I've never put much thought into long-term financial stability. Much like oil, I've always viewed money as a replenishable resource. Whenever I'd run out I'd just go make more. Recent events have forced me to face reality, however. Apparently the Red Cross won't accept 5 gallon Poland Springs jugs full of self-drawn blood that you've left fermenting in the basement under a pile of damp sheets for months on end anymore. I know! I was surprised too! I told them I'd taken precautions. I was always sure to wipe the syringe down with a moist towelette prior to insertion and only about a quarter of the bottle was dog's blood. I guess there's just no reasoning with some people. Oh, and don't even get me started on the jerks down at the sperm bank. Needless to say, I'm legally prohibited from any form of conception for the next thirty years.
As you may have guessed, I've been thinking a lot about how I'm going to sustain myself into my old age. My biggest fear in this world is winding up poor and homeless. Just to clarify, being homeless isn't what scares me. I mean, the first week or so I'd be able to get away with sleeping in airport terminals and hotel lobbies. "Heh, had a little fight with 'the missus' and she locked me out of our room. Just gonna shack up on this here couch for the night." After that I'd earn the companionship of a dog with either a missing eye or a gimp leg. I'd live out my days roaming the streets with a polka dotted blanket tied to the end of a long stick containing all of my worldly possessions slung over one shoulder. No, the thing that really scares me is the abundance of toothless blowjobs I'll be receiving from old, chemically imbalanced bag ladies in dumpsters behind various fast food restaurants.
It would make sense then, to try and put the money I've got now to good use in preparation for when I'm no longer able to work a series of menial retail jobs in order to uphold the posh lifestyle of Hot Pocket dreams and Mountain Dew wishes I've grown accustomed to. I don't need much money, mind you. I rarely, if ever, leave the basement and my mom doesn't charge me rent. Then again, she hasn't been down to check on me in weeks. She either died or assumes I have. I'm comfortable with whichever ends up being the case. To that end, I have been doing a bit of research in regard to making the most of what I've got in an attempt to diversify my assets and capitalize on shifting market trends. I don't know what either of those things are, exactly, but I'm hoping that if I just keep repeating them over and over, someone will take notice and start throwing sacks of money at me.
I'd like to preface the following sections by making it implicitly clear that I'm probably the least qualified person in the real world from whom you'd wish to receive financial advice. Interestingly enough, that puts me somewhere near the top of the qualification chart in regard to Internet personalities. I think it's a tie between me and that guy who makes YouTube videos of his fecal matter molded to look like characters from the Models Inc. performing fan-written scripts. Look out, Hillary! That evil Grayson Louder is trying to kill off your models by infecting them with the plague!
You've Got to Spend Money to Make Money!
This is one of those catch-all business mantras with no real meaning, usually screamed at employees named Johnson by a blustery CEO with quivering jowls when the bottom line is at stake. All the same, its a way of life I've adopted as my own. I'm not quite sure where I'm supposed to be spending my money or when I'll be seeing a return, but every week after being paid I skip over depositing my check in the bank in favor of signing it directly over to the guy working behind the register at the liquor store in exchange for a bunch of single-serving bottles of 99 Bananas.
This, of course, has led to premature liver disease and thousands of dollars in hospital bills. Sure, the doctors may have warned against any future drinking; having cited both further medical complications and death as possible consequences, but this is business. "When I scrape my knee or stub my toe I'll come looking for your advice," I always tell them, "but I wouldn't go to a dentist to file my taxes... not after last time, anyway. Besides, placing a crippling financial burden upon my friends and family in the name of the almighty dollar is a sacrifice I'm willing to make."
Money in the bank!
Play the Lottery!
Lottery Tickets:
Lotteries are like contests for idiots which reward both moronic superstition and financial irresponsibility. Sponsored by the state and sustained by poor people with no business blowing the limited resources they've got on games of chance, planning long-term financial stability by blowing your weekly government handout on an arbitrary numbers drawing because you've "got a system," makes about as much sense as shitting into a tube connected directly to your mouth. I guess it isn't a bad deal for the state since the money they're giving out gets pumped right back into the system, but its still depressing to think about all the pension-collecting widows playing the same numbers every week because the ghosts of their dead husbands came to them in a prescription drug-induced dream and told them to play the date that the war ended.
Scratch Tickets:
Want to experience all the glitz and glamour of a Vegas Vacation without having to feel guilty about ignoring Chevy Chase as he begs you for spare change? Head on down to your local convenience store and pick up a couple of Casino-themed scratch tickets! Sure, sitting in the cab of a truck filled with errant tools, spools of chicken wire and congealed Burger King wrappers might lack the suave sophistication of a high-stakes gaming table surrounded by society's cultural elite, but AM sports radio is refined as any conversation you'd hold around the baccarat table and Steel Reserve in a plastic Dixie cup makes a pretty good substitute for complimentary floor drinks.
I really do think that instead of providing winners with menial cash prizes, scratch tickets should instead dole out rewards that the people who play them could actually use. I've taken the liberty of designing a few mock-tickets.
Invest in Your Future!
Some people claim that children are the future, but until they can be grown, harvested and ground up into some sort of energy drink or dietary supplement, I'm not going to take any chances. Let's take a look at the facts; most kids lack a set of fully-developed motor skills and in the case of infants, aren't even cognizant of their surroundings. If left in charge, they'd probably blow our entire national budget on diapers and candy. And while I'm sure Gerber and Similac would love to grab some of that action, I'm not buying into it.
Wall Street has never made much sense to me either. A bunch of middle-aged guys wearing powersuits scream either "BUY!" or "SELL!" at a big board full of digitized numbers while waving fists full of colored paper in the air. When the numbers go up, they all take a sip of Red Bull and buy an American-manufactured luxury sedan. When they go down, some farmer in Nebraska loses another child to Polio. It doesn't seem fair is all. I mean, the life of a child has got to be worth a European import at the very least.
Neither option really paints much of an optimistic portrait for the future of the American dollar, and while up until now I've been content with keeping my money inside of a coffee can buried underneath the front porch, my shotgun is almost out of bullets and I've run out of outhouse moonshine. One might suggest placing money in a bank and allowing interest to accrue, but opening a savings account involves putting up with a barrage of intrusive questions like "how can we help you," and "sir, we just need to know your name." You may be able to fleece other suckers with your loaded questions, but I'm on to your games, bank.
I've opted instead to wrecklessly sink all of my money into a series of unproven commodities which will no doubt appreciate in value over time with absolutely no negative consequence. Sure, some would go with the "safe bet" and invest in a guaranteed market like "gold," "cocaine," or "the under aged sex trade," but I've always prided myself on my ability to take a chance. Besides, if my ventures fail, I can always kill myself before the loan sharks have a chance to break my legs. What am I talking about? Why, PEZ dispensers of course!
Laugh now, but in a dystopian future ravaged by war and run by a cold, calculating empire of shadowy totalitarian authority figures, the American dollar will have long since collapsed under the weight of an increasingly bloated national deficit, and PEZ dispensers will hold as much value as sacks of grain or a young, virile woman with a strong back and an even stronger work ethic. Just 13,000 more clown heads and I'll be able to afford that steam-powered carriage designed with a gothic-meets-cyberpunk design motif for some reason.
In all honesty, if these are the options with which I'm presented I'd rather stick with plan-B and hope that languishing in obscurity as a mediocre Internet humorist manages to somehow parlay itself into a paying career. Barring that, I could always try and leverage a lawsuit against a major corporation after slipping in a bathroom stall and splitting my head open on the porcelain toilet bowl.
Stay on point, Arby's, because I'm gunning for you.
