Last week I conversated (it’s a word now, pedants) with a friend of mine who suffers from the same modern bitch-assery many of us do, we don’t know how to be successful. Meaning, no one in our lives took the time to encourage us to look beyond our immediate situation, to think big, or to grind every single day on our passions, even when we are being beaten to death by the pursuit of them.
This problem is diagnosed in the perennially popular, though consistently corny Rich Dad, Poor Dad series. If you can suffer the tone of this book, you’ll find a solid prescription: do what rich people do and don’t listen to poor people about money. Rich people, it turns out, don’t inherit most of their money. The vast majority of millionaires are self made. They work hard, save money, drive old cars, live below their means, save about 15% of their income, invest in boring old mutual funds, and pay cash for everything.
Broke people carry debt, treat themselves, eat out too much, choose stupid degrees from colleges that cost way too much, buy designer bullshit, and don’t save a damn thing.
Sure there are some rich assholes like Trump who were born with the game set on easy with an ass load of cheat codes loaded. There’s also lots of people who god fucked right in the ass while they were still in utero.
But the deal is, most of us could be doing a lot better if we had at least a tiny bit of instruction early on. The worst thing I ever heard was “you can be anything.” It was never followed up with anything useful. I didn’t even know to ask anything like “what’s a good thing to do as an adult?”
And here I am. Blogging right through middle age. What a god damned spectacle. I should’ve just written a book about ninjas in the ghetto. I’d have them fight some sort of Chinese Triad gang for control of the Oakland ports, which just so happen to be where one of the Elder Gods plans to rise from, should certain cultists get their hands on a recently developed AI.
They require it to be able to chant the ancient scroll. Once the intonation is audible and a suitable blood sacrifice of a child is made, the unspeakable horror beneath the bridge will rise to consume human flesh.
Fortunately two psychedelic druids living in San Francisco find out about the ninja’s need for assistance. The drive their RV to Oakland and intercept them with a teleportation spell as they are jumping from a rooftop to murder an unsuspecting Triad member. The druids and the ninjas land on Alcatraz, where an invitation only boxing match is being held on the old yard. The ring announcer is wearing an old timey suit and plays French horn between rounds.
The ninjas and druids parlay at the match and come up with a plan to steal the final codes for the AI out of the mind of their head programmer, Ollie Henderson, the world’s smallest man. I’m pretty sure his kidnapping will be done with a drone and a grappling hook. I haven’t worked it out yet.
I haven’t really worked anything out at all. Ain’t that a life.