Mr. Big Personal Loans

Paranoia

Part 29 of 30

I really really really feel sorry for anyone out there who’s been caught up in loans. I’ll edit that word out later, and probably go with something different, something they won’t be searching for, with the purpose being to squash out do-gooding guys like me who might cost them beaucoup bucks.

These are things a guy like me needs to keep in mind, since I appreciate living and breathing. And there's forces in this world big enough and ready enough -- the executioner’s finger’s always on the switch -- to take out pipsqueaks like me. I don’t know if I can go on here, I certainly know I shouldn’t. But if I watch my step and encode my words, like saying “apple sauce” for “dollars,” and “purgatory” for loans, and focus on keeping this subterfuge under wraps as much as possible -- I’m not calling for their eradication, if that’s what you’re thinking -- I just might be OK.

How’d we ever get in this trap? We didn’t used to be! But back then I got some real low-down from my family on purgatory. They (purgatories) were something definitely to avoid. But going to the bank where you had your accounts and taking out a purgatory on something like a car or house was good. Just getting down in the weeds, though, with purgatories for everything else was a definite no-no. You may as well have been asking to be shot on sight. With the cause of death being your own stupidity. Because if you were not able to pay the apple sauce back the guy issuing the purgatories would be on you like Dillinger or Capone.

Remember Dillinger and Capone and all those bad asses? (If any survivors from their extended families are reading this, no disrespect against your forebears.) Although if I had my way, not only would they have been strung up from birth -- if we only knew -- but the taint of their seed would’ve been wiped from the earth generations back, just like if we get sick we cough it up and spit it out. Presumably to evaporate on the ground since there’s very little practical value to it beyond our good health. But purgatories, you should know, once they're out of control, you will know nothing about a healthy future -- maybe healthy for the purgatory guy but definitely not you.

And I see the signs they put up everywhere around The Big City, Mr. Big This, Mr. Big That. You’re tight on money this week, stop in! My advice would be to stop IT. Because miracle upon miracle, you’ll still be tight next week, something you want to stop. See the pattern here? Then the next week even, dammit, you’re tight again. Stop in for a quick purgatory. It’s simple, the apple sauce’s flowing easy. Week four they’re bringing out the paperwork, none of the terms in your favor. Week five they’re scraping up whatever is left of you once Mr. Big’s dog (reportedly a wolf) has eaten all he can choke down.

Finally Mr. Big's dog passes a big one, the your remains.

Paranoia: Greatly Challenged

 

Paranoia

Part 2 of 30

No, not ill, haven’t coughed all day, except for the bacon I swallowed wrong. Am I right? What is it with bacon? How come it’s so hard to cook it so the meat of the goodie -- the non-fatty parts -- aren’t hard as hell? I don’t remember this growing up back when Grandma used to cook it. It was uniformly soft, from stem to stern, particularly if you were taking extra care while it was in the pan. But these days, whether they’ve changed bacon's secret formula to compensate for tougher times, it’s always hard. And all the trying I do, my level best, nothing I do makes a difference.

But that’s one for my cookbook series, not yet planned. There is, though, an element of paranoia that goes with it. And if the problem originates with me, I’d like to know it. But there’s no way to know it unless a huge group has the same experience. And I know a lot of people have given up bacon entirely for health reasons. Was it the impact on their health from the weird hard bits that you really can’t give your dog?

I’ve gotten real sensitive about what I give my dog, real careful, that is. Because she had some bowel obstructions that I was a slow to realize. And here I am, her only full-time caregiver. I definitely don’t want her death on my conscience, even though, yes, it would be mostly her fault. Because she’s extremely undiscerning about what’s good for her and what’s not. Anyway, the bowel obstructions: Those came from dog treats and the fact that some of the ingredients of dog treats are relatively hard. And they get harder over the course of a month or so, especially if they’re exposed to the air on a daily basis. For some reason they don’t tell you that. And it’s not in the fine print on the bag like we’d expect human food to come with warnings if it were so dangerous.

It’s funny I haven’t even lifted a finger for my cookbook series; I’m sure there’d be all kinds of stuff that'd appeal to the average person. Like my Grandpa used to say -- I think it was him, maybe some other guy entirely, “Everyone’s gotta eat.” That’d be a decent series for that reason alone, I'd be getting the traffic from the vast pool of people who have to eat. Whereas with paranoia, they say not everyone has it, and most are too paranoid to admit it. It's just the unfortunate few, I guess, like me and a few other guys I know who not only have it but explore it. Not that that makes it anything to be proud of. I’m not proud, and if I were I’d be afraid to admit it, because how much grief can an innocent guy stand?

About these dog treats, though, I took her to the vet a couple times. And the last time they kept her overnight. Then I paid my $100 and got her home. They told me only, “She had a bowel obstruction.” No word about what the obstruction was, and I didn’t ask. And she went back to pooping like normal. I resumed her normal diet, including the dog treats. And after a couple weeks, guess what, the same signs of a bowel obstruction started in. Then I thought, What could it possibly be? She gets her normal food and two dog treats a day, nothing else. Wait! Replay that last piece, “and two dog treats a day.” I grabbed a dog treat and examined it. As the month goes on, they become very hard.

How did I fail so badly on that? What other problems are coming that I should know about? One interesting thing about the bowel obstruction is it wasn't all bad. I had to walk her farther to get her to go. Which led one day to me finding $100 on the ground. I was happy with that, but the vet was over $100. Meaning I nearly broke even, just a little short. About how my luck goes, better than nothing, but nothing worth writing home about either.

I Buy Tires With Home Cookin'

The Big City

Part 4 of 28

Now that I’ve seen both sides of the equation in this deal -- how it is in the small town and The Big City -- I can finally say with pretty good authority that the Big City, for all its bragging, hasn’t got anything over the small town. I'm able to see what’s good and what’s bad, and I’m telling everyone who’ll listen. And there's a lot of stubborn idiots out there. But no one can talk me out of it once I’ve made up my mind. Consider this a one-man stampede over the Big City!

Immediately when I start thinking of the baker, the butcher, and the new tire pusher back in the small town, I first think of the values I learned there. I think through all this stuff and you know how tears well up in your eyes? That’s what it is for me, except they're gushers. I get sentimental, then my whole life sweetens, then reality hits me squarely in the face -- the Big City I foolishly moved to -- and I go whole hog ballistic, with the terrible consequences of punishing myself. Crying and complaining that things aren’t what they used to be, to the point of denying myself supper and going to bed hungry.

I let my mind drift. The small town, gotta love it. It’s incredible now when I think back on it how much money I owe to so many people. And today I have the new tire guy in mind for some reason. Mostly for the many ways I deprived him of a good living by never having the exact change in paying for a tire. And he’d always shave a little off the price, giving me the comfort of riding on tires not bald or knobby while I only put out a few shekels.

I still have to think he was always glad to see me coming. Him with that small town grin you can't help but love in small town merchants. It conveys a lot, that he and I are friends, with there being no doubt that we go together -- merchant and customer -- and if anything threatens the fragile balance of that relationship everything could go to hell and we’d both be in a pickle, and not just us but the rest of the population that depends so much on keeping the system in place. Because, really, we might not survive through the day if we veered from it so much as a silly millimeter!

In the Big City, however, just to offer one stark contrast, it’s dog eat dog till the last dog’s dead, which is any minute now! How do they avoid the fragile balance of the small town? There’s always new population they've never heard of washing up on the Big City’s shores. Rubes like me from the small town as well as immigration from other Big Cities, mostly lowlife cheapskates who don’t pay their bills showing up to take advantage of the Big City largesse, more fraudulent in the long run but manageable in the short. Because everything they do depends on volume. If the tire dealer loses half his inventory to vandals, he makes it up on volume. But in the small town, a vandal takes one tire it takes the dealer a full nine years to make up the loss.

I needed a couple new tires just a few weeks ago. And, yes, I went to the Big City sharks, who wouldn’t look the other way and give me the tires as loaners for a six-month test drive. These despicable sharks wanted cash, or worse, credit. It knocked me for a loop and that night I fell asleep longing for the glories of the small town, where I might ride on free tires till they popped. Because in the small town a few promises and an occasional apple pie goes a long way. Gets me from place to place.

Money & The Skids of Destiny

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 19 of 30

One of the hottest topics in Destiny studies is -- and it's a perennial -- “Does Money Grease the Skids of Destiny?” Of course the question's a real natural in a money-based society (mad, hungry, lusting, even loathing of money), as most of them are.

It’s a good question, because, after all, money greases the skids of everything else. I can barely go to the grocery store without money greasing the skids of me buying food, paper towels, and an occasional piece of candy. I get to the cash register with my sad baby blue eyes and twisted lips, begging without words for them to allow me to pass through without paying. But whether they don’t understand the quandary or merely pretend not to, it never works. I’m sure, though, with some of the kind checkout ladies, that if they were in charge of the store they’d be happy to let me through with virtually everything. Or maybe not.

I show up with my stuff, though, and it’s always the same, the ringing of the cash register, buzzes, beeps, all of them scanning my things through some sort of glass mounted on the counter and the cash register keeps track of what I owe. The only time I haven’t had to pay was in a roundabout way, the day I found $100. I asked 10 people sequentially if they’d lost $100 and they all said "Yes," so I figured everyone’s lying about it; if they can’t quote the serial number it’s mine. None could, so I got $100 worth of groceries that day for free.

That’d be a good entry in my study of Destiny. How Destiny happened to see me coming that day and greased the skids with $100, but has failed to see me coming a million other times. It's a mystery. I’m still working on it. My preliminary assumption is Destiny wants to help me once in a while -- once in a blue moon --  but it doesn’t want to help me to to the extent that I might ever take it for granted. I actually had the same thing happen as a kid, but back it was just one dollar. And from that moment on, every time I was in that store I checked the same place. Now the whole facility is torn down, I could go back and roughly find the same spot in the dirt. There might be a pot of gold waiting for me. But my faith isn’t enough to take me there, because now it’s hundreds of miles away.

To find $10,000 would be a great destiny. And of course $10,000 isn’t that much money these days. But if you find $10,000 you about have to turn it in. My first thought would be the bills are marked, they fell out of an armored car, they’re part of a heist, etc. And if you kept it -- which I suppose you could keep it for 20 years and it might be different -- you’d have a multitude of problems in the meantime, everything from fear of being caught to fear of someone stealing it from you.

Say worse came to worse, I would hope friends would appear out of the woodwork to help me. But if Destiny’s ever that kind, it'd be news to me.

Championship Belt Mortgaged

Part 17 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Please stay with me on this series. I know it's veering off a little beyond the heroic nature of the rodeo that I’ve sketched so far. Sometimes things got tight and a little shady, and -- I hate to say it -- in this case they had to take drastic measures to keep the rodeo solvent. The rodeo biz has various intricacies like everything — particularly when scandal’s involved — nothing any of us likes. I certainly don’t like it, with Mam & Pap’s embarrassment being my embarrassment. But sometimes you have to face a situation head-on and maybe lose face to struggle back to wholeness, regaining what you lost, then going forth stronger than ever, we hope.

The unfortunate reality of a traveling rodeo is it can hit the skids real fast. Crowds are finicky, with a lot of it being at the weather's mercy. If it’s too cold by a single degree or too hot with the same margin, the crowd will simply stay home (in part) and do … whatever … who knows? If it’s what I’m thinking, showing a Triple X movie on the bedroom wall and gettin’ funky. Just remember, folks, you can go blind doing that. And a quick aside to the ladies, Don’t you have any self-respect, letting your slug husband deny you a rodeo date for the disgusting pleasures of … forget it, it's repulsive!

Enough of that, and, well, what can you say? A rodeo needs money to grease the skids, so to speak, but it has to be hard cash — they accept gold bullion but can't easily liquefy it — and with people staying home making a date out of acts that could just as easily be performed in the morning shower, the rodeo can be running close to the margin.

My advice to Mam and Pap was you have to bank more money. Pap threw up his hands in desperation. (Anyone reading this, consider going to every rodeo more often, like every night a week for a month. It’ll help.) They needed to raise the price of the program from a quarter to 30 cents. Enough copies sold and you’re talking real money. But any solutions are always better for the future, not for the present moment of extremity. They have to make decisions for the current day.

And some of those decisions are extremely dire. As in pawning the coveted championship belt for a quick 100. It’s not much, either, not when you consider how men have worked and trained and slaved away day in and day out to even have a chance to win temporary custody of the championship belt. You see it from afar and you know it’s a beauty. You put it around your waist after a genuine win — not just trying it on surreptitiously and preening — and you’re a new man. A champion not only in name but in regal display. It takes my breath away to hear of it going into hock.

This never happened but it was always a fear that the championship belt could through some underhanded scheming be the target of competing rodeos. Imagine the outcry if they advertised, “We’ve got Mam & Pap’s championship belt in our hot little hands!” It’s too much to even think of, let alone say. Think of that, though, when you’re planning your evening activities. There's entertainers out there that depend on you. And current rodeos are also fun for all, young and old alike.

I'm Not At All Good Looking

Part 22 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

I hope this doesn’t come as any big surprise, but the Number One cause of fragile self-esteem -- referring of course to the standard Richter’s Scale of Self-Esteem, Man, Beast, or Plant -- is your appearance. What do you look like, ape or man?

Appearance can take in a whole bunch of things, gender, country of origin, economics, personality type, etc. Personality type is one of the more interesting categories, because some personalities are proudly slovenly, set in their ways, inert. Because even if you're your own worst critic, there are things you can't see. If you look in a mirror -- I'm convinced of this -- you're not really seeing what others see. I'm in my 60s but look 26-ish in the mirror, to me.

In reality, though, a guy can look like an old-fashioned city dump in pants, or, if it’s a woman, can resemble the same city dump in a girdle so tight it’s constricting her blood-flow and given her very tight veins. Anyone with an overly pale appearance, it's generally a matter of shy, very demure, veins. You see one, you want to be careful. Don’t buy her an ice cream sundae because the first bite she’ll pop! And speaking of Pop, he's got diabetes real bad and can’t have ice cream, but that doesn’t stop him from sneaking it, resulting again in tragedy, his blood sugar so wildly out of whack he sweats through his clothes and ruins the couch. And maybe dies. Either way, the couch is hauled out.

So “appearance” is a catch-all category. If it “appears” to fit, throw it in, the more the merrier, "ya ha, I'm so proud, I'm the merry prankster!" There’s a lot of people who like to work with data. (Which may not be especially relevant, my first spoken word as a baby was Data and Mama.) Although now with the couch ruined, and Data maybe dead, maybe not, depending on if someone called 911, it likely doesn’t matter. I’d run in myself and check but I’m on a deadline with this article. And I’m weighing every word, consulting the dictionary, seeking sentences online that I can copy without detection, common stuff, like “It’s a nice day where I live,” who’s going to know? It sounds like something I might say so it's good enough!

Anyway, appearances. Did you know this? I used to be a consultant for a church. With me so far? The church had a TV ministry, and one of their doctrines had to do with the blessing of God manifesting itself in prosperity, always bettering your best, receiving and having material things, more and more, greater and greater luxuries, swag, being the envy of the world. And they knew the truth, that any of the riff raff coming in with despicably bad clothes needed to be dealt with. We mostly sat them in the last rows, then say 10 minutes in, we’d rotate them out and bring in a new bunch. Each bunch would get donuts and juice, then go through the door to the “jacuzzi,” which was actually an exit that locked behind them. That church had high self-esteem, and I’m sure you’d agree they deserved their stellar reputation.

All that is kind of amusing, I know -- which I might reprise if I ever do the theme “Getting Away with Anything” -- but today we’re worried about self-esteem. And whether Richter had it on his scale or we merely go by common sense, appearance is the number one thing. If you overhear someone say you’re not at all good-looking, it’s 50/50, maybe you are purely ugly, but more likely it’s a mixture of your physical appearance including your clothes. And even a monster looks halfway decent in a nice suit and tie.

I'm sure you get the point.

Save Your Money, I Beg You

HANDLE YOUR MONEY CAREFULLY...
DON'T WASTE IT, WHICH IS THROWING IT

DOWN THE PROVERBIAL FETID RAT-HOLE

I try not to get myself mixed up in other people's affairs. I do everything I can -- diligently -- not to insinuate myself where it's none of my business, and where, frankly, I'm not wanted. This goes equally for family members as well as total strangers. Leave them to their own abilities, and if I see something askance, look away, don't get involved. That's family members. As for total strangers, just walk away, let 'em crash and burn if that's their will.

I'm setting aside this ironclad policy today, momentarily, to beg, plead, beseech, and implore you, to SAVE YOUR MONEY! If I can convey this one wish in a convincing way, and have even a shred of assurance that you're following my advice, I can walk away, content that you'll be OK. But not everyone is so responsive, and I fear that without due diligence that could be your path. You might casually note what I said, then be curious about my insistence and my sudden involvement, and choose to be cautious with your funds for a moment. Then after a time, you'll think, What's that guy know? What's it to him if I save my money or not?

True, it's really none of my business, I'll give you that. But there are times when you hear something, some piece of advice, and take it to heart. It doesn't matter if a stranger said it or it was something you read in the newspaper while sitting in a bus station on the can. Sometimes that's exactly how people decide their path, change their ways, and reset their course, their trajectory. It's exactly those moments when you hear something -- perhaps said in jest, or perhaps sincere, like I am today -- that is the pivotal moment, with your whole future depending on what you decide. Today is one of those days, my friend ... this is your moment!

Let me restate the proposition: SAVE YOUR MONEY!

You have a job. You bring in an income. But perhaps you're not careful with your earnings. I know how it goes. I've been there. The little desires of life are always with us. I want this, I need this, I deserve this, the boss has been riding my ass, and in my frustration, I'm gonna splurge this week! Then it's every week. I've done the same thing, to my regret. You want to raise your self-image, so you splurge on something that, if your mind were clear, you'd know was a waste. And then the money's gone, down the drain. And your frustrations rear their head over and over, and your head's in your rear over and over, and after many years of heads and rears, your entire financial outlook is in arrears. Penniless, broke, with the hole in your pocket having nothing to keep itself busy with.

So that's my plea: SAVE YOUR MONEY! Yes, use what you need to have basic shelter, food, an entertainment center, insurance, and the other necessities. But for the rest, deny yourself and save your money. Because you don't know what life will bring you. If you're like me, eventually you'll be presented with old age and new challenges; the full story is, I'm not doing too badly. But I carefully consider what I'm going to need for the rest of the month and what I can save. It's not the most exciting existence, but I'm not in a gutter on Skid Row rolling in my own filth. Or anyone else's, thank you very much.

To save your money, you set aside what is extra beyond your actual needs, and put it in a savings account. Easy. Then you resist every temptation along the way. Always aware of spending traps, like candy and treats and other impulse items at the checkout counter. Lottery tickets, cigarettes, pickles, and chips. And don’t get me started on coffee! You'll have trouble with discipline and denying yourself, but the more you resist, and the more you save your money, the more you'll have someday when you need something important. Like a house, a car, or an unexpected bill. (I might post someday on why there should never be an unexpected bill.)

Wow! when I think of all the spending traps, it just makes me sick. And I'm sure there's lots of other spending traps I'm not thinking of today. I've avoided them so many times, they're more or less out of mind. But this past summer I had a friend here in the Big City, and I went with him many times to the convenience store. Mistake One! The guy had zero discipline, always buying smokes and pickles and whatnot. I really had my doubts that he'd make it in life -- he was in poverty anyway, picking up aluminum cans with me to get cigarette money. One day he disappeared, and I haven't heard a thing about him since. But I'm fairly sure he hasn't attained financial discipline; his trajectory was completely askew.

Help me out here, though, friend. Let me have some assurance that you're different, that you'll heed this heads-up. And save your money. You don't have to tell me directly, OK? If you just consider it strongly, fervently, and make your decision, and relay your thoughts mentally through the blog, I'm very tuned in to its frequency. The slightest thing anyone thinks about it, I instantly know. It's what the psychics call the sixth sense. And my sixth sense definitely touches on saving money! When people are saving money, it glows a radiant blue. But when they're not, it emits a sickening yellow, with traces of orange and chunks.

Be wise, my friend, someone I can count on to be saving your money. It'll do you good in the long run! A lot of good! And it'll make me happy to know that you are saving your money, and that you'll be OK as time goes by. Because as time goes by you'll be able to afford what you need.

Homeless Seeking $ God Bless

With me in the Big City, everything's getting very real. Oh boy, what an eye-opener it is, the dregs of society. And that's just me, but there's plenty of others, standing on this corner, that corner, and of course freeway ramps. I thought of doing it, but don't want to get caught encroaching on another guy's territory.

I was staking out a place one day for panhandling, more like checking it out, trying to picture how I'd look this time of the day or that time. I don't want the sun in my eyes, definitely, and the less sunburn the better. I would want everyone to see me, if not for my financial benefit, then not to be run over. But I haven't brought myself to do it yet. I'm not up on the etiquette or logistics, and a big thing with me is doing it right.

In the picture above, the handwriting is from a couple signs I found. I expect they'll be a decent model for me for composing my own stuff. Even though I'm above average in religion, I don't think the religious approach toward an effective guilt trip is the best approach. Society's so secular these days, the tried and true assumptions of long-ago need to be updated. Frankly, instead of Jesus, I'd more readily mention Buddha or Hindu yogis. Because I think Big City people appreciate a global approach; it's beyond their expectations, which would probably pay rich dividends.

And look at the handwriting, just a damned scrawl. Which, I'll give 'em this, it's more effective than an overly-produced computer printout with picture-perfect fonts. But a certain amount of neatness counts. Too sloppy and the suspicion is you're too far gone to be helped. There's a happy medium between sloppy and overdone. Especially if you had a Buddha, let's say, and your handwriting recalled the mystic look of the East without being obscure. What would be really cool would be a Hindu ochre (orangish) robe and an occasional apparently-sincere mudra. Out in the open, naturally, chest high; you're not scratching your muladhara chakra by any means!

I've been watching a bunch of YouTube videos. And I came across a bunch of anti-panhandling guys there. Who park in the lonely corners of Walmart and zoom their cameras in on panhandlers infesting those environs. Who are there so often they've worn away the grass! You can't tell me that's a good look. Anyway, the YouTubers are doing real reconnaissance, documenting the panhandlers' lives and finding that quite a number of them aren't indigent in the least. Which they hold against them.

I guess I can sort of see their point. Which is that people who pretend to be homeless or pretend to be poor could very well be making it worse for others. First, am I homeless or poor? Well, going by the technicalities. I'm technically homeless as long as my house back home is leveled and they never get it fixed. There's so much mold, mildew, backed up sewage and odor, along with vermin, parasites, rats, and the occasional fly, that a guy is easily fed up with it. When I left the last time, those weren't dry heaves.

In the Big City, yes, yes, I have a place to stay. Big damned deal. There's more to being down on your luck than whether you're homeless or not. Yet you about have to use the word homeless on your sign, because, look at the problem, you can't have a sign too complicated. I couldn't tell everything about my dismantled house. It's funny, but I myself barely look at panhandlers at all, I definitely haven't got all day to read the signs. Sheesh, it's all words, words, words, meant to create an atmosphere and push buttons, not be to be technically true, like you'd have to be in a court of law. This is where the YouTube thought-police cross the line.

Remember, I haven't panhandled at all. So if I had, of course I'd have more knowledge on the subject, what's effective and what should be avoided. And I never give anyone anything, so I haven't had extensive contacts with them. (A little, which I'll mention later.*)

But speaking as a layman, I have to think you want to come across as totally personable, kind, soft spoken, sincere, and not apparently putting the squeeze on folks. Watch the eye contact -- not too much -- and respect people's boundaries and keep them comfortable. Oh yes, this is getting me excited. I'm rubbing my hands together even now in glee at the haul I'd no doubt make! Being the nicest guy you've ever met. I believe I come across as someone without a selfish bone in his body. If I were standing at the off ramp, I'm sure you'd see me as someone doing you a favor. I'm just so intrinsically honest and pleasant, begging would make me a millionaire overnight. My pockets bulging out, a big sack like Santa Claus on my back, so full of money I'd have to hire guards to walk me home. Very soon I'd be strictly turning away all change in favor of more lightweight bills. A matter of policy.

Eventually I'd use some of the money to buy better clothes. So I'm panhandling during the day, probably an hour tops would give me enough to live well, then I'd be out at fancy restaurants at night. In my new clothes, some of the same people would see me and think I looked familiar, but there's lots of guys who look sort of like me. If they approached me in my off hours, I'd raise my hands and giving them a solid no comprende every time. Nicely, of course.

*Here's the reference to the panhandler I met when I got to the Big City. I was out scavenging soda/beer cans and cashing them in at the salvage yard. And I got a bunch of cans under bridges, right near this guy who was panhandling day after day. I'd also already met another guy in his circle, who was going to help guide me on the Shamanic Path; I called him Wolf, he called me Grandpa. So I was in the vicinity of the bridge where Wolf said he lived, but he was gone. The panhandler was letting me know where Wolf went, which was "That way." In our other meetings, he told me the direction Wolf went, "That way," and that was nice. I don't think my panhandler is rich, etc., but maybe he does go home at night to a nice place. I wouldn't begrudge him that. It'd be great.

Share The Cocky Coin

Yea! The story of me being cast into poverty and deprived of property has a happy ending! All is restored, all is right in my cozy little world! Thanks to the very real power behind miracle graphics like this great one, "Share the Cocky Coin." The Cocky Coin struts into view, everyone looking, everyone's pointing, "He's the man. A dollar that knows his worth. Gives wealth and happiness. And never been known to fail."

My troubles started in a similar way, but with the blessing reversed into a curse, when I foolishly posted the "Share This Empty Wallet" graphic. At that time you could've called me a skeptic, a non-believer in the various Facebook posts people make. Share pictures of wads of money and you'll have money, all that. But as I found, to my regret, there's actually something real going on there. The Empty Wallet graphic wiped me out. I lost my house, my garage, and 99% of my possessions, quickly, just like that.

In poverty then, it's remarkable that I didn't think of immediately counteracting it with a money-making graphic. Although it's entirely likely that the Curse Blob, the power behind these graphics, wouldn't have blessed me. It's more likely he clouds your mind to that possibility until, in the negative case, he's dealt you some destruction. Otherwise, as is easy to see, people would be trifling with him like an on-off switch. Still, he's apparently a lot more into blessing than cursing, since "getting money" graphics far outnumber those taking it away.

Whether there was any clouding of my mind that went on, I don't know, except in my experience I felt like I was kind of in a haze. But with the passing of time I really set my mind to making things better. Which led to my Elvis Presley pilgrimage, all the way to Mobile, AL. Frankly, I thought that would instantly restore my property. It didn't, although it turned out to be an important step in clearing my mind -- giving me Elvis-like powers to think it through -- which then opened my mind/heart to sharing the Cocky Coin.

How many times have I seen the Cocky Coin graphic on Facebook? Hundreds of times! Not necessarily from people who went from riches to poverty, but from those already in poverty. But I didn't know their experience. So I ignored it. This time, my mind completely cleared, and also blessed by Elvis, I shared it, then stood back ... and watched in awe.

OK, you have to picture this. I'm on the half acre of land I inherited from Grandma and Grandpa. The garage is gone, the house is gone. All I can see is a big patch of bare space where the house used to be, along with a hole for the cellar (not taking up the entire foundation). I shared the Cocky Coin on a neighbor's computer and rushed back across the road. What I saw next, you won't believe. But every word is true.

There was such a swirling of energy over the site, I nearly had to close my eyes in the glory of a presence. And dust. It was noisy, there was shaking, and everything started coming together, this piece to that piece, materials appearing and joining themselves. I beheld walls appearing from nowhere, and pictures on the walls and furniture. The covering of the outside of the walls and the roof and its covering came into view. It was like sinews and skin forming. I literally held my breath in fear. Behind me the garage assembled itself in seconds. And not to be outdone, although presenting a more humble spectacle, my old shed reappeared, as shabby as ever.

I went into the house and everything I had lost was restored, including my computer. But nothing seemed especially improved. The SHIFT key on my HP computer, which broke off less than a month after I got it, was still missing. Pretty good computer design, HP -- Huge Piece of crap. The Curse Blob, now the Blessing Blob, had a sense of humor there. But he was more gracious with the meat in my freezer. Nearly everything previously freezer burnt was immaculate and delicious-looking!

I checked my credit union accounts online. What previously was zeroed-out was restored, just as though nothing had happened.

WHAT THE CURSE BLOB MIGHT

HAVE SAID HAD HE SAID ANYTHING

Now I call you, neighbors, to rejoice with me! I'm a very good person, there's no question of that. I deserve everything I have. And I have learned my lesson once and for all: Whenever I'm not happy with what I have, I know where to get more.

I Meet The Curse Blob

The Empty Wallet Curse took an unexpected turn when I met The Curse Blob. And it wasn't very hard to do. In fact, I didn't do a thing; suddenly he was there, at my home, revealing himself. I know now I would've never figured out the mystery, thinking of a literal blob big enough to take up the top floor of a tall building downtown.

These are the facts. He wasn't gigantic but extremely small. He glowed, that much I expected. And as it turned out, also expected, he was very powerful. All along I felt like I was in the presence of some unusual strength and majesty. Before we talked together, just seeing him, I figured he'd zap me, but he didn't.

If you've read this far without knowing what I'm talking about, let me catch you up: I posted a graphic a couple days ago called "Share This Empty Wallet." It promised/threatened that anyone who did share it would go broke in three days, adding, "It's never been known to fail." I thought it was something funny, merely funny, and shared it. Suddenly it hit me there wasn't anything especially amusing about it. Meaning, I was immediately paranoid, afraid I'd go broke. Then, indeed, my money began disappearing, both the physical money in my house and money from my credit union account.

And now, here it was, right before me, the super power behind it all, what I called The Curse Blob. But, instead, he was more like a living coin, like a burst of conscious fire. I don't even know what he is. I know he shows himself as small and/or alternately my size. His fire is non-consuming, he's quite conscious (maybe infinitely so), and speaks in a kind, benevolent tone. I was reading the paper when I heard a still small voice calling out to me, "Could we have a word?"

I about lost it, of course, but edging closer to what showed itself as a kindly presence, I regained most of my courage. Maybe this was the friend I've been looking for all these years, I didn't know. (It's true even though I don't say it very often, I've been looking for my soul double, a heart friend, a fellow super-brain, you name it. I wasn't leaping to any conclusions with this entity, but it was at least a lead.) "Pick me up," he said. I was reticent because of the tiny golden flames, but he was quick to allay my fears. "Don't be afraid, upsy-daisy."

Holding what I continued to think of as The Curse Blob, I felt a real heft in my hand, the little bugger with enough girth packed inside him, hell, for all I knew he could've been a black hole. Which, according to science documentaries, are tight as a tick, the heft of the heavens making up their substance, and are packed so densely that not even light dare hit the exits. The Curse Blob had me transfixed.

Another observation, he had a lot of runny watery slime stuff on his underside, I thought probably a cooling mechanism. But, no, it turned out he's been headquartered in my cellar, which is overly wet thanks to the rains of late. Which explained, by the way, my bathroom slippers being moist in the mornings. The Curse Blob was leaving the cellar at night, coming upstairs, and trailing cellar water everywhere. I love it when mysteries are solved!

"Could we have a word?" he repeated calmly. I was almost put off by his friendliness. "I'm here on a mission," which he got right to, "to share with you the beauties of poverty." Naturally I was put off by that, but I'll spare you all my now-boring and senseless ejaculations of umbrage and protest. Suffice to say, I objected for three solid hours with only two bathroom breaks. Finally, I broke down in tears and said yes. One, I knew the penalty for having shared the Empty Wallet graphic, that I'd go broke. Two, his description of it as "beauties" and "glories" made me think, Why not?

I also thought of some of the things I've heard about poverty -- St. Francis, Jesus, and a guy I met fresh off a freight train once -- and, in the latter case, if someone gives you free potatoes, it can't be all bad. Then there was the book by Alan Watts, "The Wisdom of Insecurity"; I once read the first few pages. I could be a totally poor guy, wandering around reading that. "Wrong," said The Curse Blob, "you will have nothing." On that we had to negotiate, with him eventually allowing me to possess the clothes I had on, my gnarly New Testament, and an empty backpack. Over time I'd be allowed to fill it, but I'd have nothing else. (All kinds of loopholes there.)

That's about it. The Curse Blob became a glowing man about my size and we shook on it. Then he vanished and I stood there watching my house disappear around me. The "curse" literally came true; I was completely broke.

The Curse Spells Ruin

How could I have been so stupid! On a lark, to have shared the cursed "Share This Empty Wallet" graphic. It guaranteed financial devastation, but I didn't know the damned thing was true. Now I know, but it's too late. Everywhere I look, no matter where I go, what I do, I'm in ruins. The curse is too much for me.

Woe is me, me, who until a couple days ago didn't have an atypical care in the world. Now my worries and woes are extraordinary, one big singular mess. Because my money is vanishing, evaporating, withering away, all at once. Believe me, once my wallet had true girth, now it's frail, dessicated, entirely puny. Another day like this and I won't have a cent to my name. And I'm too proud to dive in dumpsters. I might have to build rabbit traps like we used to just to survive. This damned curse...

I checked my account, $2,000 is gone -- Poof! -- with not much left remaining, around a thousand. If only I could zero in on the curse beam! The perfect conclusion would be to go there, face down a hundred storm troopers in the hallways, then burst in on the blob and have it out in one final slimy offensive. "Take my money, you greedy beaming ectoplasm? I'll send you back to hell from whence you come!" That's a vain fantasy...

I don't even know for sure where the beam's coming from. Although I felt more zapped when I turned north. That told me something, until I realized it was just wishful thinking. For soon I was feeling more zapped from the south, west, and east, take your pick. Either wishful thinking or ... could the thing be omnidirectional? That'd make it potentially divine, perhaps literally from hell. But surely the nature of existence isn't one big joke, curses of empty wallets...

I still think the thing has to be at the top of the tallest building in town. That makes a lot of sense. But just as likely, it could be coming from the basement somewhere, or even underground. The air, the earth, it's all the same; each obviously would make a terrific carrier for a decently powered curse beam. These are thing I've known all along, so why would I toy with a curse like this, "The Empty Wallet"? My playfulness got the best of me, I foolishly forgot how life has millions of consequences. You can't play in traffic, as an example.

One terrible idea I had was a variation on the "safety in numbers" theory. Which doesn't say much about my morals or compassion. What if I tricked more people into posting the graphic? While they'd be suffering miserably, the beam likely would lessen its hold on me. I decided against it in the end. Not out of goodness, but there simply isn't enough time to do it right; my money's quickly going down the drain. I'll need others to have money in case I'm reduced to theft.

At the very least, typing this isn't a waste of time. I need to leave some record of what's going on, in case the beam has deadly consequences. If I'm found penniless and dead, this is why. Financial ruin, let me tell you, isn't much fun. My eyes, once so merry when I was romping in the green, are now bloodshot, my sockets sunken, the eyeballs naked to the world, bug-eyed. I'm a mess from the top of my gnarly head to the bottom of my wet slippers. I must've sweat up a storm last night, tossing and turning. I literally could die.

Let me say something meaningful, and I hope powerful. This goes out to the curse itself: "Curse, I curse you! You big fat, money-sucking amorphous blob, I know you're out there, pulsating, glowing, and voracious, with only one focus -- not for good -- money-sucking. All day, everyday, for eternal moments, with no real destination, no real need, just exercising your supposed prerogative, sucking, sucking, sucking the money of people stupid like me. You can choke on it, you bastard!"

If I die from this curse, someone please see that my gravestone has etched in it one word and one word only, "RUIN."

The Curse of The Empty Wallet

I made the mistake of sharing the "Share This Empty Wallet" graphic and now I'm beside myself with worry that I'll go broke. I was thinking it was probably just a funny graphic and that nothing would come of it. Now I'm not so sure, and my worries are real.

I'm worried because I've thought it over. There was nothing explicitly funny in the graphic. And if it's true -- about me being completely broke in three days -- there has to be some curse mechanism at work. O, if the damned thing had only said, "For Entertainment Purposes Only," I could lean on that for sweet relief! Without that, I can only conclude that the curse has power behind it, similar to carnival gypsies and psychics and the evil eye. And in three days, now two days, my considerable fortune, in the lower thousands, will be wiped out...

There's always the possibility that I could find someone with the power to reverse the curse. But for that much power I might have to spend everything I've got, which would be the same as letting the curse take its course. Hell, I might be able to muster the power to reverse it myself; I'm one of the few humor bloggers in history to have performed a successful exorcism. But there's always the argument that the exorcism was for someone else, whereas in this matter I have full self-interest.

Still, I might study it out -- in knowledge there's power, in power deliverance -- and find some way of reversing it. What if I "gave" all my money to charity, then had most of it given back to me afterward? There wasn't any curse in the Ice Bucket Challenge. I bet I pledged $10,000 and did the Challenge 50 times, and didn't send in a dime. I came out of that OK. In that case there was safety in numbers. This empty wallet thing might've targeted only me, or a select group of Ice Bucket scalawags, let's say. My ignorance is killing me!

How does a curse like this work? Maybe science offers clues. We have X-ray machines that are able to see right through you. The curse could work similarly. It's lurking nearby, sees that you posted its graphic, then latches on to something in your head. Time is ticking away while it holds on, never losing track of its poor victim. It could be latched on to a particular identifier in the brain, such as the particular shade of gray your gray matter is. That's insidious! Were I then to blend in with even a million people going through the turnstiles to safety, it'd pick out my shade of gray and pull me over.

Of course that means there's something extremely conscious about the curse. It has to be like a powerful brain. If I had to guess, it'd likely be on the top floor of the tallest building in town, radiating out, radiating in. On the other hand, maybe it's so powerful, and even likes to show off, meaning it'd likely be in the basement of the shortest building in town! Its power wouldn't even have to be greater than mine, as it knows I'm lending it needed power through my worry.

Quite the racket it's got! It gets money -- my hard-earned money -- merely by posting a stupid graphic that any kidder like me would naturally share. How am I supposed to know it's serious? I'm not, so I post it, then I start thinking. And that's where it entangles me. Now I'm worried, and it's sitting there in the basement going, "Gimme gimme gimme..." Bastard! That's stealing! If this psychic technology slips into the clutches of the Republican Party we're done for. They could have a large progressive message for us to share, but in small print the curse. And the rest is history.

I'd like to know the evil scientist who came up with this. I'd love to go over and stomp in his damned face. Except there's always one little fly in the ointment: Anyone evil enough, insidious enough, to do such a thing would also have powerful defenses. There would be posters everywhere down the hall leading to his headquarters, cursing you left and right. "If you can read this, your mother will cheat on your dad," and so forth. A guy gets home and his mom's in bed with the mailman just as his dad also walks in. "What the hell's going on here!?" Dad bellows. The son takes him aside and confesses, "It's my fault, Dad, I caught an inadvertent glimpse of a cursed poster," like that's a credible excuse for Mom.

OK, I should mention one other problem. I'm already missing some money, meaning the curse is progressive. It's not waiting three days. Coincidental to all this curse business, I had a few of the newest "likers" of my Facebook page of Grandma Slump over to the house last night. They shared a 12-pack of beer, then a few of them had to go in my room to use the toilet. Long story short, I go into my room after everyone's gone and all the change on my dresser's gone. Including all the 1897 coins Grandpa gave me decades ago!

I haven't checked my bank accounts yet, which are online. Frankly, I'm afraid to log-in, since any system smart enough to carry out a curse across town ... is just waiting for me to log-in to the bank. But, if it's already read my mind about the accounts, the money might be dwindling away or even entirely gone. I'm in a fix. I can't log-in to see if I'm saved or damned. I'm dangling helplessly over Financial Ruin Hell!

I still have the power, I hope, to get through to the rest of you. You now know about the "Empty Wallet" curse. If you don't want to lose your money, I implore you, don't share the damned graphic. Take a lesson from me. Look, the veins are bulging out on my neck, that's how distraught I am.

Share This Empty Wallet

I've never been what you might call overly superstitious. It's not something I worry about, like stepping on cracks, walking under ladders, or washing my hands before meals. And all in all, I guess I've been pretty lucky. I have the same amount of problems as the average guy my age, 62 -- occasional cancer scares and all the rest -- but absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

Usually I simply avoid every come-on of this nature. We used to get them in the mail, chain letters that needed to be passed on ... or else. I never passed on a single one. Now I see them on Facebook all the damned time, making me wonder about the "quiet desperation" that is said to be the sad lot of the common person. I believe it.

But the basic thing on Facebook I'm thinking of is a picture of a large amount of money, with the promise that, if you share it, in a few days you'll have the same money. It'll just appear from ... somewhere, they never say where. A wad as thick as what they show, though, it'd have to have fallen out of an armored car, being too thick and fat to have been in someone's pocket. OK, I ignore all that, I never share them, and I really don't give them a second thought.

I saw this newest one the other day -- seen above -- and it's just the opposite, promising (or threatening) complete poverty, and apparently whoever put it on is completely serious. Because it isn't something that's immediately desirable. I can't imagine there's been even 20 people who've shared it, whereas the wad of money pic likely gets thousands of shares. It's not in our ordinary desires to be completely broke. That's a tough one. Yet there it is!

Thinking about it, I notice, it's not a threat. No one's twisting your arm. It doesn't suggest some weird thing like, "You saw it, now you must act or else." And certainly it's not a promise of something, but of nothing. Looking deeper, there's the scary fact that there isn't any pardon for sharing but then changing your mind. Once it's shared, in three days you will be completely broke. There isn't even a chance of it failing: "It's never been known to fail." Although, I can see an off chance that it could fail; past performance doesn't guarantee future results. Has it worked a million times, 40 times, or just a few times? That'd be good to know.

OK, here's the thing. I'm not filthy rich, although I've always had enough money to do all right. And, yes, like everyone else with security, I'm comfortable in it and never really expecting it to go away. But sometimes -- I hope you see my point here -- even complete security gets a little old. What if I were to be stripped of everything? How would I cope? It's kind of tempting to share it, even though that line "It's never been known to fail" is off-putting. Maybe I'll be the world's first exception! I've had good fortune, is there actually any dark force that could take it away?

But even without a dark force, should anyone tempt fate? This is a tough one.

I hope this isn't the work of some old sinless magician, I really do. I can picture him now, in the tower of a gnarly castle, poring over his magic books by candlelight. He has a small bowl of water, completely still, except when some deluded soul shares his empty wallet. Then there's a rippling, even a boiling, and the bowl empties downward even without a hole. The old man then slowly turns the pages of an enormous dusty tome with his long dirty fingernails. He comes to the page with my name and picture at the top. He thrusts his arm out the castle window in my general direction. Lightning and thunder. In three days, I'm completely broke.

Heh heh, I'm not going to share it, screw it! Oh, no, what am I saying? It's right at the top of this post! It's already been shared! Now it's too late!

Newsletter -- Subscriptions Update

I'm running the access numbers again, in case you missed yours. As a reminder, I have officially opened up subscriptions for my new exciting newsletter, to be published very soon. But you do need to have an access number to receive it, because, quite frankly, I can't afford to send one to everyone who wants one. That'd be literally everyone in the world!

So today, if you look in the little white box above, you might see your own private access number. If there is an access number shown, obviously that's what you'll use when you subscribe. Enter the number when directed -- and, please, it has to be precisely as written -- and you'll be good to go. If, however, you see no number, but just a white box, then you are not currently eligible for a subscription. I am so sorry for any inconvenience, but as I said, money's tight. You will probably agree, it's best that I start out small in case there's any glitches along the way.

The fact is, the first run will be very small, as it will be limited to 300 copies, all mailed. Even that's a huge expense: Stamps are expensive, envelopes are up in price, paper's through the roof, and toner ink, we all know that problem...

But it could be that I'll have issues going out to more of you sooner rather than later, because I'm currently making arrangements with several companies -- including lots of little companies I'd never heard of, Chinese companies, Middle Eastern companies -- to monetize my initial subscribers. Yes, it's exciting stuff, with the potential for me to make some big bucks by monetizing your information, whatever I'm privy to, with up to 600 companies. If I receive only a penny per company, that's $6.00 per subscriber per month. If I can do that, of course I'll want as many subscribers as possible. Because I'll be rolling in it.

I know a couple of you will be concerned about your private information getting out there. Well, you don't need to give it a second thought. Because I've been assured by these characters, who haven't given me their names, precisely, nor have I seen their faces -- the light isn't so good in the alleys around here -- that everything's on the up and up. They're definitely gung ho for it, and that's a great sign. In fact, they're so excited they're asking that I press you for more information. Credit card details, Social Security info, bank accounts, the whole bit, which to me says a lot. It says these guys are "full service," and that's the kind of service we all want.

They say, though, that falling short of the ideal won't be a deal breaker. They're willing to accept any information I can get, even if it's just your name, address, birthday, phone numbers, your mother's maiden name, who your best man or maid of honor was, and the city where you met your spouse. See, they want to have a friendly relationship with you, maybe send you a birthday card and special offers to your friends. Like the points on a rewards card. You have to agree it'd be great to get 3,000 points for doing nothing but subscribing to a newsletter. I know people who've lived and died and struggled and still haven't gotten close to 3,000 points.

Anyway, it's all win-win. Not only will you receive the newsletter -- and I promise to make it as good as I can, lots of articles, blurbs, maybe a few connect-the-dot illustrations of stuff from my personal collection -- but your mailbox will be literally stuffed with catalogs, letters, various come-ons, offers for insurance policies, charity pleas, the whole bit. Just as a funny aside, if it's too much for your mailbox, they'll probably have an offer for a bigger one!

So, you may say, what if I don't want all that mail, all those offers? I'd say try be more flexible. Because look, you'll get great environmental cred with your friends and neighbors when they see how much you're recycling. I'd be proud to be dragging two or three bins to the curb every week instead of just the one I've currently got. Your neighbors might even give up recycling all together when they see they can't compete. Another benefit, you could do what my grandparents used to do, let the kids have the mail you don't want. When you're a kid it's great to get mail. They can fill it in and, as a surprise to you, be applying for multiple credit cards. At first you'll object, but when you see some of the great gifts they're getting you'll be very glad.

I hope I've taken care of all lingering doubts. If I have, great. If I haven't, well, no one's twisting your arm to subscribe. You can always show your complete lack of gratitude by ignoring the access number. Making me feel bad in the process, but what do you care? You don't care. Hell, if you're Number One in your own mind -- I've known people like that, stunted in their feelings -- that's all that counts. Other people's dreams, like mine of having a top-notch newsletter, sent out only to select people (and that's you), don't matter. Put me out to pasture, let me wither on the vine. You don't care.

I'll definitely have second thoughts, though, about ever doing anything nice for you again. I won't. I'll send your access code to someone who appreciates it and you'll be out forever. There's lots of other fish in the sea, choking on pollution, hoping someone will catch them and answer their dying wish.

I say you will subscribe. You need to! You want me monetize you. Because look at it this way, I didn't have to tell you any of this. I could've signed you up, no questions asked, and you would've been totally surprised -- and probably appreciative -- to be on 600 to 1,000 lists, receiving the mail, and having people take out credit cards in your name, the whole bit. Maybe you don't like to get out and shop. You won't have to, with so many others doing it for you.

Let's get it going, OK? Because the newsletter's just about to be published! We're working on it! We're stuffing it with blurbs and things I haven't even thought of yet. And you need to be on board. I want us to shake on it. Let's solemnize it, let's make a bond between you and me that cannot be broken. That you'll agree to, stand by, and keep forever. My handshake will also be on behalf of my 600 partner companies.

Money Mules, Come Home

That's it! It's the end of May and I'm fed up with my money mules. They ran off with my money and that's it. No more!

I'd heard the idea bandied around a few times: "You have money to invest, why settle for a minimal gain in the market or something as volatile as gold, vintage cars, or Pokemon cards? Put your trust in human ingenuity, the creative drive, in short, money mules. Trust them! What's the worst that could happen? They can't be all bad. Load up each mule with $100,000, send them forth, and see how much money they bring back. Give them a small percentage and keep the rest."

Yes, I fell for the free steak dinner and seminar. Which so far has cost me $20 million. That's one expensive cut of meat... Now, where the mules are, I don't know. There's a rumor going round the coffee shop that whoever handed out the steaks, or whoever's behind them, loaded the mules in the back of a covered truck and headed off for the Northwest Territories. Meaning we'll never see them again. And after I wasted a month looking out the window...

Still, if they would only come home. At least one, let's say, who could give me a line on the others. I'd love to get my hands on them, to ring their duplicitous little necks, then kick them to the curb, then tar and feather them, and -- you get the idea. Anything but welcome them back with a brotherly kiss. Although, I suppose, if they had a good excuse for their absence, I might listen. Especially if they had a sack of money.

It's possible it's all on the up and up. And that my money mules might still be coming home. Maybe they'll show up all innocent, telling me rightfully, "You didn't give us a deadline. We were making so much money we thought we might as well gather up as much as possible for you." I'd love to hear that, but, really, can life work out as fine as that? Surely not. They've surely seen their advantage; they have my money so they've run. But really, what if? It'd be great to think they were really that industrious, and on my behalf! Although it's much more likely they're just scoundrels, profligates.

I feel like taking a crowbar... Running it up my sleeve... Or maybe down the leg of my pants... A crowbar on each leg... And finding them. I suddenly find they're in a particular nightclub in Boise, let's say, and I show up, a crowbar down each leg. I'm listening to their conversation, their laughing, their boisterousness in buying each other drinks at my expense, and I make the sudden reveal: "It's me!" Suddenly with crowbars flying like nunchucks, heads colliding, screaming, the whole works. "Cheat me out of my money, will ya?!"

Until I get a line on them, frankly what choice do I have but to just forget it? Live and learn. Boise, Helena, Seattle, somewhere up there in that godforsaken country. Let me get my hands on them! Or let me forget the whole thing... It'd be great if just one of them came home, or two. I'd get them separated and grill them. Of course they'd be lying, but I might ferret out some truth by splitting the difference in their stories.

Until I get more answers, the whole money mules thing is done.

Money Mules -- Everyone Runs

I believe it was just yesterday, I examined the money-making scheme called "Money Mules," in which selected individuals are presented with a certain amount of money. Their mission is to take it, then bring it back to you with whatever interest, profits, or winnings they made along the way. The idea is that both of you would then share the take. I've so far found one fatal flaw, the "mules" never return.

I'm an optimist by nature. I believe if you gave $100,000 to an infinite number of people, it wouldn't take very many years before you found someone honest. That's a conviction I still maintain, despite the disappointments faced thus far. My vow, first to myself, then to you, is that I will crack this nut, no matter how hard a nut it is to crack.

Some of the research has been promising, verifying objectively, and without any shadow of doubt, that people do indeed run. The data is definitive on that account. The crowning experiment went something like this:

I gave $100,000 to the father of a family. He ran.
I gave $150,000 to the mother of a family. She ran
I gave varying amounts of money to their children, from $50 down to $5. They all ran, except the baby, who had the $5; he or she crawled.
I gave a chew toy to their dog. He ran. Among my other discoveries, German Shepherds run very fast.

What is it about money that makes people, young or old, flee? This is where we need more research. Because the answers surely vary. In the last instance, the father probably fled because he wanted $100,000 more than his family. And the same for the mother. But that doesn't explain the children, willing to flee for such meager amounts. I'm left with the tentative conclusion, they're simply ignorant about money.

The worst thing about it -- other than the breakup of families that might've been saved -- is now these people are fugitives from the state. They cannot come back voluntarily. They would be executed. Yes, I conducted experiments on them. But that's no excuse. I will still file charges. And if the powers that be dare cross my path, I will systematically destroy their families as well, turning them into money mules!

I know, I sound harsh. Yet, I'm not. I have sympathy, and even sorrow, to think that I had anything to do with this horrendous state of affairs for so many. It makes me feel awful, let me assure you, and I would quit immediately if I didn't think there was something more to be learned. Such as, how to make money by finding ... honest money mules. If you're 100% honest, please contact me.

Cannot human nature be changed? Are we all thieves? That's what I want to determine. Which is ironic, since human nature is one of the fields I specialized in, having received a Ph.D. in Human Environmental Science (HES). My thesis clarified some things about human expectations and disappointments, in particular having to do with a gum machine that was clearly full of gumballs but never paid off. I won't bore you with the details, except to say, people are very tenacious when the reward is in plain sight.

But I'm so damned rusty at HES -- hellishly rusty -- I think I might need help. Especially because running money mules is extremely expensive. You lose $1 million out of your personal savings a few times, that adds up. This is challenging stuff.

Here's what I advise the rest of you to do: Hold off on money mule activities until things are clarified, till we determine if there's anyone we can trust, and how we would go about finding those folks.

Making Money with Money Mules

You need to read the conclusion first, which I will briefly state at the top: I haven't found any actual way to make money by the money mule method. The results so far are entirely negative. That's not to say there isn't a way, perhaps some variation on the honor system. But as of now, success has proven elusive.

The world of making money with money mules is potentially exciting. Part of it depends on the quality of your mules, a tiny, tiny part. The rest depends on how easily you're excited. If you're excited at the least little thing -- even to the point of irrationality -- you will find this exciting, too.

One reason it seems exciting is because there's the possibility to make more money than you have now, if not more than your wildest dreams.

How do you start? You will want to gather your resources. Anything over $1 million is a good start. Of course the more you have, the more you potentially could make. (No one's made a single dollar with this system yet, but hope springs eternal.)

Once your money's set to go, you need your own herd of money mules. These are terms for illustrative purposes. What you need are people who will take your money, then travel the various paths of their choosing until -- and here's where the system has broken down so far -- they come back to you with more money. Presumably, if they ever returned that would be a key moment.

But it is indeed a great joy to see the mules take off! They're on their way. They're happy. Your money's in their hot little hands, some of them for the first time in their lives carrying $100,000 or more. You wonder, where will they go? How much will they bring back? You're excited at the possibilities, because we've all heard over the years "Anything's possible." That's what we're banking on. Not the science of the thing, a given result, but the fulfillment of what we've all heard.

Then comes the time when you don't know what your money mules are doing. You need to have patience, since, what other option do you have? Just let the time pass. While it passes, do something interesting, perhaps take up a hobby, anything to make it pass quicker. Because, I assure you, you're going to find your patience sorely tested. Perhaps to the breaking point.

This time of testing will likely continue, as you occasionally look out your window to see if your own herd of money mules -- let's repeat that, your own herd -- is coming back. At this point, if your experience is like others, your excitement will wane. At this crucial point you must tell yourself to maintain your composure. Let your patience carry you through today, tomorrow, and all the days ahead.

Another critical moment -- sometimes coming simultaneously with looking out the window -- will be reconsidering your actions in handing out money. You will have doubt, thinking something like, "Is giving money to money mules and simply trusting them to bring you more even possible?" Of course it's possible! You just did it! What you need to ask is, "Is it likely they will return?" In your pessimism, you will think, and maybe even say aloud, "No! No! Hell no!"

But put yourself in the shoes of the money mules. Someone gives you $100,000 and sends you forth, no strings, are you going to return? You might! And that's the thread of hope you're clinging to. Maybe those mules will be like you. On the other hand, perhaps not. You're a money mule, someone gives you money, you might think, "Why should I return?" Do not let your mind take you down this channel, for that's when despair is all-consuming.

Instead, even if you see no reason to hope, do not give up. Keep your composure. Keep your trust high. And, who knows, some good may come from it. Even if it's merely the important lesson you learned: Money mules aren't all that trustworthy.

Conclusion:

No one's yet found a way to make money by giving money to money mules. But there's always the possibility that you will be first, and hence an important pioneer in the field. So weigh the risks, and if you feel they're something you can handle, go for it!

I, however, the author of this article, shall remain blameless.

Being Filthy Rich Is A Pleasure

I'll admit it, I freaked out yesterday, foolishly taking on myself the whole burden of disposing of the books from the book sale. I'm just used to my old life, where either I do it or it doesn't get done. But the problems I normally handle are small and a lot easier.

The billionaire came over and saw me sitting there, gnawing my fingernails to the quick, with a miserable look on my face, and asked what was going on. I explained my many predicaments, expecting some sympathy. But all he did was laugh his head off, having forgotten, he said, that I was such a newbie. At first it hurt to hear that, then I realized, I desperately need a second opinion.

He cleared it up in a second, "You don't need to worry about any of that! That's why we hire people, to do the actual work. Being filthy rich is supposed to be a pleasure. You don't see me weighed down like you are. We'll get some people in there for you right now. They'll hire other people, then step back and it'll manage itself." Just like that? Could it really be so simple? "Of course," he said, "that's what money's for."

And true to his word, he made one phone call and within the hour I had an actual company, staff, employees, and probably a loading dock somewhere, and I don't have a worry in the world. Basically it's a plug-in system. If I wanted to go and see what's going on, I could, but there's no particular reason why I should. Just let it go till everyone develops a routine. They'll not only take care of my current problems, they'll invest, diversify, and in no time, probably by this time tomorrow, I will have bought out an industry and be making a profit. I can't wait to see semis go by with my name on the side!

I should back up a bit. Remember the worm bedding plant in Alabama, with their strict rules, hesitating to receive my 300,000 books? The billionaire made a couple phone calls and I already own the company! Then there was all the business about interstate commerce, regulations on loads over 50 tons, etc.; the guys working for me have already worked it out, including procuring the train cars for transport and all the logistics. It's really easy when someone else does it!

They've also put together a panel of university professors -- just moonlighting -- to go through the books before they're gone, to pick out what they know I'll like. Someone scanned my existing library, authors and titles, and the professors, with computers and their own expertise, will make fast work of holding back what I would have wanted. Amazing.

That I want to see. If it's anything like I imagine, it'll be a smooth operation. But it's true: Why should I waste my time on it? Although, maybe I could get a few pointers, like if I want to thin out my library at home. I'm not hiring guys for everything ... there's still some things I want to do for myself. In addition to eating, sleeping, and brushing my teeth.

OK, lesson learned: "Being filthy rich is supposed to be a pleasure." I will live large. I'm going out for ice cream right now, and that's final.

All My Sorrows -- A Billion Complaints

I'm suffering a weird, slowed-down miasma for my thought-processes today, no doubt rooted in a wild profusion of problems all pressing to the fore at the same time. And weighing me down. I know I'll make it through -- there's no problem big enough to keep me down forever -- but I want to alert you. If I come across mean, wicked, and surly, that's why. Being a billionaire, as I am, only seems to intensify the situation, likely because it seems like wealth should be a perpetual happiness machine, a steamroller.

The ironic thing is that my wealth is creating new problems all the time. Remember my euphoria at buying 300,000 books at the Biggest Book Sale in the State the day before yesterday? I backtracked on that yesterday, apologizing for ruining everyone's sale. Now there's questions about how I'm going to make it through the books, then what to do with the excess.

We were in touch with the worm bedding company in Alabama, and discovered that they have strict rules for what they'll accept. There's all kinds of safeguards they insist on, out of fear that the books might be infested with bedbugs, dust mites, various harmful larvae, and even the dried skin cells from readers, termed by them bookworms. Leading me to snap back, "Nothing's too good for a worm, eh?" Sheesh. But they have "high standards," and all the rest, any excuse to make people jump through a few more hoops.

Another problem, sort of the same, there's interstate commerce laws that shipments of books over 50 tons, particularly involving transport to Alabama -- damn the luck -- is subject to rigorous checking, verification procedures, and of course reams of paperwork. It's all pressing on me like the weight of the world, simply because a few measly earthworms are picky about where they sleep! Please don't write in; I know these are human regulations, based on this bureaucrat having a job, working for this bureaucrat, on and on, bureaucrats on the ground floor, extending upward forever. They're not worried about the worms.

Then even when we get the paperwork done -- and every Alabaman ass sufficiently kissed -- the train lines have their own regulations. Then there's the procuring of box cars, the logistics of all that, the loading, the overseeing of the job, right down to insuring the shipments for liability, I guess lest a hobo starts in on a good book and ends up with head lice! For crying out loud, they're hobos! They live in jungles, and you're telling me they're scared of books! Anyway, I saw a train going through town today and it boggled my mind; how'd they manage to ship anything?

Apart from those problems, there's a few liability issues of a different sort closer to home, also involving the book sale. Apparently we're being sued. Disgruntled customers are claiming all kinds of injuries in the lines involving the guys we hired to slow things down. Some were jostled, feet stepped on, toes stubbed, arms bruised, and one old guy -- 83-years-old -- claims one of our guys sexually molested him! Without getting explicit ... that's probably enough. Just the thought that this old bastard would think our team went out of their way to "get it on" with his little prune is absurd. Hell, I had a 81-year-old guy grab me one day in the park, and I was freaked out but overlooked it. But I haven't been back since.

You know something? I was happier sitting at home minding my own business. Which I should have been doing this whole week -- enjoying my $2.1 billion in activities like this, going out to eat, having a few ice cream sundaes, and maybe buying a new car. The garage could use new shingles. I'll have to check the old ones first, though, just to make sure there's no troublesome infestations. Usually old shingles are clean, thanks the sun pounding on them all day. That's what we could do with the books, spread them all over the half-acre for six hours at a time, and let the sun kill off the bugs, worms, mites, and other vermin. But I doubt if that's an authorized method.

I don't have time to mention two other problems, gold diggers and glad-handers. Glad-handers, too many. Gold diggers, none yet.

It's Billionaire Patriot Day

Today, April 14, of course, is Billionaire Patriot Day, coming as it always does the day before tax day. And this year, as in the past, we billionaires want to remind all Americans that tomorrow indeed is tax day, with our message being, "Pay your taxes."

It is important for our nation to have a sound fiscal foundation upon which to rest and from which to grow. The billionaire cannot do it all on his own. As has been true from the nation's founding, it takes all of us if we are going to be the success in the world that we need to be. The billionaire shows he's got what it takes, "PLUCK ENERGY ENTERPRISE," and now it's up to the American people as a whole -- rich, poor, dirt poor, or somewhere in the middle -- to show they have those same qualities.

Everyone knows that the billionaire is exceedingly rich. He measures his money in numbers that are inconceivable to the average person. If it makes it easier for you, a billion dollars in dollar bills -- depending on how much space you leave between them -- would stretch from here to infinity and back, then make a circuit around the world 10 times before boring through the moon, skirting the sun, and coming to an end at points unknown. Try spending that kind of money; you have to do it in huge chunks if it can be done at all. And most billionaires have more than one billion!

It sounds like a lot, and it is. But the billionaires know the truth, that their wealth is actually a drop in the bucket compared to the combined wealth of the American people. Their combined wealth is so much that there's no way to illustrate the amount. Were we to plot a similar journey, how far it would stretch, there would be no end to it. It'd sound absurd, something like this, "Around the sun an infinite number of times, filling every crater on the moon an infinite number of times, and finally never coming to an end."

So while the billionaires of society are always heroes -- job creators, social exemplars, and patriots -- it is the American people who are the truest heroes, but only when they pay their taxes. If they're skirting the law and cheating America -- by itemizing deductions, etc. -- they're really only cheating themselves. They're throwing away their heroism, and leaving us very much ashamed.

It remains true, "All hail the billionaires!" That will never change. But we also must say, "All hail the good American citizen!" When he pays his taxes, he provides a solid foundation for everyone, in particular for the billionaires, to flourish, blossom, bloom and grow. The American citizen is the seed, and once he's planted -- faithful in his taxes -- from him shall always be a beautiful place for the exceeding good fortune of a few, we, your heroes, the billionaires.

You basically have 24 hours until April 15, to get your tax returns out, and correct any errors, misstatements, and outright fraud. 24 hours to be a hero and not a goat. 24 hours to avoid debtors prison, regular prison, and public shame. Make us proud, as you always have in the past. We want to be proud of you. And we shall make you proud of us.

Note: I have given my blog over to the above press release from the Billionaires of America group. But I want you to know, I agree with every word, and wish to assure you that I also will be proud of you for paying your taxes tomorrow. You know it's right, just do it. Don't cheat. Pay your full share. Then even if you go broke, at least you'll be proud.