Billionaires of Kali Yuga


Earlier today I was at a conference where lots of dudes were wearing jeans with their sport coats. It was young wealth. An unsettling thing to be near when you live a single paycheck from disaster lifestyle.

The tricky thing about these fiends is they aren’t as toxically smug as you’d imagine.  They are extremely friendly and trusting, until they discover you aren’t one of them. Then they become Borg. You are no longer noticed. You are not part of the assimilated few.

The speaker on stage asked us to do jazz hands if we had goals.The room reached maximum wiggle. Then he had us introduce ourselves to someone near us. This is an old carny trick designed to hypnotize you. The guy I met was some type of consultant. He saw my name tag and said, “I love that place. What do you do there?”

“I’m a copywriter.”

Borg face.

It’s unsettling to watch the memory of yourself get deleted in real time. After the offending pleasantries are removed from the unit’s storage, you are blocked from recontaminating the unit with your non-optimized dreariness.

“Don’t make us sick the drones on you, peasant.”

“Allright, I’ll move. Jesus.”


Today was the first day I’ve been in the same room as a billionaire. People freak out around them like they’re rock stars. It’s the weirdest thing to see. He spoke in the vaguest language I may have ever heard. Example: “I like to invest in things that are going to be big that no one else knows about. That’s my secret.”

Really bro? Isn’t that what everyone wants to do? I mean, I like to get naked with my wife and reenact famous Presidential speeches. That’s my secret.

For 45 minutes I heard this man, worth more than the combined net worth of every generation of my family going back to the plains of Africa, speak in nothing but platitudes. It feels like this guy was the luckiest gambler of all time. Maybe he is actually some sort of holy idiot, a simple priest dedicated to the awful and powerful god Moloch, he who drinks the marrow of civilization’s bones and pisses acid upon the eyeless corpse of our once great civilization.

Eh, who am I to judge? At best I’m some kind of lesser poet of the apocalypse. This blog is all I’ve got and it’s not going to get Mrs. Lott that Porsche she wants for Christmas.

Sweetheart, I promise you can have this if I figure out life.

Is the secret to super wealth really nothing more than hanging around the circle of people who make everything and funneling money into their proboscises? It doesn’t seem like it should be that easy.

After the conference, I came home and watched The Big Short. It’s a surprisingly boisterous film. Lots of flashy cuts and bombastic, anachronistic music choices. It’s almost too soon, but the whole piece is a nostalgia bukkake. The boring bits that cover what helped destroy the economy get boosted by super trickery: celebrity read offs.

The people that made Tank Girl should get royalties from the look of every female hero since 1998.

Margot Robbie, the hot actress who’s playing Harley Quinn in the upcoming Suicide Squad, explains subprime mortgages in a bubble bath. Anthony Bourdaine breaks down CDOs and bundling AAA to B assets. While watching this I wondered if this would be a good way for companies to talk about their super boring differentiators. Imagine The RZA breaking down commingling of organics and conventional produce.

Back to billionaires. I don’t feel any sort of animosity towards these jokers. I’m just genuinely curious to see how the sausage is made. It’s why I love Penn & Teller so much, they show you the trick. I’d like to see how a billion dollars is made from scratch, up close, even if I didn’t make a dime off of the experience. If it really is talent that gets you to the top, then the method should be repeatable. Like in the Watchmen when Ozymandias gives all of his inherited millions away just to prove he could make it back from pure will.

I figure if I was a billionaire I’d probably just spend time making weird shit happen. Like a bar with a full scale Wheel of Fortune set on one side and a Jeopardy set on the other side. Nightly entertainment would be live action gameshows with beer and cocktails served. I think this would kill it. I mean, have you ever seen an episode of either of those shows where the audiences weren’t sold out? Now imagine if there was a two drink minimum. Come on, son. Who could resist?

Modest Proposal: We could employ the homeless to work on replica pirate ships.

The other thing I’d make is a pirate battle reenactment league. Like those Civil War dorks, but on the high seas. I imagine that shit’ll be expensive, but firing cannons at Alcatraz is going to be the shit.

Oh, and I’d definitely make a hot air ballon sex club. I don’t think I’d probably participate on account of Mrs. Lott being against such things, but knowing there was a flying fortress of fornication above the city would crack me up. The serfs below would be reduced to playing a game of “is this pigeon shit or the spilled seed of arial perverts?”

These are all reasons I imagine the good lord has chosen to test me with poverty all these years. But I’m coming up. I’ve been out of debt for almost two years, I’ve got a mortgage I can handle, a good job, and plenty of energy. I’ll probably be doing pretty well until civil unrest from the impoverished hordes of disenfranchised Bernie and Trump supporters unleash their ignorant terror on the country in a civil war against Hillary Clinton’s icy regime.

boner killer
How’s this for a boner killer?

On an encomium minded note, thank you all for continuing to read this blog. I am absolutely shocked how many people come up and talk to me about it. Honestly, though the idea is insane, if I could write nonsense like this full time, it would be the dream. But even if I go to my grave penniless, I’m fairly sure I’ll always write. It’s such a pleasure to do and I imagine just about everyone could do it. Higher primates like us are natural born storytellers and I imagine everyone’s got something interesting to say.

Since I’ve been doing these daily blog posts I’ve noticed my mind becoming sharper and my writing better. Ideas come quicker at work. My memory has improved. I look forward to getting up in the morning. Hell, I’ve even started exercising again. I know it sounds like a infomercial, but I’m not selling a thing. If you want to be happier just do the thing you’ve always wanted to be better at every day. You don’t have to kill yourself, just be consistent.




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s