Face it, we’re all fucked.
The way our economy is sputtering, none of us are headed anywhere. Our leaders are impotent, scared to bite the chubby hands that feed them, as their leaders – the bankers – greedily and ceaselessly pickpocket the populace.
Most people my age are drowning in debt and we’re facing an increasingly shallow job pool (double-whammy water metaphor!!!) while, on the horizon, we are starting to see the crest of the gigantic baby-boomer retirement tsunami that will wipe the shit out of all future hope (read: the next 30 or so federal budgets.) Triple-whammy, baby!
So, like I said, we’re fucked.
But if we’re already fucked, I ask, why not get fucked and make some money.
As I alluded to earlier, a lot old, rich white guys are heading for the grave and because they were likely such assholes during their conniving, solipsistic lives, the majority have probably ostracized all of their friends and families throughout their soulless, determined cash-grab existences, meaning they’re going to be taking their bottomless troves of riches to their caskets with them.
While some might see this as a fitting end for a fiend, or as a validation of that firmly held aphorism that money can’t buy you everything, I tend to see it as an opportunity. They say more than 25-percent of the world’s wealth is being held by one-percent of our population (read: old, rich white guys) which must mean that there are probably a lot of rich old dying white guys looking for love.
And since we’re all fighting over the same piece of that chained-down-to-a-desk-for-4o-years-pie – which happens to taste a lot like tetanus (“mmm… lockjaw”) – I think there really is an untapped market opening up here. We need to take these old, lonely dudes to the bank in every sense possible.
Sure, the Anna Nicole Smiths of the world have been on this tip for a while now, but I’ve read Fast Food Nation and I’ve been a diligent follower of scare-mongering affiliate TV news programs in my 28 years, so I’m sure these business moguls – busy men with busy schedules – have been so tight with time that they’ve scarfed down a small mountain (molehill?) of e.coli and disease-ridden fast food burgers over their 50 or 60 years of meeting-hopping. I’m guessing that Mad Cow shit has been eating into their brains long enough to where they just might start thinking folks like myself and yourself – and we’re definitely not the sexiest people in the world, am I right? – would make good companions or bedfellows… or more… (Ironically, these are probably the same decision-makers who okayed the practice of feeding low-grade cattle remains to live cows in order to make a few more bucks and thus created Maiden Mad Cow Disease as we presently know her. “Hey, we’ve been figuratively eating low-grade human remains for years and we’re fine,” they probably reasoned via teleconference. As an aside, here is a little-known and rejected Alanis Morissette lyric for your amusement: “It’s like bovine spongiform encephalopathy in your chardonnay.”)
Since we’re taking it in the butt every other way, let’s just get over the hump and get over on the hump.
I know what you’re asking – because I’m crazy like that: “Herb, don’t you have some self-respect? How could you let some corporate schmuck own you for a buck like that? Don’t you have just an ounce of pride?”
The answers: “No,” “Like this,” and “No,” respectively.
Remember, we’re all fucked anyways.
So I say we forget all about job skills for this market, people, because they don’t matter right now. You’re going to have to focus on marketing (ahem) job skills.
And since these old rich white guys crave possession and respect and mostly power over all else, here’s how you can nab a creepy, pale, death-is-outside-having-a-smoke-before-he-comes-inside-and-touches-me-on-the-shoulder CEO – and his wads of cash – all for yourself.
Take this satanic old guy:
Happy, right? Senile? Oh you bet. You can see what the bovine spongiform encephalopathy has wrought on this man – a generous dabbler in all things deep-fried over the course of his life. He’s definitely got a sweet tooth, so treat him to one of those whipped-cream bikinis and it’s over. He’ll sign over that 401K before you can grab the Ben-Gay. Do you know how big of a TV you can buy for half a million dollars? I don’t, but I’d like to have the kind of freedom to investigate.
Or this guy, who I’ll call Santadick Cheneyoclaus:
On a first one-over, I’m going to say he’s definitely a cat-lover, right? He certainly looks the part. I’m also guessing he’s got a giant library of leather-bound books in his study, buried somewhere deep within his regal suburban-country home. So I’d suggest you complement his hairy facial paunch and then let him give you a Freudian psychoanalysis, while his pussy cat jumps away from him every time he tries to pet her, and you might soon see your way into inheriting his estate. Imagine all of the beer fridges you could fit in a home like that.
Or this guy – a strangely ethnic looking old rich white guy:
He seems like he’s just crying out for a golf buddy… and then maybe someone to practice his putting on afterwards. (Yeah, that was gross for even me.) I’d say, caddie up for a while and then when he really trusts you, on a hot sunny day, put some sort of pill that he’s allergic to into his cooler and watch him drive his golf cart into a human-designed lake. If you haven’t been written into the will, you’ll still likely collect some residual, post-traumatic stress payout from his next of kin. (Definitely sue, if you don’t.) That settlement should at least be enough to get you out of debt and fund a booze-fueled romp through Vegas.
I’m just improvising here, fellas. You’ve got to finesse and approach each of these gaunt – or giant dwarf – rich white guys with your own hustle.
I know it seems a little unethical, but remember, these guys are the ones stealing from us all day and all night. They aren’t losing any sleep either – insomnia isn’t a symptom of Mad Cow Disease.
Seriously, there is nothing to lose. The job market sucks and the man is fucking you anyways.