opportunity -- to see and meet the billionaire. It was so great. The Daily News contacted me and the billionaire, to see if he'd kick off the official garage sales season in style. I, being a big fan of garage sales -- at least back before I myself became a billionaire, and can now afford better stuff -- thought it was a great thing to do.

I've never been a fan of billionaires sitting in mansions behind large gates, if they don't have to. I like it when they get out and mingle with the hoi polloi, and give them something to hope for. Plus, it's worth its weight in gold for the billionaire, potentially, in the off chance there's a revolution and they're coming for the billionaires to take us to the guillotine. I want the little people at least to consider sparing our sorry hides, and certainly that of the billionaire, because we were so kind to them in good times, when we could've crapped on them, as the rich normally do.

Frankly, the billionaire's been wealthy for so long, and lacking nothing, that he's forgotten how the average person lives. Hand to mouth and looking for bargains where they can, even if it means standing in other people's back yards, finding something we need and talking them down to a quarter. How often I did it myself, back before I had my $2.1 billion.

How embarrassing it was, though, when we walked up to the first garage sale and the billionaire simply announced, "I'll take everything," leaving everyone else discouraged and angry. A few of them came up to him to "meet" him still, but only to give him a piece of their mind. I didn't care for him doing that, but, honestly, he could do it if he wanted. He was a paying customer, too!

Still ... I didn't say anything, but I'm sure I flushed red in the face and was embarrassed. He did better the next few sales, and people were happy. Later on, then, we hit a garage sale that to me was worthless, having a lot of ladies clothes, baby clothes, knickknacks that someone might've had in their bathroom, etc. And other stuff that I've always hated, like 2 liter bottles with a doll's head on top and the rest of the body covered by its knitted dress.

Again, I was completely embarrassed, and even personally aghast, when the billionaire announced, "I'll take everything." This time I pulled him aside and said part of the etiquette at a garage sale is that you only pick out the things that you want, leaving the other things you don't want for someone else who may. He seemed perplexed. He'd done it as an act of mercy, since he thought they'd waste their whole day and not make much.

OK, I can see that. And I suppose if I were having a garage sale and someone came and bought everything, I'd like it. After all, I'd be able to get on with my day. We had the same thing happen at the craft sale, when the billionaire bought everything, and it didn't bother me. The big difference is that there were others at the garage sale who were interested and browsing. They left angry.

It's worth some further analysis. Another downside would be, say, I want to have a garage sale the next year, and the billionaire doesn't show up. I don't want the people to be so upset about what went down last time, so they wouldn't come back. It can be nerve-wracking, the things you have to consider when you have garage sales. Public goodwill is a big part of your reputation.

But the whole concept has given me a great idea, with the state's largest book sale coming up on the 16th. O! I feel so much ... opportunity ... and evil ... flowing through my mind. I need to retire early today from other billionaire activities, yes, to consider my options, and how it would be done, if I decide it can be done. Thank you, billionaire! Your example has just brought out the best (or the worst) in me!

Jor-el, Stun Gun Ablaze, Protects Billionaire

Tons of people have been milling around my half-acre. Proving billionaires also have groupies. Not so much for me, but the billionaire. Although when they learn the details of my own fortune -- $2.1 billion ain't chickenfeed -- I'll be in for it, too.

How well I remember how Elvis had these problems, so he had a big fence and gates around his place. And he, in all his awesomeness, was only a multimillionaire. I can see a huge expense in my future, not just for a fence, but dogs, a moat, flaming buckets of pitch, the works. Let every casualty be a warning to others!

So I was at home all day. I called the police to come clear the property. I could tell he was holding his hand over the phone and talking to someone. He came back on and said they were busy. I asked when would they be free? He said they're always busy. Lesson: Don't piss off the police, like I did when I said I could play them like a cheap fiddle.

I kept looking out because I was waiting for a friend, Garrett Al. The billionaire wanted a local assistant and asked if I knew anyone. I thought right away of Garrett Al, because we go way back. Not that we haven't had our moments. He was "all hands" and violent a few years ago, which freaked me out. But he got his head on straight, underwent a cosmic conversion, renamed himself, and has been a great guy.

I went to the door and motioned him to come in quickly, then I about shut the door on some other guy's hand. These people were out there with big handfuls of overdue bills, looking for help. Seeking an audience with the great ones. If someone doesn't talk me out of it, I will get a stun gun! Do not try me!

The billionaire took my word for Garrett Al, and was intrigued by the cosmic conversion stuff. We call him Garrett Al, of course; that's his name. My own playful name for him over the years has been Geritol, which sounds similar. Then, in 2010, Garrett Al was channeling Kryptonian energy (he's in a Superman reenactors club), and realized that "Garrett Al" sounds also like "Jor-el," Superman's father. He took on that persona and started having more of a mind for the stars, the energy of the heavens, and the movement of the planets. It was touch and go for a while, but we found if we could keep him away from Cape Canaveral he was OK.

I remember an amazing time when Jor-el took the robes of a prophet, and as a sign gargled for 30 minutes straight, a dramatic warning, one we could not ignore, of "rumblings of troubles" for the future. Later, he cooked a piece of toast to warn that our cause was "toast," followed by unzipping his pants under his prophetic robe to give this message, "We're screwed." So you can see, this is a serious guy, the perfect guy to have as your assistant.

We sat around the table -- Garrett Al, the billionaire, and me -- and were laughing about those days and Garrett Al's glory. I gave him some faux complaints, like, "Why didn't you just come right out and say there were 'rumblings of troubles'?" He laughed and joked, "Get me a glass of water and I'll tell you." Then he turned serious and said, "I had some weird interplay of the left and right brains. They were doing a dance and I was gripped by a force. I simply gave the message I got." I said, "Yeah, but prophets are supposed to have control over themselves." He pointed, "Touché, so true, but not newbies." The billionaire was lucky to get a guy with so much understanding.

The billionaire said, "For your first task, do you think you can clear the yard so we can get the hell out of here?" Instead of answering, Garrett Al went into a trance. We sat there for several moments that seemed like eons. Then I watched Geritol, a man transfixed by a force not of this world. And in a flash, Jor-el was to his feet and bolted for his car. Also in a flash, he brandished a stun gun, like a gunslinger from the old west. Hangers-on were falling everywhere, with others raising their hands, screaming and begging to be spared. Feverishly they motioned for him to let them remove the stunned victims, and, showing such extraordinary mercy, Garrett Al allowed it.

It might've been too much. I'm sure we'll face charges. But whatever, at least they won't be charges like Geritol pumped into that crowd! Whew! Finally, we were able to get out and go for dinner, the three of us sharing a lovely evening.

The Billionaire School Assembly

I'm pumping my fist, happy with my performance at the school's Billionaire Career Assembly. It was a panel of billionaires, me included, added to the panel at the last minute. I've only been rich a few days, so I wasn't even expecting to be invited. That said, I believe I scored the most points. I certainly landed more body blows. All in all, I did the best.

The first two old-timers were real snobs, refusing even to shake my hand. The third, a younger guy, was nice to me, shaking my hand, then using hand sanitizer. I asked to borrow it. He was gracious to lend it to me, but cleaned it on a handkerchief after I handed it back.

In the session, everyone was interested in how we became billionaires.

The first guy said he focused on getting a good education and kept very serious goals firmly in mind, working hard to be a success.

The second said he worked hard from the time of his first job out of school, saved his money, then invested with a partner and grew their business, hard but rewarding work all the way.

The third one's father died, leaving him as a 16-year-old boy to step in and guide the family company through tough times. He said it was extremely hard work, but he stuck to it and made it to the top.

That left me, without much of a back story: "Would you believe, I got lucky? I was selling Easter bunnies a couple of Saturdays ago, a billionaire happened to show up, and we hit it off as friends. He gave me a large sum of money. In addition to $2,000 for the bunnies, he gave me $2.1 billion just because he wanted to. My advice: Get lucky."

Later, in the Q & A session, one kid took me to task: "My dad says the billionaire's your boyfriend, and it's not just from luck that he gave you so much money. My dad says you 'work hard for your money.' Is that true?" I recognized the kid and I know his dad. I've seen the weasel at the park, "walking the path" as the denizens there call it. I answered him, "If your dad's who I think he is [and he had the same beady eyes and recessed chin], I'd say he's generally in a position to know about that. He speaks as a guy who himself 'works hard for what he gets'--"

Several teachers stepped in to prevent this line of questioning, chanting, "USA! USA! USA!" I raised my arms and called for silence, and promised I could handle the boy's question in a discrete way, while answering it completely. I added, "While it seems to me that teachers are so much younger than when I was a kid, it's interesting to see they haven't loosened up any more."

I then addressed the youngster's point: "But to your question, no, at this time I cannot say the billionaire is my boyfriend. He is a boy and he is my friend, which all of you can relate to, but he's not my boyfriend. That's as far as it goes! As far as me 'working hard for my money,' let me just say that's a filthy rumor and not even close to true. At the present time I sleep strictly alone. Or I should say, I sleep alone except for my checkbook, which is on the pillow next to me.

"Let the record show, the three other billionaires on this panel openly and brazenly confessed to 'working hard for their money,' so compared to them, I would say I'm quite the moral person. Whoever they may have had relations with, and how often, and whatever else may or may not have gone down in the privacy of their bedroom, motel room, or, yes, even the park, this is decidedly not the time or place to discuss it."

Of course each man had his own secrets and was quick to exit the stage as soon as the principal thanked the group. Off to more "hard work," presumably. I didn't follow them, so we'll never know the full disgusting story. It is, however, shameful that any of them were even considered for an event of this nature, exposing themselves and their tawdry pasts to our youngest and most vulnerable citizens. The innocence those kids have, that is something we must and we will maintain.

From this day forth, and forever, let those who would take advantage of their innocence know -- and in no uncertain terms -- the rest of us will not stand for it. Instead, together we will rise up, protecting one another, as well as our most cherished and honored traditions.

Several kids came down, asking for autographs on one dollar bills, fives, and anything else they had. A couple of the little bozos wanted autographs on college textbooks on Advanced Economics and the like.

My First Full Day As A Billionaire

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Here I am, my first full day as a billionaire. How great it was, for a change, not waking up alone. Today was totally different: I had my beautiful checkbook on the pillow beside me all night, a little handkerchief covering it and a cotton ball for its pillow. I let it sleep till I was ready to get up and around for the day. I imagined it'd be a busy day for both of us.

I opened its beautiful pages to make sure it wasn't just a dream. And the numbers were still there, $2.1 billion! "Pucker up, you gorgeous checkbook, I'm kissing you! You're really quite the looker, stay as sweet as you are! Maybe I'll take you out for pizza tonight! Biggest pie in the place, my treat!" A guy could get used to this, I thought, gargling loudly, without shame, like rich guys do.

What a beautiful day it was, too. Nature's been inexplicably down in the mouth all these years, but today, finally, it was looking mighty fine. The trees seemed to know they were in the presence of economic royalty. I looked at the sandbox at the park and wondered about each grain of sand. "If each grain was a dollar, it wouldn't equal what I've got." Something like that.

Then it hit me, there's a lot of sand around the world, and there's no way I could keep up with sand. Grain for grain, dollar for dollar, I'll need to come up with a way to make more money. I could just ask the billionaire, but by now that'd look really awkward. I need to use my brain. That's when I hit on a great idea, a future project:

I went by this one car lot yesterday. If I mentioned it by name, you'd say, "Yeah, I know that idiot." Well, he's very down on me -- Cry me a river! -- because one time I asked him to hold a car for the weekend and said I'd buy it Monday. He said OK, then another guy comes by wanting it, but he said no. Then when Monday rolled around I didn't get the money I was expecting and had to renege on the deal. I see that guy once in a while and he's always fingering me. Like he never can forgive and forget. The guy needs to go to church and learn something of forgiveness.

As for me, now that I have money, I've got an idea that might just sink him once and for all, and make more money for me at the same time. If you can think of any downside to this plan, let me know, and I'll revise it. Here it is:

I go to a competing car lot and buy all their cars, 200 cars. I then drop by other car lots and see people browsing and invite them over for a free car. Pretty soon, 200 people have cars for nothing. It'd be sure to depress the market for all car dealers, including this guy who hates me. He won't be able to pay his bills. He'll be pulling out his hair, wondering what he can do. More the pity, then, if an anonymous rich benefactor swoops in to buy all the car lots, including his, for pennies on the dollar. Making me now the sole car mogul for the entire city!

It's funny how being a billionaire only brings out the best in me. I haven't done anything like that in my life, but believe me, it's only a matter of time now. Cars or something else. I could get in the semi-truck business with the same scheme, but there's no one in the semi-truck business who's ever done me wrong. They've all been very nice. Maybe a little too nice. Wonder what their angle is...

We're getting close to evening now of, again, my first full day as a billionaire. I guess that's enough scheming. I'll just enjoy this gorgeous evening and relax a while. Has it always been this pretty out? I never noticed. There's a bright light in the sky illuminating things. In the west. Other billionaires have probably noticed it, but I just now saw it. Is that the sun? And these things called birds are also singing. It's very pretty out.

I'm Now A Billionaire

 

I'm now a billionaire! Isn't that great? I can barely believe it. Me, the last several years bringing in $450 disability for a game toe, and taking anything my relatives could spare -- which wasn't much. Now I have $2.1 billion to my credit!

Let me try something here. I'm working my hand into my armpit and trying to type at the same time, as I blast a rather unpleasant noise in the general direction of my bank, who'd never in a million years loan me a measly thousand bucks for expenses. Oh, hell no! The last guy slammed the door in my face. With a tour group coming out of the vault that day, too, which didn't do much for my ego, having 35 sightseers see me cry, and the banker pointing his stern finger rigidly to the door. "And stay out!" were his exact words.

Now look at me! Ha ha! $2.1 billion dollars. I seriously had to look it up, how many zeroes a billion has, to write it in my check registry, and I'm still not completely sure I have it right. $2.1 million would be a puny $2,100,000, I know that. Not many zeroes there! But a billion is a thousand times a million. So when you get to $999,999,999 million and turn the zero over, it adds 1. It looks like I have it right, a lot of numbers!

I love it. On the 6th, yesterday, I had $308.83 to my name. Then that day goes away and I wake up today and end up with $2,100,000,308.83! I could take the 83 cents and throw it in the gutter; I'm never going to need chickenfeed again. Although I'll probably keep it. It's not worth the effort to throw it in the gutter. I'll just leave it in the checking account, for a rainy day.

What a rags to riches story I've got going! Of course it's all thanks to the billionaire. He comes to town, events conspired to throw us together, we become fast friends, and next thing he comes out and offers me a couple billion dollars. Hope you're not jealous.

Probably the weirdest thing is I could've had so much more. He said he wanted to make my life more comfortable and I should tell him how much it'd take. You have to agree, it sounds like the sky's the limit. $30 billion? $50 billion? Whatever I wanted! But I said, No, I'm not going for billions upon billions of dollars; that kind of money could only get me in trouble. You hear of some extremely rich guy, his relatives get kidnapped, and the kidnappers start sending pieces of their ear, etc., demanding a big ransom. And the only thing worse than relatives visiting me would have to be their body parts showing up unannounced.

So when I gave my answer I narrowed it down to a very modest figure, specifically $2.1 billion. That's all I wanted. I reasoned it out like this: $1.1 billion would be plenty. It'd give me 100 million to live on, not touching the first billion, making me perpetually a billionaire. But then I thought, it'll be burning a hole in my pocket in no time. And I want enough to spend that once it's spent I'll still be a billionaire.

That's part of the reason, with the rest being, I simply want to keep some modesty and humility in my life. If I'm walking around with $50 billion, I can see myself getting a big head. "Ha ha ha, I'm better than you, because I have $50 billion!" To me, that's no way to live. Now, though, with $2.1 billion, if I'm ever stupid enough to boast, all they have to say is, "Yeah, but it's only $2.1 billion. Look at Warren Buffet, he's got lots more."

Does money bring security? Yes and no. One thing crossed my mind. The government insures your money up to $250,000 per account. Each million has 4 units of $250,000. So a billion has 4,000 units of $250,000. Meaning 2.1 billion has 8,100 units of $250,000. How in the hell am I going to open over 8,000 bank accounts? If I open accounts at 10 banks a day, that'll take me over 2 solid years! Can you imagine how utterly boring that'll be -- monotonous! -- to waste that much time? 

It's always some damned thing. I need to Google what other billionaires do? I'm asking. Or ... just wait and ask the billionaire tomorrow.

The Science of Rainbow Gold

This is my version of "The Science of Rainbow Gold," based on what the billionaire told me. I didn't take notes and I'm writing it with the disadvantage of a bad memory and very little understanding of science. I didn't do so great in school. But there's one thing I know for sure: The billionaire is a very rich man, so if he says it, it's good enough for me.

Everyone knows there's a pot of gold at the two ends of a rainbow. In the 1930s that fact intrigued scientist Corky McDermott. He performed a number of groundbreaking experiences, literally breaking ground where rainbows had appeared. Using a microscope, a device geared to see beyond the capabilities of the naked eye, he came to two conclusions. First was the realization of his own gigantic size compared to microscopic things. And second was the presence of rainbow embryos in those areas. He pushed his powerful lens up to 300x, nearly its breaking point, and also beheld the nascent pots of gold!

You see something like that, it knocks you on your ass, unless you're really stupid. And Prof. McDermott obviously wasn't stupid, being a scientist with access to a microscope, and the knowledge of rainbows that followed. He could only come to these obvious conclusions: Rainbows start out embryonically a bow because at maturity their ends will be the heaviest points. The middle will be lighter, but the golden ends heavier. In further studies, he concluded that the gold veins reach up quite a ways, replenishing the pots after numerous storms.

The billionaire, browsing a dusty old university library one day, stumbled upon Prof. McDermott's long-forgotten research and arrived at some conclusions of his own. Rainbows do appear in the same places, consistent with McDermott's embryos in particular places. If a guy staked rainbows out, even when they became more or less invisible and sunk to the ground, whatever membrane or sheath that enclosed them would still be physically present. "What if a guy with a box cutter or chainsaw went there, made a few incisions, removed some gold and stitched it back up?" he asked me. The answer, "The rainbow would be none the wiser, it'd pop up during the next storm, and replenish whatever was missing, making it a virtual ATM!"

"Yes, naturally, of course," I thought. Then if a guy were to buy the land, and have several hundred rainbows he was monitoring at all times, he'd have enough gold -- countless tons of gold -- to live something more than a merely comfortable life. He'd have more gold, in fact, than he could reasonably sell without raising eyebrows. That would be true for almost anyone, but, I will proudly say, not the billionaire. With his matchless personality, suavity, coolness, and great looks, he could simply look you in the eye and you'd buy all the gold he had, no questions asked. Remember the great Fort Knox expansions between 2002-2008? That was all the billionaire!

I listened to him explaining this and had to kick myself. Once upon a time, without any knowledge of these things, I was actually on a team of Rainbow Chasers. And we came damned close to discovering some of this. It happened one time only, since rainbows are hard to find. We came up under a rainbow. We looked up and it was huge. I could tell it had a sheath holding it together. And there was a loud clicking, hissing noise, that, frankly, scared the crap out of us. We thought it might blow up! I was afraid it was some kind of electrical typhoon, or something, and that one bolt of lightning would blow us to kingdom come. Now I see it was just the internal regenerative process of making gold and moving it in place. And we did see the pots that time, but they were empty, explaining the regenerative process.

Listening to the billionaire was fascinating, of course, but I was getting a little tired of nothing but science. All work and no play makes me a duller boy than usual. I'm thinking, "You've got all the money you need, let's do something fun..." Still, it was kind of fun watching his flashing eyes as he spoke of these great truths. Then when he'd relax a moment, they were especially dreamy.

"Let's talk about the science of coffee," I ventured, "as in going to your place downtown for a couple free lattes!"

Happy Billionaire Easter

For me, selling Easter bunnies always anticipates the joy of Easter Sunday, but this was an extra special year. Thanks to the billionaire, I sold them all!

As you know by now, I met a man who truly personifies the meaning of the holiday, new life and possibilities, the billionaire. Perhaps he's not the absolute richest man in the world -- that honor would go to someone in oil or defense -- but he's way richer than most. This isn't just funny business, he's literally got billions of dollars, and I know him!

You can't believe how special it was this year, unlike every dreary year in the past, the craft sale ended as soon as it began. The billionaire appeared -- simply appeared, as though brought forth from the light itself -- and bought my whole stock! "Name your price," he said. Now I realize I could've said any number and he would've paid it, but in innocence I said, "Two thousand dollars." Just like that, instead of the usual couple hundred I would've made, and that not all profit, I had $2,000, not to mention the rest of the day off.

Now it's only been a little over a week, but the world has changed so much ... thanks to the billionaire. Where he's not, there are limits. Where he is, those limits are surpassed, to the point that you no longer even consider them. This isn't just some harebrained theory, like the theory of evolution, gravity, or our need for water, this is the central fact of life. The billionaire takes guff from no man; he simply buys them off and watches them dance at his knee. And that's special. With my life now tied in with his, I don't know that there's anything I can't do, high or low. That's what Easter means to me.

Perhaps the craft sale should've gone on a little longer. Let's say I'd sat in the usual doldrums until mid-afternoon. Then perhaps his glorious appearance would've been more revelatory. You know how when you're doing something you absolutely hate? But you have to do it, say, to make a measly couple hundred bucks, not all profit? Because you need that money, because you've got a mouth to feed when you get back home, your own? And if you quit feeding it, eventually it'll be "All Systems Go" for shutting down? That's sort of what happened to my Uncle Clarence... He filled his system with booze and the lady's husband came in and killed him.

So I'm sitting there, and it's high noon, and I'm fanning myself. Customers, customers, everywhere, and not a single one stopping to buy. I'm thinking, 'Life, for everything it's cracked up to be, truly sucks. This is as low as I've ever sunk, wearing my appetites (eating later) on my sleeve in this desperation. Everyone knows what I'm here for, to eat later, excrete waste, and get up and do it all again the next day; don't tell me I don't know what life's all about!' That's when I hear the cry of attendants, "Make way, make way, for the billionaire!"

You think, 'Some crackpot's got a big head!' When in strolls the actual billionaire, relieves me of my burden, granting new life in the form of $2,000, and sets me free. This week -- how can I put it? -- it's been the absolute tops. The billionaire changed my life, and he's truly made me see real life for the first time.

With his billions and my brains, I don't know that there's anything we can't do. Happy Easter, indeed.

How He Made His Billions

EVEN THE STOP SIGN IS PIXELATED
TO CONCEAL THE LOCATION OF THIS VEIN

It's been several days since the billionaire came to town. And I've made it my business to be "in" with him and find out everything I can about his dealings. Why am I doing that? Because it's been a long time since I've met someone who could very well be my soul mate. And money has nothing to do with it, although, if I were to be perfectly honest, it doesn't hurt.

But enough on that subject -- the vagaries of soul mating, true love, etc. -- because, frankly, it's a sore subject. I haven't written much about it, but, yes, long time readers of the blog know I had a true love ... once ... although I've never shared what precisely happened to drive us apart. I've already said too much. Let's get back to the billionaire, who, c'mon guys and gals, anyone, you have to concede he'd be a fantastic catch!

Anyway, the whole thing very well could be out of my hands entirely. The fact that we've run into each other a half dozen times in a town this size, that he bought my Easter bunnies and all the rest, was enough to tell me something's happening. With the next thing being he visited my house earlier today. I was so embarrassed; I still had bedhead. And I'm mostly bald, which with bedhead is a terrible look. But he didn't seem to be nonplussed.

He found out where I lived and wanted to come by and "make things right," since I'd erupted at Patsy's Steakhouse when he yet again called me "The Easter Bunny guy." It was a long day, that's all. I don't mind being the Easter Bunny guy, if it's right that a once-a-year activity should define you. In this case, since the billionaire didn't really know me and my many qualities, it's completely understandable that that's the label he should hang on me, as a kind of shorthand sobriquet.

I should just come out and say it, we are fast friends now, OK? I'm batting .1000, the first billionaire I've ever known and we're fast friends! I brushed it off, the whole "Easter Bunny guy" thing. He asked about me and my house, what I do, etc. I didn't hold back. I told him the truth of how I'm on disability because of my game toe. He thought that was cool, but then -- I couldn't believe it -- said he wouldn't mind helping me get it fixed. I had to beg off on that point. I'm not only adverse to pain, I also hate poverty.

Plus, I wanted to know more about him. How a guy can be a billionaire. What happens that makes you so filthy rich? Is it true what they say, that once you have your first billion the rest just happen? Good news, he said, that's exactly what happens! But he never stays still, resting on his mountains of cash. He's always looking for more. I think he saw a twinge of discomfort on my face. "That's not to say I obsess over it ... I want to live life to the fullest in small ways too."

Was I charmed? Yes, absolutely, what guy wouldn't be? But, as I said above, I still have this place, this hole in my heart, and I'm not sure at this point that anyone else can fill it. Damn it! And he has to be a billionaire, too! But we're leaving it at that, agreeing to be friends, do things together, yes, and take the rest of it slowly. Already he wants me to go with him on some buying trips around town, and he said he'll show me a good time. "But what about your game toe?" he asked. I told him, "Don't worry about that ... My tootsie-wootsies are feeling no pain!" We laughed, marking the first time in my life I ever saw a billionaire's eyelashes flutter.

"So where did you get your billions?" I asked. "Was it an inheritance, a well-paying part-time job, what?"

He looked around, suspiciously. We lowered our heads to the table and pulled in together. I believe I can publicly reveal his whispered confidential answer: "Rainbows. That business about the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow ... That's only half of it ... I can get all the gold I want, which, as you may know, is one of the most precious elements on earth..."

"But how?" I asked. As of today, as you might expect, he wouldn't say.

The Billionaire Loves His New Steakhouse

Here's a recommendation, in my words but straight from the mind of the billionaire: If you ever become a billionaire, you really must buy your own steakhouse. There's lots of things money can buy -- cars, planes, houses, politicians -- that'll never make you happy. But a good steakhouse never lets you down.

I was there ... And I know what I saw ... Of course I'm talking about Patsy's Steakhouse, the place on the east side of town, for my money the best steakhouse we have. And that goes double for the billionaire's money. Patsy's getting old, and ever since Ray died she's deserved more than this, a life of watching big mouthed senior citizens shovel it in, then going home alone. The billionaire asked me about it and I said, "I would," meaning should he buy the place outright? Patsy named her price and that was it, along with a few details about the deed.

I should back up a bit before I say that I sat down with the billionaire for a nice juicy steak. I was already at Patsy's, in the foyer, when in comes the billionaire and his retinue. He sees me and recognizes me, the second time in one day, and goes, "The Easter Bunny guy!" I motioned him over by the restrooms and told him in low tones, so as not to embarrass him, "Listen, bud, if you call me 'the Easter Bunny guy' one more time, I'm gonna kick your ass till you're walking on your hands. I'm so much more than that."* He studied my face for any shame I had, and seeing none, goes, "Point taken."

Then he bought the place and we sat down for a nice meal, on him. With each bite, first one, then another, then another, my eyes rolled back in my head and I was gasping for air. The billionaire matched me climax for climax, the meat was that good, and of course tender. You never want meat to melt in your mouth, but you do want a tenderness that at least hints at melting. Then you look down and see what's left. You hope it's a lot, but sooner or later, barring a miracle, it's down to the bone, or nothing. I lifted my shirt and showed the group my puffed out belly. The billionaire lifted his shirt, too, then outdid me by disrobing to his shorts and energy belt and exulting in the moment, "I feel like a new man!"**

I clinked my glass and called the whole restaurant to silence before raising my iced tea and proclaiming, "To the billionaire!" There were voices of agreement in response, the lower tones of men, the medium tones of women, and the higher tones of a couple kids, who somehow were unable to go to a sitter, or not trusted enough to be left home alone with their TV, video games, or computer. You see a family like that and you remember back to your own youth, stripping naked when the adults left and streaking around the timber with cousins. But I also missed many a steak dinner...

Now that we were fast friends -- The Billionaire and The Easter Bunny Pauper -- there was no telling what the future held. One thing I knew, once I became his most trusted confidant, both our lives would be enhanced.** He really appreciated me threatening to kick his ass.* But I know enough about group dynamics to know I'll need plenty of other gambits.***

As we left the steakhouse, my heart was glad when I looked up and saw Patsy drive by in her cool collectable pink Cadillac, the first fruits of her labors in building a steakhouse a billionaire would want. Such a wonderful guy. 

All hail my friend, the billionaire and his ass*, as yet unharmed.

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*Confident back talk is our greatest psychological leveler.
**I knew we'd make an irresistible syzygy.
***I'm the King of Group Dynamics.

Coffee Shop Now Under Billionaire Management

The billionaire, since those innocent days of the craft sale this past Saturday, has become a well-known figure in town. To think! Last week I hadn't even heard of him! Makes me wonder what might happen next week. I might achieve the very last goal of my life, to ride a blimp! Ha! Just kidding, that'll never happen... There isn't a blimp-port anywhere between here and Akron.

Not only is the billionaire well-known, but he's the only thing anyone can talk about. "The billionaire this, the billionaire that." How'd we ever exist before the billionaire? Seriously, I'm asking; he's enhanced every one of our lives to such an incredible degree that, it's literally incredible. May God richly bless the billionaire, with no play on words intended.

So what's it all mean for me today? You may remember, I got one of the free latte coupons for the coffee shop downtown. Which has been "burning a hole in my pocket" ever since I got my hot little hands on it. But when I get something like that, a blessing, a bonus, I like to put it back and not use it immediately. It's a matter of treating myself only when the time's right. For, you see, I've never had the advantages of the billionaire, being able like him to just burn my blessings on a moment's notice. To me, coffee's a precious commodity.

But the good book says there's a time for every thing under heaven, which includes using your free latte coupons. So downtown I went, then immediately I saw a problem. It was like the last night at Porky's; everyone in town, give or take, was there cashing in their coupons. Meaning it was going to take all day to get my free latte. There was a triple layer line winding all the way around the courthouse. With the police then just east, keeping the street open and sending across whoever was next. Traffic was a snarl.

Well, what can you do but take your place in line? I'm glad I had my iPod with me, because I can read my Kindle and it takes a lot less power than the phone. I looked at it like this, What a blessing the billionaire's given me! Not only do I get the day off to read, but standing and walking slowly is also a cool discipline. Add to that the togetherness this city's enjoying, being in line and hearing everyone's take on the billionaire.

Right away, I heard some grumbling, that the billionaire's already bought the coffee shop. I saw Red and Mary close to the front of the shop, greeting people and smiling. Obviously they were happy with their new-found fortune, and wanting people to see there were no hard feelings. It's only right that they were so well-compensated. It's all good. The billionaire will spruce up the place and maybe bring in some better menu options.

As the line winded along, eventually I was on the verge of the street and got my police escort across. When, who comes out to talk to the folks entering but the billionaire! He remembered me, too, a very lovely gesture, recalling the quality of my Easter bunnies."The Easter bunny guy!" I was careful not to talk inside baseball, since there's no reason to screw with people's head. I remember he said that.

Inside the coffee shop, everyone was happy, but busy. They asked that we either drink our free latte quickly and make way for others, or take it out. The bonus for taking it out was a free donut, which was yet another blessing ... in what's becoming a long line of them.

On my way out, I looked over at the billionaire, so comfortable in his own skin. Which, of course, he can afford to be. His only worry has to be what he's going to buy next ... and why. Whereas a guy like me, I'm happy with a free latte and donut any day of the week. What a precious commodity, as I said.

The billionaire ... he's so cool!

The Billionaire Buys My Easter Bunnies

Easter Sunday is coming, the day I celebrate above all others, a great and glorious day, the day I enjoy my profits from selling Easter bunnies at the craft sale. The sale, this past Saturday, was especially great for me this year, giving me a lot to rejoice over, and it's all thanks to the billionaire.

Wow, I'm in awe, to think I met such a rich man -- an actual billionaire -- a guy with more money than I'd ever know what to do with. This isn't going to be the same old Easter now, thanks to him. The wealth that guys has, it boggles the mind. And to think, he's not afraid to get out and spend it, thank God!

It all went down just like I'm saying: I made up 50 new Easter bunnies and with my hold-over stock trudged sullenly to the shopping center, dreading the usual dismal sale. Those bastards, the shopping center management, are always looking for ways to stick it to us. And it was the same this year. They put us in the opposite wing, where the bathroom's three times as far. That's bad for a guy like me, a solo act, meaning I have to leave my stuff at the mercy of criminals and cutthroats to pee. There's enough thieving kids at the shopping center -- wild animals lusting to steal -- that it's tempting to sacrifice your bladder to protect your stock.

I looked up at the crowd gathering at the line in anticipation of the starting pistol. Three old ladies with empty plastic sacks looking for free samples and no pistol. Big encouragement! But thankfully things did pick up, a few stagglers here and there. Being slow isn't terrible; it cuts down on shoplifting, and of course the ever present threat of other backstabbing crafters wanting to get illicit photos of your stuff. It can be a mess except for some downtime.

I also use those opportunities to keep my table tidy. I have an eye for posing the bunnies, positioning them for maximum appeal. Angled out, a few about an inch from the edge of the table. It shows they're eager to go, looking for a good home. I've noticed a lot of ladies, with their mothering instincts, like anything that suggests eagerness. They get that from hungry babies, and even look for it in inanimate objects, especially if they're cute. I've been exploiting their weakness for years, always looking for a way of making these bunnies more babyish, cuter, and eager.

Some of the gals coming through, though, didn't seem to have the mothering instinct, being more concerned about price than what they could do for these little orphans. But I anticipated them, and put prices by the little guys. A strict $5 apiece or 2 for $9, a dollar discount. I hate giving up that dollar, but some of our less instinctual people need the extra push. Cheapskates.

11:30 came and went -- the dog days of any craft sale -- when people are thinking about eating and not as apt to be wanting our junk. You see it on the faces of fellow crafters. The fans come out, they're rolling their eyes, and bitching about the shopping center. Which isn't slow to take our fees but isn't so quick to address our grievances, like why we have to be parked by 8-10 empty stores. It'd make more sense to put us in a couple of the empty stores closer to the main traffic. But hey, that's insider stuff.

Anyway, here's the real news. This guy -- someone recognized him and said he was a billionaire -- came in with his people, and was enthusiastic about what he saw. There was one lady with a clipboard, a guy with a briefcase full of money, and several bodyguards. The billionaire himself, a good looking guy with a friendly face, a little older than me (62), appeared from the middle of the group.

He had a good word and a handshake for everyone, and assured us he wanted to buy everything we had! I didn't know how that'd go, but it was easy. We simply stated our price and the lady with the clipboard wrote it down and the other guy paid us. No haggling, no nothing, although the clipboard lady, obviously, if left to herself, would've been tighter. The billionaire had places to be, money to make.

He came over and was admiring my stock, commenting on how cute the bunnies are, and even engaged me in some shop talk. On my color scheme, why I chose pinkish ears for them. I explained I thought it was a pleasant color for ears, then started into a more indepth explanation on the psychology of appealing both to children and mothering-type women, when he waved me off with a laugh, also shaking my hand boisterously and saying, "All that's inside baseball, over my head; I'm just looking for nice things!" That really did something for my ego, to think I was smarter than a billionaire!

The key thing, beyond the pleasantness of this encounter, was I got an amazing $2,000 for around $400 of inventory. In one swift transaction, no fuss, no muss. And the same thing went for the others. The billionaire didn't care. One of his people also passed out coupons from the downtown coffee shop for free lattes. It was win-win all around.

This was easily the best craft sale I've ever set up for. It made up for a lot of dismal Easter sales out there, that's for sure! Giving me money to burn ... I'll save some of it for my golden years, probably.

The thing now -- which is a discouraging thought -- is what's going to happen next year? Do I make twice as many bunnies, then have the billionaire not show up? But that's next year's worry. This year I'm celebrating big time, with a joy to last me all week, and, I'm hoping, right through Easter Sunday itself ... and beyond! He is Risen! Moolah!
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Previous Easter Bunny Craft Sales:

2010:
Local Man Makes and Sells Easter Bunnies
Selling Easter Bunnies at the Shopping Center
Last Call for Easter Bunnies
Boxing Up My Bunnies

2011:
The Easter Craft Sale

2012:
I'm Selling Easter Bunnies at the Craft Sale

2013:
Easter Bunnies -- Is This The End of Crafts?
The Easter Craft Sale -- Post-Mortem

2014:
Shell-Shocked -- The Easter Craft Sale

Trash-Talking a Cinnamon Roll

The spirit has hit me once again -- OH YEAH! -- to lay into something, to filet and gut it, to trash-talk it till it can't go on. I love the feeling, the surge of power, in taking a domineering stance and daring the damned thing to get up and fight.

This time I'm lording it over a cinnamon roll, that, frankly, struck me the wrong way. You don't want to get on my bad side, believe me. Maybe I don't like your attitude, maybe I don't like your look -- whatever it is -- you're goin' down, sucka!

Let's take a look at the cinnamon roll in question. A particularly disgusting looking sample. If the average cinnamon roll looked as pathetic as this one, there never would've been a demand for the thing. In the annals of desserts, there would've been a rather gaping hole, made better by no one ever knowing what was meant to go there.

My basic argument with this guy is its drizzle. Let's look at photo A14. Seriously, was this your plan? You had a little bit of drizzle and you decided to strike on your own, and show everybody how bad you were? Ha! But then when you got your motor running you couldn't even make it to the plate? Look at you, you're a waste of space. You got that far and ran out of juice, dog. You thought you could do it, I guess. I don't know why you thought that, since the juice wasn't even there to start with. It's stupid to think what you did. Maybe a little kick in the pants would've done you good ... before you even started!

Photo F361 takes us leftward. Here the apparent ambition of the roll was to fill up the plate with drizzle. But again ... Was that your big ambition? You thought you were going to impress the world, huh? You were gonna show everybody how amazing you were! And, yes, that would've been very amazing ... that is, if you had what it took to get the job done. Which obviously you didn't! You sicken me. Let's take a look at why you thought that. I don't why you thought that. It doesn't look like you have any brains at all. Is that what it is? Sure, yes, anyone can make a mad dash for the plate, but if they haven't got what it takes to get the job done, they probably should've just stayed home.

In T899 we shift rightward again, right between the two despicable drizzle failures, and here we see a section of the roll that somehow simply failed. Look at you! I may owe an apology to the others, for their failure to execute a proper cinnamon roll drizzle maneuver. Because you have a rather embarrassing bald spot -- extremely dry -- right where your drizzle should've been! And that's much worse. No one wants a bare naked cinnamon roll. Why'd you even bother to come along for the ride? You didn't think we were gonna notice this shameful display? How could we miss it? It's gaping, disgusting to see, and I'm sure, if I wasn't smart enough to pinch you off and throw you away, I'm sure I would've spat you out with revulsion and prejudice.

Z7 shows how the two drizzle points I lambasted are the only drizzle points. Z7, as a picture of the whole cinnamon roll in one view, shows how the damned thing had a lack of organization and presentation from the get-go. How much better, roll, if you didn't have the drizzle to coat your top if you'd had the intelligence not to waste it at the points of A14 and F361! Where was your head at when this was going on? Did you not spend even one moment considering how terrible you were going to look? What is this, the giving-up spirit of a runt, knowing it's a runt, and not worth its place in the litter? I don't know, you tell me! You're the one that stepped out and said you were a cinnamon roll worth eating! I didn't say that! But a cinnamon roll worth eating also has to be a cinnamon roll worth looking at. And on those points, my friend, you failed miserably.

My Disastrous Mind-Reading Tour

Just last Thursday, I shared the glory of my waving tour. I was super-happy with the great reception I got in the various neighborhoods. As I recall, some of those cul-de-sacs don't see five cars a year -- and those are just criminals scoping it out -- so they're grateful a nice guy like me takes time to come through.

Well, it's Thursday again, and this time, darn it, it didn't go as well. I thought, I need to get out there for another tour, but this time something more in depth than waving; this time would be a mind-reading tour. What are people really thinking? We all want to know that from time to time.

Admittedly, I've always had mixed results with mind-reading, going way back to school. Different ones knew I could read minds, so I had a hard time fitting in. One time I got involved with the wrong crowd, and could only get out of trouble by testifying against the others. Yes, they were pissed. But fortunately I could read their minds about what they wanted to do to me. There were obvious cues, including knives and truncheons. My worst memory is of one big bruiser with a motorcycle chain wrapped around his fist. And such a mean look.

It's a gift I don't say much about, but if my motives are entirely good, you know, I figure, What the hey? I'm going to get out there and duplicate the joy I had with the waving tour, I'll get a good reception and everything will be great.

But what happened? I got nothing but negative vibes from the folks. I started on the west side, the ritzier part of town. A lady came out with her little chihuahua, and she thought I was likely a criminal, probably thinking dirty thoughts about her, and sure to be trouble. I considered getting out and having it out with her, except, of course, any hostility would only reinforce her thoughts. Still, I couldn't quite control myself and flipped her the bird, which she returned, lustily. Her little dog also looked spoiled!

At another house at the end of that block, there was a guy mowing his yard. He saw me and was thinking he should probably double check that he'd locked the door, because, "This guy looks like trouble." I should say mind-reading requires intense concentration and staring at the subject. Mere glances give poor results. The guy ticked me off so much I was thinking maybe I should wait till he got to the other side of the house, then come around and steal his gas can. Except, as above, it would only reinforce his thoughts.

In the mid-region of town -- not too rich, not too poor -- this one guy had all kinds of thoughts. According to him, he'd been suspecting his wife of cheating on him on Thursdays, a day he normally works. But he decided to stay home today and catch a glimpse of the bastard. Obviously, he thought it was me! A guy who respects the sanctity of marriage. I continued however to read his thoughts, as he pictured his wife naked at the door meeting some guy. She didn't look bad! Meaning, just to get back at him, maybe I should come back next Thursday.

On my way to the poor side of town, I passed a couple of cops, whose thoughts of me included some insults about the quality of my car, and whether they should pull me over. They reasoned, We've got a quota and there has to be about a million things we could ticket that slob for. But -- and I know it sounds stereotypical -- the donuts they were working on had about three minutes left of peak freshness, so I escaped the dragnet.

On the poor side of town, I also got some bad thoughts. First it was kids, thinking they'd send their little brother into the road. Then when I stopped for him they'd run over and lie down against my tire, looking like I hit them. They'd work out a deal with me, knowing "an old mark" like me would jump at the chance of paying them off. I flipped them the bird too, and called out, "No pay off today, suckers!"

Just then, Mom comes to the door of the house, two other kids hanging from her breasts, and calls them over. She can see they were thwarted, then turns over the thought in her mind that she knows me and might be able to get me for child support for the youngest pair. I'm thinking, "Honey, I've only been drunk one night in my life, the night you were stripping at The Filthy Bird, and you ain't gonna pin those kids on me! You ain't got a DNA sample and I'm gettin' the hell out of here!"

Crazy people and their crazy thoughts. It goes to show what they say is true: Nice guys finish last.