“These tough economic times are killing me.” Lately that’s all that’s being shouted out of the slave-pit located next to the 19th floor window of my White Rhino skin and black marble mansion, complete with Ferrari moat. Frankly, it’s starting to get annoying. Do you know how time consuming it is to purchase 500 metric tons of oil, heat it to scalding hot temperatures, and then throw it out of a ruby gilded window frame in order to quell a boisterous slave horde? Let me tell you, it is not as straightforward as it might sound. I lose at least one gold plated robot-butler a year in the process. All things considered, economic troubles have finally reached me in the top 0.000000000001% of the world’s wealthiest, and in light of this I’ve decided to compose a guide to financial management that will allow you filthy plebeians to finally get this economic mess back on track.
Do Not Put Your Money in a Bank
Putting your money in the bank is the equivalent of rolling up a wad of hundreds and setting it on fire. People at the bank are often homeless invalids working to support their methamphetamine addictions. The moment you hand your money over to them, their greedy drug-addled minds tell them to inject it directly into their arms so that they can enjoy the trace amounts of cocaine regularly found on hundred dollar bills. In short, bank tellers are Satan-loving, kitten-fetus-consuming monsters and cannot be trusted. What can be trusted are five yachts that simultaneously circumnavigate the globe. Basically the procedure is this: 1) Buy five 50ft yachts 2) fill them with your money, gold, diamonds, prized horses, ruby dotted monocles, and opiates, 3) hire an armed mercenary force (I suggest Chechens or people from Detroit) 4) watch the yachts sail away knowing that no one will be able to take away you’re meticulously acquired collection of fossils that may or may not, but definitely do, look like penises.
Buy a Gun
Buying a gun is a lot like buying your first child. The only difference being when you buy a gun you end up loving it, instead of feeding it to your game giraffes on a dare from Bernard Madoff. I barely think of Brian anymore; but my gun, I think of my gun everyday. Let me describe it to you. It is made of metal, it has 7 tubes, and it fires 40 pound WWII era artillery shells. How many break-ins have I had? 0. How many burglar limbs do I have displayed as trophies in my parlor? 763,452. And that’s my small parlor. You do the math.
Invest in Wooden Motor Boats
Nothing says this economy is back on track like wooden motor boats. I have 572. Owning a wooden motor boat is almost the equivalent of punching Fast Growth Economies in the chin with the arms of America. Every time I approach mine I think, “My god I’m wealthy,” and it’s that kind of positive thinking that will get us out of this death maze of foreclosures and whiny servants. Better yet, take your newly acquired fleet of wooden motorboats, form a fruit company with your pals down at the golf club, and invade an island nation. Might I suggest Haiti? Those guys love to be exploited!
Marry a Kennedy (A Good One)
I cannot emphasize this enough: marrying a good Kennedy is fantastic for your financial fortune, marrying a bad Kennedy is the equivalent of being fucked by three retarded Optimus Primes with Boston accents and beautiful, yet immobile, hair. This raises the question, “How do I know if the Kennedy I’ve married is a good one?” The simple answer is this: if your Kennedy is severely handicapped, the offspring of a senator named Edward, or both, you’ve hit the bad Kennedy gene pool. Really, the best possible option for anyone attempting to marry into the Kennedys is to hook up with the offspring of HE-MAN Arnold Schwarzenegger and SKELETOR Maria Shriver. Only then will you become MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE. Also, once you do marry a Kennedy, make sure to take precautions against death. I met Death once on a trip to the seventh circle of hell and that guy is all about fucking with the Kennedys…and Fresca. Death loves Fresca.
I’d write more, but I believe I’ve provided you clownish, inbred toilers with enough information to fix my problems and I really couldn’t care less about yours. I beg you all to follow my instructions carefully. I’d hate to have to stir you to action through force. It wouldn’t be pretty. Just picture 572 wooden motorboats carrying Chechens, Carnivorous Giraffes, people from Detroit, robot-butlers, WWII era artillery, and the corpse of my uncle, Ronaldo Kennedy, bearing down on you. Don’t think I won’t do it either. If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a thousand times – I would sacrifice the population of the entire world a million times over to protect just one of my penis-fossils: my precious, precious penis-fossils.
~David “White Wine Spritzer” MacLean
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