The Rich Shouldn't Risk Their Life

Part 22 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

I had this idea for my Master's thesis: "The richer you are, the less you should risk your life protecting what you have." They said that was a given and the thesis not practical. I tried bullshitting them but they wouldn't budge. So I did some gas-lighting to prove my point, putting a great deal of psychological pressure on some of the top donors.

I was relentless over months with scary faces at their windows, creepy phone calls, and I even broke one guy's leg. The fear was so horrendous there were three or four deaths the first year alone! The university, always begrudging, finally saw the light and the degree's on my wall to prove it! But the families sued and the university lost so much money and prestige it sounds like they're sorry they ever heard of me.

But I hate crime and that's what I'm here for today. I really hate crime. Please don’t tell any criminals that you read this here, because they also seek revenge, but I wish they'd only give criminals “One strike and you’re out!” I know it changes the old adage about three strikes. But with the world's population exploding and crime everywhere, we can’t afford an unlimited number of three strikes. Change the rule: Just one!

It looks like the only good luck society ever really has is with the non-criminal population, and we're all dirt poor. We haven’t got anything to steal, so it's no use for criminals to attack us. Yes, they can break into our hovels and take our chewed up old blankets — my dog chews blankets and everything else — but I’m pretty sure there isn’t a pawn shop in the Big City that sells used blankets. My most valuable possession is a half gallon of paint from 10 years ago, but, again, it takes a lot of old paint to make one good gallon. With the colors always ending up potluck.

I'm definitely poor. I don’t take much comfort in things in my life; I can’t afford to. But at least I have some comfort knowing there are poorer people yet. Do I feel badly for them? I actually do. I was bit by the compassion-bug when I was a kid and it's a lifelong infection, because sometimes I feel guilty that my car runs and my backseat isn’t on my porch. But it'd be comfortable and very weather-resistant thanks to the plastic covering I bought with my inheritance after Mom and Dad passed.

Yes, even though crime usually affects people better off, I still hate it. Another reason, I watch the evening news, and I hate hearing about criminals breaking in here or there, robbing places, abducting people, dumping their bodies in the river, and all the rest. I cry out, “Can the police do nothing right?!” It totally screws up the fishing. Still, they speed by all hours day and night with their sirens. How about leaving the sirens off and sneaking up on people. This is one of my peeves. When they hear the sirens they drop the evidence and sneak out the back. What happened to stealth? Even the military has stealth planes. Something to try...

I’m looking at the graphic of Sir Reginald, one of the richest guys in town. He was worth a lot of money, going by how much he gave to every museum in town. But he didn’t keep it quiet either. His attitude was, “I’m filthy rich, jump me in the dark!” He probably took the dark way home just to brag about it at the Admirals Club. But in this case, his luck ran out. He was not only robbed but brutally murdered, bamboo shoots shoved in his hair follicles. Reggie was a rich fool, having every advantage but blowing it for bragging rights.

But he still got the last laugh; his family crypt's about the size of the mall. With lots of legroom, which he deserves, being so rich.

If You're Poor, Stay Poor

Part 15 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

As I sketch out the sad story of Geoffrey, there's huge storms in the area. Lightning strikes everywhere, big bright bolts zapping the terrain and monster faces at the windows. It's frightening. It seriously might be Judgment Day! With demons unleashed, and I could be in for the shock of my life if I softball this blog post...

Could it be that my insights into the errors of society and the dictates of heaven above -- BOOM! Another Thunder-Boomy! -- are the only thing standing between You, Me, The Fence Post, Society's Judgment, and Breakfast? It definitely looks like it. And it's only 5:30. I just got up to pee, the lightning knocked out the toilet's electricity, so here I sit, stoved-up but typing.

I was actually half-expecting this, if truth be told. And, no, it's not all that idiot Geoffrey's fault, but there was a fault line that ran right through him, because it's when he started misbehaving that I had the distinct fear we were all in for trouble. This is a bad day. If the lightning hits this computer and I erupt in flames, I can't be held responsible for my mood.

But there's something going on, and while you might think it's "good clean fun," think again. Geoffrey's mistakes are a lesson for us all. He couldn't keep his hands on his money, his palatial estate, his clothes, his strictly heterosexual lifestyle, and other identifications. It's true, the message is: All variations, shades and flavors of "fluidity" are out! If you've got it, don't flaunt it! If you want it, stick with what you've got! Keep your seat, keep your place in line. The kind of storms we're getting today is part of it, and it's bad. I just heard on the news that Greenland slipped under the ice last night and is gone! If we're going to survive this, it'll take all of us hewing the straight and narrow, no more "fluidity."

Temptation always starts by looking around. And getting your identity screwed up to the point of not knowing who you really are. Say you're a round peg and you suddenly identify as a square screw, there's only so many times you can be pounded into a rectangular hole before it's screwed beyond repair. Geoffrey had it all ... and it's gone.

Instead of keeping the tried and true -- his destiny -- he allowed himself a sick drive and desire for more, for different. In his confusion, the whole swirl of our present-day mix-master of destinies, drives, and desires, sucked him in. Which probably did feel good in the short-term. But what of the consequences? His personal death! And now Greenland. Which really isn't gone. No, it sunk but it'll bob up somewhere. Let's say it comes up under Asia. The tidal waves will sink us all and Mount Everest will likely take out the moon. Any valuable paintings you have, get them to the attic!

It started just like that. A rich man dabbled in poverty. With identity confusion tossed in. He veered into full-time poor-enacting, got a taste for it and ended up losing everything. Then being actually poor, there was no one to help him and things went downhill, literally ... He rolled downhill in his barrel and crashed against the rocks. What could they do but heap his body on the charnel wagon and boil him down to make candles?

I can actually see why a guy would hate being richer than everyone else. I'm not dirt poor, and even me, my first uncomfortable thought meeting someone who is is, "I hope I can squeeze by this guy without him asking me for something." And if he does I pull the old card, “No speak English," till I’m out of sight, then cuss him a blue streak, the lousy SOB, in perfect English. Geoffrey’s story isn’t based on me, in case you’re wondering. I don’t know how people accumulate.

Part of Geoffrey’s thing was he was an only child. That’s great for keeping the inheritance to yourself, but bad for a kid's identity. But there he was, alone with a bunch of stuffy adults, forbidding him to play with poor honyocks like I could do freely. So right there we have a fluidity issue. People used to have more kids, now they might have one. See what's happening? Get busy, have more kids ... yesterday!

And definitely be happy with what you have, folks. If you've haven't got anything, be happy without it. The rest of us are depending on you to keep your place. Inert is the new uppity, value it.

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.

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 Mule Arms Race 2000

Note: I'm off to a slow start on this. Since it's my 2000th post, all of a sudden I'm worried about quality. How to begin? Just begin, stupid...

The last few days I've been worrying myself sick about money mules. It's a big deal because, frankly, I've been putting a lot of money into them. The idea's basically sound: Send money mules (people) out with money, stay at home myself, then let them bring back their earnings. I'd share with them some pittance and keep the rest myself.

The big problem -- it's a poison pill -- is none of them returns. They apparently think, "I've got $100,000 in my hot little hands, I'm footloose and fancy free, why should I return?" Which, I guess, I might also think were I in their position. The bastards!

Now, of course I'm not focused on any of this in a vacuum. There's plenty of others out there, now alerted to the money-making possibilities (and the development rights), jumping into the fray. And as far as I know, coming up with better techniques, ones that actually work.

That being the case, it leaves me more or less high and dry. Except for what a small-time local operator might make at the edges, two-bit stuff, while flying under the radar and keeping his activities lowkey. Similar to small taco places, that once surpassed in quality by the likes of Taco Bell, et. al., just can't compete. We spit out their crap food in a second and flock to the corporate counterpart.

Still, shouldn't a little guy, say, in the money mule business, flourish? It hasn't been proven that he shouldn't. But in any arms race there's going to be winners and losers. Those with the greatest resources have the upper hand.

The time to get busy, then, is now. Find a way to make money mules more trustworthy! There's no time to waste! Time is of the essence, ready or not! To delay is to lose! He who puts his hand to the plow ... something something something.

At this point I'm thinking my go-to strategy has to be to convey to the mules the sense that I like them, appreciate them, and trust them. Do what my mom did to me, with moderate success on her part. If I only can ... But you lose a million or so, as I have, and it does something to your confidence.

One other good tactic might be something like this, give and demand back:

I have five money mules before me. I give each one $100,000, then immediately demand back $50,000. Then half of the remainder, then another half, etc., until they have almost nothing. Then repeat, and repeat time and time again. By evening they're exhausted but hopefully have learned a message.

The arms race is heating up. This much I know for a fact, the big guys have the best psychological teams at their disposal. Just like the Nazis. You have your hands around the throat of an entire nation, of course you can command resources. And what have I got? I'm one guy, no country, no Gestapo, no conglomerate, no company. I'm like the little taco guy, doing my best with diminishing resources. Peddling a little bike and throwing tacos out of the basket and hoping people pay, so to speak.

And yet I need it to work! I have no other option. The money I get from money mules today might very well fund my retirement tomorrow. Depending on how much I lose to them between now and then.... I'll either retire or keep working the system till I die.

2000: OK, that ought to hold everyone, while I express my thanks to myself for 2000 posts since this blog started. In addition to thanks, I'd like to recognize a deep inner beauty in myself that made this moment possible. Everyday, lately, I've sat in silence at the beginning of each morning, and have looked within. I've liked what I've seen, making, almost, two of me. Get that split? I should be up to 4000 by now!

Anyway, it's a measly 2000. I remember 1000 in 2010, and now 2000 in 2015. If it takes me 5 years to do 1000, that means I'll be writing my next self-congratulatory message in 2020. At which point I'll be 67. Is it normal for 62-67 year olds to write blogs like this? Seems a bit abnormal. I know my old friends -- people I know on Facebook -- are busy grilling and taking pictures of their food. Which is also a labor of love. The question is, Do they grill 2000 cuts of meat and stop to congratulate themselves? 

Ruthie Gets Her Man

We have a love match! Old Professor Woolworth and our lovely student union cafeteria lady, Ruthie! With me the middle man, seeking to ensnare Woolworth and three other psychology profs in a compromising position. Little did I know it'd end in a whirlwind mutual seduction and wedding all the same day! For that, I can only thank my lucky stars above.

As it turned out, Woolworth had his eye on Ruthie for many years. But he always figured that his being a lowly psychology professor at the university meant he had no chance with someone at her level. She was always friendly to him, yes, but was she really? As a psych prof he looked for unspoken truths and ulterior motives, to the point he was completely mixed up on which was which. While all that time Ruthie was juicy fruit, ripe for the picking by the right man.

My part in this love story was not completely pure. I'm still trying to get to the bottom of the Money Mule question, Why do money mules always take the money and run, never returning? And I asked four professors to help in the study. But first, as always, I needed to find out if they had scholarship on their minds and not just sex. Enter Ruthie, exquisitely dolled up, a temptation for each.

Sure enough, when my back was turned (so they thought, for I had cameras in nearly every room), each professor failed the test. Professor Morningwood was up first, barely waiting for me to be out of sight. His reasoning was "The early bird gets the worm" He beamed as he got Ruthie alone. "We'll start early and make love throughout the long day!" But she was repulsed, knowing he'd only make hay while the sun shined, then desert her by nightfall.

Ruthie ran, but right into the waiting grasp of Professor Cherrywood. And "grasp" is the right word. Cherrywood is a hands-on kind of guy, always seeking out the sweetest fruit and seeing if it's ripe for the picking. With skill and dexterity, he had Ruthie against the wall, doing his full appraisal. "This is good," he thought, his grubby hands all over her: "Plump, ripe, juicy, with just the right hardness and flavor," before Ruthie had had quite enough and slapped him, leaving Cherrywood in the pits.

Next, Professor Deadwood lurked in the shadows down the hall. He knew he needed her, but he was worried, "What will I do with her if I get her?" Yet he couldn't resist, with her beauty and how exquisitely she was dolled up, and the bountifulness in her every move. So great! Something in the way she moved ... made Deadwood almost move. He was certain he felt a twitch -- could it be? ... his first stirring in years? Yes! He believed it was so. Meds hadn't worked, counseling, and manual rousing techniques had all failed, but now, with his professorial gown around his ankles and trusting the sensation of that surge of confidence, he made his move. Which -- DAMN! -- ended before it began, phantom arousal playing him false...

Watching these encounters on video, I could only shake my head. These men aren't the scholars I need ... They're lecherous! Nothing on their minds but sex! I strode back and forth in the control room, fuming, wondering what I could do now. How can the money mule question be answered if I have no help? It went on like that. I was absolutely lost in confusion, consumed by my own worries. It must have been 20 minutes of pacing and sweating, and I'd lost my focus. Then I suddenly realized, "Ruthie! Woolworth!" Rushing to the panel I pushed all the buttons. Where were they?!

I raced the halls, but hearing nothing could only imagine the worst. When I thought I heard ... yes, it is ... I heard what I can only call the very subtle whispers and cooing of cuddling and loving afterglow. I almost burst in but thought better of it. You sly dog! I thought to myself of Woolworth. You took her in complete sincerity and tenderness and now she's yours ... You are the man for the job! The job of understanding Money Mules. (As it turned out, maybe Ruthie took him.)

Long story short -- let's just say they took each other -- they were totally in love. Woolworth had more going on behind that beard than anyone gave him credit for. And Ruthie, though exquisitely dolled up, was a doll in reality. Neither one had thought they were good enough for the other, and that's what kept them apart. But being alone, apart from the high station of cashiers and low station of psych profs, they realized they were soul mates. I conducted the wedding ceremony. The others served as witnesses. And we would live happily ever after.

As a wedding gift, and payment in part for Money Mule research, I sent them forth with a big box stuffed with $300,000. Whether I'll ever see them again, that I doubt. You send someone out with that kind of money, they've never been known to return.

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.

Even Old Maude's Happy for Us

Our happy ending hasn't ended yet. We've got a few more days of April and we're going to milk it for all it's worth. Anytime anyone's happy, that's what you should do, because sadness, heartache, and pain are looming in the future for all of us. But today we eat, drink, and be merry! Let's live it up in April, and ... let May take care of itself.

We pulled the blimp into the new blimp port on the west side of town, just north of my $20 million personal library. Townspeople were all around to welcome us back. There were huge cheers for the billionaire, bigger cheers for me, more subdued cheers for almost everyone else, then extremely huge cheers for The Pink Professor. He'd been gone so long, they couldn't help themselves.

Construction teams had erected bleachers and a platform so we could address the folks about our splendid journey to San Francisco. For my part, I read verbatim my blog posts for the last few days. There were lots of oooos and ahhhhs in the crowd and excitement was at a fever pitch, particularly on some of the more harrowing accounts, like when I had to climb up the blimp ladder backwards like a crawdad.

We then were off for a gala whirlwind reception at the downtown coffee shop. The shop belonging to the billionaire, the employees were glad to see him return in one piece, so they'd get their checks. Next we went to Patsy's Steakhouse, also owned by the billionaire. The steaks were great, and, like the coffee shop, there was real relief that the boss was safely back and able to pass out checks. Finally, toward mid-afternoon we were at the Roadhog Roadhouse, which, I believe, either I or the billionaire owns. (I just checked, and I personally am the owner of the Roadhog, according to the post, "The Bikers Bar Is Now Mine." The fact is, when you're a billionaire it's very hard to keep track of what you own.) The employees there were glad to see both of us, but it seemed like they assumed the billionaire owned it. That's OK with me, I've a forgiving guy; I wouldn't forget their paychecks over such an understandable slight.)

The Pink Professor, who worked at the Roadhog for several years, before his disappearance to San Francisco, got the biggest reception. The place erupted when I raised his hand in victory and we kissed. A few others came in from the back court and we had to repeat the scene. The place erupted again. Then a few stragglers, who'd been in the bathroom, came out and we had to repeat it again. Three kisses, three grand ovations! Then I started going, "Where the hell's old Maude?"

One of the cooks confides in me .... he didn't think Maude was all that cool about public displays of affection .... of a certain sort. I thought, "Oh, I get it."

Let me say something important here. The whole story this month, I've been told, hasn't had very many female characters or interaction. Yes, I mentioned my mother once or twice, and there was Patsy from the steakhouse. But by and large, it's true, it's been male-dominated. And while old Maude can't make up entirely for that lapse, certainly she's better than nothing. So we're going to bring her out, and put her on the spot, and see if we can bring her around to celebrate our love.

The whole place joined me in chanting, "Maude! Maude! Maude! Maude!" Finally, out she comes, and the place erupted. She was wiping her hands. "Yeah?" she deadpanned. I looked at her, as if to say, You're our treasure. She came over, then sensing The Pink Professor and I were about to kiss, leaned forward and we both "accidentally" kissed Maude's cheek instead.

Old Maude brought the place down when she wisecracked, "See, you two can kiss girls!"

Pink Professor Couple Journeys Home

Of course I'm delirious with my good fortune to this point, having received back the missing piece of my soul, 7% of its total, lost in San Francisco in 1975. Then my delirium continued with my ecstatic reunion with The Pink Professor. To think we're back together again! ... My mind is totally blown! Then, as well, I've had the coolest, richest friend at my side, the billionaire! None of this could've happened without him, the financing alone would've staggered me. Cool dude! I'm about ready to explode if anything else cool happens; don't try me!

Everyone's looking at us -- me and Pink -- and wondering what's next? And how does the billionaire fit in this picture? Since, naturally, everyone thought that he and I would end up together; we've been joined at the hip all month, so that would've been a pretty good guess. Yeah, yeah, he's still in the picture -- I'll put all rumors to rest. He's still in the picture as a dear, dear friend. Who did for me so many things that blew my mind. The whole month's been a mind-blower!

I don't know what else I can say, though, without making everyone entirely jealous. Because I know, one guy's good news is a source of pain for everyone else. People would rather see you dead than think they themselves somehow missed out. How can this guy be so happy, while I sit here in my same old boring life, missing out on everything? I'm not going to ask for a show of hands, OK? Just know, I know that's how the world goes 'round. I've felt the daggers shooting my way since way back, like when the billionaire gave me the $2.1 billion. The cattiness I got, I shouldn't say anymore.

Let's face it, though, not everyone's going to live their lives in such a way as to please you. Still, I know, at some point I have to let this story subside into obscurity, because from your point of view, it's nothing but rubbing your face in it, if someone else is too fortunate. I get that, I took Psych 101. It's why you never hear much about the lives of billionaires. You may see in the paper that a billionaire donated money to a political candidate, but that's it. Where they live, what they do there, etc., the papers don't print that. They don't dare, or we'd cancel our subscription. The lives of quiet desperation we typically live, we don't want their good fortune to be an added burden.

With me, then -- in this story -- it was only adding insult to injury that barely anything went wrong. And that's what people want when they get their grubby paws on a story. A falling out, a sad ending, and for me, the hero, to slink away licking his wounds, to the general merriment of all, taking on myself the derision of my peers, one who aspired to heights above his abilities only to crash to earth according to the spirit of divine justice or karma. Since that didn't happen, What a trite story! I'm chuckling a little. A story like this can go that way, and for most of you that would've been satisfying. But what about me? Oh, I know, I committed the unforgivable sin of being so wealthy my success was guaranteed.

With that out of the way, allow me to continue---

We were so happy in San Francisco. The Pink Professor said goodbye to his underlings/students under the bridge. The billionaire spent close to $4 million tricking out The Pink Professor symbol on the blimp, adding my symbol to it, to portray my soul-completeness and the fact that we were wonderfully reunited, something to celebrate.

We headed for home, one of the world's first journeys of this sort where there was a crew of galley slaves and not a single man was lost. I was virtually certain a few of them at least would've gone AWOL in San Francisco, only to be found in a bathhouse. Am I right? I know if I were a galley slave reenactor and got a free ride to Frisco, I'd probably bale. The hell with diddling nothing but oars, am I right?

A little more happiness to lay on you: (If you're the extremely jealous type, don't read any further.) It's not in the picture, but the billionaire spent an additional $30 million, maybe $40 million, to rent 40 additional blimps (without galley slaves, which was cost-prohibitive) to accompany us as far as the Wyoming area. Also, he notified every biker bar between the coast and home to come out and wave at us. They know The Pink Professor; he's the sun, I'm the moon. And they definitely love him! So they're all out along our journey, throwing pretty petals high in the sky, a lovely sight.

I became so ecstatically happy, I had to go to my quarters, lie there and think, think, think about The Pink Professor, and thank my lucky stars, of which I saw quite a few.

The Bikers Bar Is Now Mine

Whatever your troubles,
the Roadhog Roadhouse

always makes things better.

The billionaire is everything a great friend should be, extremely rich, wallet always open, and when you need him, nearby. When I first met him, I said, "A guy could get used to this," and that early intuition has been confirmed time and time again.

That's not to say I don't sometimes want to use my own money. Just to clarify, I personally make about $450 a month in disability income (game toe), then on top of that I have around $2.1 billion, thanks to the billionaire. Some of that I'm saving -- the $450 -- in case the rest goes ... fizz.

Something happened this morning that for a second pissed me off at him, but I can't stay mad very long at such a good, rich friend. Although in a way I'm doing him a favor with my anger, because billionaires don't get that true gut reaction very often. Everyone's always kissing up to him, he probably likes being told off once in a while.

He came over very early, before I'd even been to the bathroom, before the dog had been out, and mousetraps checked, you know the routine. A guy wants his private moments without every billionaire in the world horning in. To make matters worse, he springs this news on me, that he bought the Roadhog Roadhouse bikers bar!

I was all up in his face, and pounded on his chest, crying, "You knew I wanted that bar!" Only I hadn't gotten around to it yet; the world of high finance is new to me; I didn't even know who to contact, Eddie, probably, since he's the owner. So I'm halfway cussing the billionaire out, "You son of a --! You rotten bast-- !"

His fun over, the stringing me along, he laughs and says, "I bought it for you, silly. I didn't want someone else to get it. Eddie wanted out." I started to say the obligatory, "I'll pay you back," but he waved it off. "What's the difference?" he said, which is true. When you're extremely rich, and you're friends with someone, the rest is just laughter and backslapping; no one's in anyone's debt, he's just happy to do it, and in that spirit, I accepted the keys.

We did get down to some serious stuff, when he said that friend and confidante Garrett Al (aka Geritol and Jor-el) filled him in on the whole Pink Professor situation. Of course I know the Pink Professor through the Roadhog; it's our basic rendezvous point. But he's been MIA, after an argument we had a few years ago over meditation practices. And I want him back, but where to look?

The billionaire said, "You know I stand ready to help with anything you need in the search. I want to wrap this up ASAP, because I don't want you suffering, OK?" I nodded and kept my head down. He saw that hint of pain and exclaimed, "OK, that's it! I'm now in charge!" I was speechless. What can you say when you have a friend so doggoned filthy rich and dripping with confidence, but "Yes sir!"

We sat and he said, "Tell me everything you know." The discussion went on for quite a while, as I shared with no real goal, since I didn't think I knew anything. "Tell me everything you've ever talked about, and don't worry, I respect your privacy and won't share it with Geritol." (Jor-el and I have a history, and whereas I'm not that hushed mouth around him anymore, it's nice to know my dirty laundry won't be hanging in plain sight.)

After an hour of sharing, the billionaire exclaimed, "I know where he is!" taking from our conversation this one little obscure nugget. "You were in San Francisco in 1975. You spent a night under an interstate bridge. You told the Pink Professor you left a piece of your soul there. Your argument was over kundalini meditation. He went there to find that piece and reconcile himself to you." I filled in the rest, "But he's blocked, and now can't come home, analogous to failing to attain samadhi in yoga, till he restores and completes me." The billionaire nodded, "I suspect as much."

He said he'd handle the preparations. I would spend the day tidying up the Roadhog bar -- Eddie left some dust bunnies behind -- while he would oversee construction of a blimp and a full blimp port. We would find the Pink Professor and bring him home in style!

That was a couple hours ago. I brushed my teeth, went to the bathroom, and for 20 minutes was sweeping up behind the bar -- thanks, Eddie, the dust bunnies were dinosaurs! -- then took a load of trash out back. Some guy's sleeping in the dumpster so I had to leave the wastecans next to it. Looks to be a good day.

Pink Professor Fails To Be Found

A forlorner passel of professors than these guys I've never seen, tasked with finding The Pink Professor but returning home today with, unfortunately, bad news. No matter where they looked, he wasn't there. No one remembered seeing him in the various states they went through. An obvious question would be, How did you cover the entire country in one day and take that as a real effort? But I only asked them about the places they looked.

I was perhaps a little sterner than I should have been, putting my questions to them with abruptness. "Did you try the mountains? Did you try the valleys? The large cities, the small towns? Bars, churches, grottoes, fens, forests, granges, museums, parks, moors, deserts, garage sales, colleges, libraries, dives, monasteries, warehouses, bomb shelters, the bottom floor, the top floor, basements, rooftops, jails, nooks, crannies, and -- perish the thought! -- cemeteries?"

Yes, yes, yes, yes... they had tried all those places. One prof even thought of seeking him in chat rooms, and while he found no sign of The Pink Professor, for the next six months he has dates. So, from his point of view, my expenditures weren't a complete waste, just so someone's there to pay the medic after he's knifed or worse. Still, I'm glad he checked the chat rooms. Perhaps Pink had fallen so low as to seek comfort there. Just the thought of it brings tears to my eyes.

I was very morose through the afternoon yesterday, then certainly through the night. I tried to listen to music, but interpreted every song in terms of myself and The Pink Professor, and bawled like a baby.  Including an old song sung by the Kingston Trio, "I Bawled," which goes, "And I bawled, I bawled, I bawled, I bawled, mon you should've heard me bawl!" But worst of all was Andrew Bird's "Armchairs:" "I dreamed you were a cosmonaut of the space between our chairs, and I was a cartographer of the tangles in your hair." That's our relationship. Which tangles ... I may ... never again see... Then "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" came on and I was gone.

But enough about me and that wreckage. I had to renew my confidence. I prayed, and in response the image of The Old Philosopher, Eddie Lawrence came to me [he's on Spotify], from his unrecorded song, "The Billionaire Philosopher":

"Is that what's got ya down, Moopsie? Well, you raise your head up high, and you get out of that bed, and you go forth with renewed confidence, and you will show the world! You'll show the world! That nothing can bring you down, and nobody can deny you your dear professor friend, as long as you got [BANG BANG] Billionaire Power!"

Hell's bells, why was I down? Didn't the billionaire tell me, Money is power, achievement itself? He's demonstrated it enough times, and yet there I sat, thinking myself into the pits, writhing and twisting myself out of shape in poverty. It's ridiculous!

So this morning, that's why I could "show the world," when the professors came in with their sad sack story, telling me where they'd been, and that the Pink Professor was in none of those places. All I can say now is, We've eliminated where he's NOT. If I don't find him today, there's always tomorrow. And if I can't come up with a good idea, the billionaire's sure to know something. He'll hire better people, professors with a single brain cell to rub between them, instead of these local guys, good for the work, perhaps, of an intro course, or some idiot's job like sorting books, but not so good for a transcontinental manhunt, no matter what affinity they may share with The Pink Professor based on themselves being dedicated, albeit lacking, scholars.

A few days ago, I learned an important lesson, when the billionaire taught me that I indeed was a billionaire. And billionaires, while they can grieve as others, are smart enough to know they mustn't wallow. What's the use, when you have that much money? As a poor man, sure, I could never find The Pink Professor, and, believe me, I'd already checked out a few of those chat rooms. Not that I expected him there, but I did expect some of those guys to know of him and be lusting for him. I allow that; you can look, just don't touch.

Now that I have money, I swear, I'm going to have his unremitting pink shield vulcanized, made to emit powerful volts. Bringing pleasure and healing to himself and me, as we intuit its underlying power and know its subtle magic. But swift destruction to all adulterers, and those making even the slightest trespass. I invoke the spirit of Jamake Highwater's Mythology of Transgression.

No sir, this is one billionaire, speaking of myself, and polishing an apple on my vest, who refuses to waste away and watch his life wither on the vine. There's too much going on inside me-- to speak of something other than material wealth. That's where I keep the meat of the goodie, moxie on the ball.

As to what the Pink Professor may be up to? Maybe he mistakenly thinks I'm the kind of guy to carry a grudge. He surely doesn't. Maybe he thinks he was in the wrong and so is terribly embarrassed. I know neither of us was really wrong, and he surely knows that, too. Or maybe he has some other reason for being gone. Time will tell, and when I find him, I'll know.

Friends, I feel it in my bones, I've already pictured the happy consummation of this struggle, this search, in my mind. So let it be written, so let it be done. Roger Wilco and out. This bastard's goin' down! Tora, Tora, Tora! 54-40 or fight! Millions for tribute, not a cent for charity. Once I was lost, now I am found. Just as I am, though tossed about with many a conflict, many a doubt, fightings and fears within, without, my loving Pink Professor, my darling, I come, I come.

Book Sale Boo Boo -- What Price Euphoria?

A few of you have already written in, complaining and pointing out the problems with my book sale scheme. And I have to say, I think you're right. What a fool I was! What possessed me?

The weird thing is, In all my thoughts and plans leading up to the book sale, I never once thought of the downside. Of course I knew it'd have some effect on others going to the book sale. And in a way, perhaps this was the real purpose, to screw them over. And let my money do my dirty work. Ouch. These are painful things for someone as normally saintly as myself to admit.

Beyond the psychological troubles I may have displayed in this whole episode -- and I'd first assign some of the blame to my recent $2.1 billion windfall -- there is the more practical consideration of whether undercutting everyone and buying 300,000 books, obviously a mixed lot, to get 1,000 books that I might actually want was a good plan. Now, looking back on it, I have to say the answer is clearly NO.

Frankly, friends, this isn't the first time something like this has happened. I went to a book sale one other time and announced I was buying them all. They told me I had a half hour to get them all out. Being a single person with a small car -- and no $2.1 billion with which to hire helpers -- I had to back out. Even then, I was thinking, Is this any way to build a personal library?

So here I am again, I promise for the last time!  

Reader G.A. wrote in, "How much easier and satisfying, beyond the euphoria of screwing over hundreds of people, it would have been, just to spend your $10 million on quality books at quality book stores, or online dealers. The very dealers you called 'book hawks." Instead of excoriating them, you could have used their services instead of your logistics team, and come up with many thousands of quality books that interest you for a lot less than $10 million."

To whom I say, "Yes, you're right, G.A. Mea culpa. What an idiot I was. It was truly a $10 million boo boo. It had more to do with the euphoria of doing it than the actual books. And, as the old question goes, What price euphoria?" I see that now. It's funny that the logistics team didn't see this angle either.
 
So, point well taken. I feel sort of like God after he flooded the world. "What did I do? Maybe I am just the blind old demiurge the Gnostics talk about. I'm an idiot, guilty as sin. I shall never again flood the earth. If only one of the angels, the angel of logistics, let's say, had raised the slightest objection to my plan! What did I actually accomplish? I killed an entire planet of people just to commend one guy for his righteousness. And he wasn't really any better than the rest of 'em, getting drunk in the end and exposing his male parts to his family. On the other hand, What price euphoria?"

Can you put a price on euphoria? The weird thing about euphoria is it sometimes has a mind of its own. But apart from the book sale, I feel that I've made fairly good choices in life. For one, I'm 62 and don't have any "transmitted" diseases (trying to keep it clean for the kids). And there's nothing more euphoric than those events, I've heard, leading to such unnamed diseases. Those are experiences I shall never know.

Another reader, who was in line at the book sale, has a firsthand take on being screwed over:

Mary writes, "I'm a regular reader of your blog, but now that I've found out firsthand what kind of person you really are, I'll probably drop off. While you were perfectly within your rights to buy everything at the book sale, I want you to ask yourself, 'Was it the right thing to do?' Take into consideration the fact that some of us depend on getting books at sales like this and selling them for our livelihood. I have a daughter who will probably never know what it is to wear shoes, because I'll never be able to afford them now."

This hurts me for multiple reasons. Let me assure you, Mary, I am a nice person, and last night was an aberration. The thought that your little girl has never worn shoes, and now perhaps never will, including her adult life in the future, because of my actions, cuts me deep. I would like you to send me her shoe size and your address, and I promise I will lavish her with so many shoes you won't know what to do with them all. 

As far as the books, if you could tell me what sort of books you sell, I will invite you over and give you a chance to look through them. You would probably object that, yes, I wronged you personally, yet I'm willing to do something about it. But what about all those I wronged who won't write in, and so will see no redress. These are great points, even if I had to put words in your mouth to make them. Write me.

Yes, I see everyone's point. I could've gotten more and better books by selectively buying them from dealers. And I hurt many booksellers by depriving them last night of new stock. Like God promising he would never flood the earth again, I promise I will never ruin another book sale.

I Give $10 Million for 300,000 Books

No matter what they say, I've always known it was true that money buys happiness. And I proved it last night. As a result, I'm the proud owner of-- what must be 300,000 books and probably 8,000 records. Now it's just a matter of finding the time to go through them and pick out -- whatever -- maybe a thousand I want. The key thing for me is, finally, I didn't have to fight anyone for them, and now I can browse in peace.

I'm a long time customer at the Biggest Book Sale in the State, held every year at the state fairgrounds. But you not only have to wait in line for hours, you have to fight hundreds of others to get up to the tables, get your hands on stuff, and then build and keep your stash till you get out. And when I say fight, that's what I mean. Because most of these guys aren't just "book lovers" browsing, but dealers -- sharks -- who know what's good and what they can sell. As a regular joe you're no match for their quickness and domination, hegemony, at the tables. It's a terrible experience.

So for a long time I've thought, What if I were a rich man? And could just show up and immediately buy everything? And send those bastards packing. Well, I found out; what's long been a fantasy is now a reality. Thanks to the billionaire, and my own billions, it's becoming obvious, there's nothing money can't accomplish.

The billionaire had some people who worked out the logistics to make this happen. They hired some guys (probably 40) to stand at the front of all the lines leading into the building. At the last minute I would take the place of one of them, and the others would gum up the line any way they could, once the doors opened. The book sale being for charity, they're always looking for money. So it was arranged that the main man -- their guy in charge -- would meet me at the front door. The logistics team had studied the official filings of the organization and found what they normally make at the sale, which is only around $300,000, a pittance. But I was prepared to offer $10 million for everything. A generous offer, to say the least.

And that's the way it worked out. The lines were backed up, winding up the hill and around the sides. Guys had boxes, bags, tablets (to quickly look up stuff), towels with which to cover their books, to prevent theft, the works. It was the same as every other time, with all the usual complaints you hear in line, "Why don't they open early?" and so forth.

When the time came, I moved in, the doors opened, the guys were gumming up the lines, and the main man was at the door. I told him, "I am in the door, I am the first customer at this book sale, and I am offering you $10 million for everything. Please mark everything sold."

He saw the cashier's check and called immediately for the doors to be closed. We stood there as he consulted around, with his various lieutenants. They went through all the consternation you'd expect, as to what to do with the hundreds of people outside. One of them came and asked me about it. I said, "Once a customer comes in and buys something, it's his. That's all that's happening. But instead of buying one thing, I bought everything." They knew then, there's no more sale, it's all over; keep the doors shut.

Of course someone had to go out -- and they did -- with a bullhorn to explain the situation. "A wealthy benefactor has purchased all the books. From your point of view, this is a travesty. But the financial windfall for us is fantastic." From inside, I could hear their uproar, but book people tend not to riot -- so they had limited options. The police moved in to put the squeeze play on anyone who got out of line. And the deed was done.

[I was told later that the charity people had taken out enough donuts for the disgruntled buyers that most of them were happy by the time they left. There was grumbling, to be sure, because a few of them thought they deserved a few more. You always get hotheads.]

I stayed inside for a while, milling around, looking at my new books. And, as I knew would happen, I saw a lot of crap, stuff I wouldn't want in a million years. But there were the good ones as well, except this time I wasn't stretching just to have some book-hawk dealer snatch it up faster. There's no price you can put on convenience. The place was eerily quiet, with a few of the charity people still murmuring. I heard one guy murmuring, "How are we going to get everyone to come back next year?" Which, frankly, in my opinion, shouldn't be an issue. People can just ask around if I'm expected to show up, and if I am, they will know well enough in advance to just stay home. Maybe I'll take out an ad saying I won't be there, or that I will be, whatever.

There definitely is a lot of crap among these books. I'm not even slightly interested in most of them. But of course I'm interested in quite a few of them, and will be able to make some great additions to my personal library. Which, incidentally, will be moving out of my bedroom into a new building I'm constructing on the west side of town. I bought the old grocery store that's been decrepit for the last 20 years, and am planning something like a $20 million building as my own personal library.

The good ones from today's book sale will be there, of course. The rest, I don't know what will happen to it. I heard there's a fishing worm plant in Alabama that buys old books and shreds them for worm bedding. That's an option, so I'll recoup some of my investment. Making this a cheaper operation than expected.

We Get The Key To The City

Billionairemania has overtaken the city, as the billionaire and I have spread our wealth far and wide. When they see us downtown or at the shopping center, kids are opening the doors for us and getting twenty bucks. Such good kids.

I've never been so popular or conspicuous, in a positive way, in my life. For which, all I can say is, Thank God for money. It's true what they say, the world kneels at the feet of a rich man. There's always someone nearby with his hand out and a look of sincerity, a beautiful thing.

This thing has taken on a life of its own, like a volcano. I imagine volcanoes gather their magma below in pools, and that it becomes super-heated, then somewhat confined, until it has to blow upward. That's what billionairemania's like. A little town with two billionaires in it brings out the fever and fervor, and it's packed tight, until, "Kerblooey!"

It has reached the highest levels, too. The city council a few days ago, in emergency session, came through with a long-rumored resolution that there simply must be a celebration, an event of some sort, to commemorate the billionaire's arrival, and by extension my favorite-sonship in the town. The billionaire's billions are his glory and my billions reflect his glory, being a gift. But some are warmer to me, because they imagine the billionaire eventually leaving but me remaining. And as long as I keep spreading the cash, I'll have a special place in their hearts. What a beautiful feeling.

So the ceremony was at noon today on the courthouse lawn. The townspeople were gathered, the various fathers of the city, and the one councilwoman we have, and the mayor. The mayor gave a few remarks about shared prosperity, then called us forth "as a couple" to receive the golden key to the city.

Each of us made our remarks of thanks. For my part, I noted, "This has been my home all my life. I have never known another home. In my opinion, and I know I'm prejudiced, this has to be the greatest town on earth. Friends, I receive this key in the same wonderful spirit in which it is given. It is the greatest honor I've ever received in my life. And I have a special place to mount it. Presently I have several pictures, wall-hangings, above my couch. But when I get home, those will all come down, and this key will take their place. At the present time, I am a very wealthy man, and it feels special to have this key. Who knows, though? Someday I may be poor, and if that happens I will still see this key as special, and think back to this day and you with fondness. You are my friends and neighbors, my people, and I love you very much."

Remarks like that are the best, completely sincere. Truthfully, I was almost overcome with emotion, by the power and sincerity of my own words. After the ceremony they crushed in on me and the billionaire. As a goodwill gesture, and as another way of giving thanks for the honor, the billionaire and I handed out fifty dollar bills till they ran out, about a half hour later.

Just as a follow-up, if I was uncomfortable with any of it, it was on one small point, the mayor calling the billionaire and me "a couple." I guess we are, but not in that sense. There's other things going on in my spirit, a sense of longing.

OK, enough of that. I have a book sale to go to -- the biggest book sale in the state. It opens tonight!

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.

Billionaires Going Back to Adam

The stories of families are the stories of up and down. You get one generation that's really disciplined and diligent, and invariably they're billionaires. Then you get the next generation, and they're a bunch of slouches, who can't be bothered. They while away the time, never caring to develop even the slightest discipline. And with them, the billions are soon gone. That's a billionaire's sorriest experience, to leave his money to a bunch of ne'er-do-wells, doomed to immediately lose it.

We just need to quit dying, people like the billionaire and me. Because if it wasn't for people like us, I dare say, the financial gods would've wiped out mankind long ago, and there'd be no one to carry on the ways of wealth. I see the bad side of things all the time, though. I can't give society a good report. The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation, and they haven't got a "give a damn" spirit. The spirit that motivated the pilgrims, the pioneers, and our other can-do ancestors. Back then, someone would say, "Do you give a damn?" And they'd answer, to a man, "Hell yes!" But not these days.

I look back, way back, and I'm happy with what I see in my own family line. Yes, we had a few rotten apples under the tree. But the rest of us were so completely brilliant that nothing they did could spoil the bunch. There's the generations I knew personally, billionaires of hardy stock, who earned their fortune the old fashioned way, through the sweat of their brow. And I heard the old timers telling about the billionaires before them, who remembered earlier generations, and on and on. According to one of my uncles, he traced our line back to Adam himself, using the Bible and Ancestry.com. The vast majority of those generations were billionaires.

Adam himself was of course a billionaire. Even if he didn't have a cent of money. How so? There was no money yet. But he owned the entire planet, every inch of real estate. He'd go out to check his world occasionally, when it was one solid land mass, which he named "Gaia." Then as folks were created and/or born around him, he'd sell them land, pocketing the proceeds and living frugally. He sold Asia to the hordes and never looked back.

As an aside, wouldn't it be fun to be a kid then, and be able to jump between South America and Africa? Always careful to not get trapped on the opposite continent if the drift was especially dramatic. I heard of some of the politics of those days. They had two basic parties, the Angels and the Devils. The Angels kept saying, "It looks like we've got a severe case of continental drift on our hands." But the Devils refused to recognize the basic science, saying, "That ever-widening wet divide isn't really there." True story, even if the translation from Ur-Language -- grunts with tonal variations -- is admittedly free.

The upshot of all this is, my people have always been billionaires, or on the verge of their first billion. You ask, Why did your family seem so poor in the Depression? I explain it like this: They didn't want to show up their friends and neighbors, so they put the big bucks away. Any display of wealth back then would have been seen as overly-ostentatious. So out of mercy, they pretended to have lost everything in the crash. But those "hard times" also helped my family, teaching them greater discipline. And added to their wisdom when the times were right to show their wealth once again, as well as making more, with everyone else in such dire need.

All in all, being extremely wealthy is very sweet.

So we go from the beginning of the world and Adam and all his billions up to me, banking $2.1 billion this past week alone! Certainly I'm very happy and have limited worries. If I need something, I buy it. That's how it is. If I don't need it, I buy it in case I actually do. It's all good.

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?"