The entity known as The State of California is nuts. They’re mad at me because, I guess, in 2008 I didn’t declare my tax refund as income. I’m not sure how it qualifies as income. I didn’t have to work for it. I didn’t have to hustle or fight for it. I just typed in some numbers and they sent me a bunch of money. That qualifies as income? How do I do it again? Is there a website I can go to where I can keep typing in numbers and the State of California will send me more income? I don’t mind. It took me about an hour to file my taxes and they sent me a cool thousand bucks. I’d DEFINITELY do that again.
I call The State of California nuts because Read more
The Getty Villa has something that I’ve seen a few dozen times in life: A pool of water with coins in it. I doubt the Getty people put the coins in there. I suppose it’s possible, but I’d guess that it’s a contingent of plebian visitors who are mucking up the pool with coins. My first assumption would have been that the Getty caters to a more selective, cultured audience who might refrain from dumping their pocket change into a classy reflective pool, but having seen the practice with my own two lying eyes, what I’ve known for years has been proven true again: For whatever reason, humans cannot resist throwing coins into a body of water. People usually won’t ditch coins deliberately in the ocean or in lakes, maybe because you lose visual connection after you dump it into the surf, but if you put a pool or a fountain in the middle of a mall or any centralized walking space, especially if you might take a date there, without fail some jackoffs will have thrown handfuls of coins into it. I wonder if it’s the same people who put chewing gum under restaurant tables. Who the fuck is doing that?
The coins-in-pool phenomenon reaffirms my hypothesis that the quickest and surest way for me to achieve my fortune is to create a chain of trendy wishing-wells not unlike Starbucks. I could call it Mybucks, because that’s literally what it would be. Naw, that’s a stupid fucking name. By the time I cut the ribbon I’ll have a way better name because I’ll hire a marketing strategy genius to brand my wishing well as really upper-crust and to convince people that my wishing well chain is the absolute best in the entire world. Creme de la creme. I’d sort of want the Cognac XO analog to wishing wells, whatever that is. A wishing well that inspires loyalty. A wishing well that will make people scoff at the other wishing wells the way they scoff at cheap coffee, cheap cigars or cheap wine. “Sorry man, but I only use Russ of America brand wishing wells, they’re way better than that stupid seagull shit-encrusted wishing well in Marina Del Rey. My cousin is a wishing well expert and he says that the RCoA brand is tops and that I should accept no substitutes on account of I’m a superstitious high roller!” And yes, I’d want to have exclusive contracts with top casinos, hotels, and other venues to install about 200 of my wishing wells all throughout Vegas. Ooh, and in Dubai! I’ll be the Dubai wishing well mogul! I’m not sure if wishing is against the Islamic faith, but you can guarantee that if there are people in Dubai, and a wishing well in Dubai, then Dubai people will put Dubai coins in the wishing well in Dubai, Islam or not. It’s science.
Whomever designs this wishing well would have to make it a real sweet piece of ass. Maybe delicious-looking imported Italian marble or some kind of special fountain that shoots water out of gorgeous robotic chrome nipples. Sexy blue and purple lighting for after hours like a space-age bachelor pad. Maybe some mist and a disco ball. Esquivel playing softly from speakers hidden in fake boulders. I’m not sure. But it’d be a hell of a sight to see whatever it looked like. Shiny, clean, sexy, smooth, sleek and mod. Maybe we’d have a different design theme for each well. Kind of like Fry’s Electronics. Zen, space ships, ancient Egypt, old Holland, verdant Irish knolls, lots of gold trim and frescoes. Like a really classy miniature golf course. There’d probably be a way to pick lottery numbers and special designer cubby holes in which to aim your coins if you wanted to wish for people’s health and other jive like that. But not bullseyes because we don’t want the thing to look like a fuckin’ SkeeBall. And as part of the branding we’d spread some propaganda so that people knew that my chain of wishing wells are extra famous for giving extra good luck, especially if you put extra money into the wishing well. Fuck pennies, you cheap motherfucker! Throw a roll of quarters in there if you want to maybe have your wish come true. Wrap a $20 around a pebble and toss it in. Don’t worry, we have dryers. It’s not very scientific, but if people give money to psychics on the belief that those thieving turds can discern the future by playing solitaire with a spooky deck of cards, I don’t see why that same person wouldn’t give me all of their spare change on the unrealistic expectation that they’d somehow prosper for it. Humans are ridiculously superstitious and they deserve to voluntarily empty their pockets for my benefit, and in this economy (here we go again with that expression…) I don’t mind helping them out.
Brother, can you spare a dime?
[c] 2009 Russ of America
(Gratitudes to my lovely bebbeboo for discovering that nasty weave fountain with me in November 2008)
PS: Yes, I’m aware that the title of this article is grammatically incorrect.
I’ve been reading news articles lately about a single Californian woman, Nadya Suleman, who had octuplets because allegedly she was obsessed with the idea of having children. She’d contracted with doctors to provide her with in vitro fertility treatment and had six embryos implanted in her womb. It deserves to be mentioned that she already had 6 children. There has been a lot of talk about the ethical nature of this arrangement and whether or not doctors violated common sense or medical guidelines in their treatment of her, but I’m not going to get involved in all of that because I’m not so good with debate and I don’t figure that her silly behavior really concerns me.
What I am concerned with is a very valuable story that I need to impart upon you. Like Nadya Suleman, I’ve made some interesting decisions in my life recently. I began a high-protein, low carb, low fiber diet. I’ve been snacking on a ridiculous amount of cheese and meat, drinking a lot of tea, coffee, soda and alcohol, and I’ve not been adhering to my life motto, to “keep it moist”. I’ve always thought that was a pretty good life motto as far as life mottoes go.
I’m not going to give you all of the details of my tale, because it’s quite lengthy for a blog and is more suitable only for a discriminating, understanding, non-judgmental and very generous paying audience — possibly someone who might watch a movie of the week — but I will tell you that I had a recent medical emergency deserving of national attention. I had the misfortune to deliver a breached birth of the waste variety. I awoke one morning prepared for my morning constitutional but was unable to produce because of severe dehydration. I administered an emergency Fleet enema to no success and my body began to cramp painfully in anticipation of relief, forcing me into excruciating contortions upon the floor of my water closet. I wailed in great pain that someone might come to my rescue.
If not for the grace of God, the experimental acupressure treatments administered by my quick-thinking girlfriend, (who had access to a wiki article on constipation,) and the forcing of water into my colon, I easily could have died right there on the recently Swiffered vinyl, yet another victim of irresponsible dietary choices and the violent deuce-oriented repercussions of my decisions.
The full story takes the viewer back to my youth when I first experienced painful rectal blockage, and it continues into my current adult life where I have occasionally endured the persecution of dense brick-house dumps. My tale is a rich one indeed and I’m sure that you will agree that I need to get my story out to any and everybody who could possibly identify with me. To this extent, I am willing to sell the rights to my deuce exclusive for a paltry $2,000,000.00 USD.
Please feel free to contact me through this blog so that we can arrange for the transfer of the funds. After the funds clear I will impart upon you the most wicked tale of toilet woe, a story so gruesome your toes will curl and you will pop a hemorrhoid purely out of sympathy for me. I accept PayPal.
I’ve heard of people who play the lottery and pray earnestly that they win. I’m sure that God loves a gambler. He must! After all, you took a gamble on him (instead of one of those other gods) so why wouldn’t he reward you? It seems the honorable thing to do. On the other hand, I wonder how God’s cabinet handles these kinds of requests. Does he have a reason to reward a person who asks to win the lottery? Would he? Is it in his divine grace, or would he favor someone who, instead of praying to win the lottery, prayed instead that there would be significant tax cuts for all individuals. If I were running things I’d reward the person who prays for the good of all humankind instead of the good of one person. Then again, if I were in charge of the universe, I’d be more lax in my rules. I’d let you get into heaven without accepting Jesus Christ as your personal savior, as long as you were doing good deeds. But as the pious will tell you, God works in mysterious ways and His will can’t be predicted or explained. I’m just sayin’ that it would be a nicer gesture that a greater number of people would save a couple of grand per year rather than one person getting $100,000,000.00. It just seems more fair from my unheavenly perspective.
I wonder a lot of things, and that often prevents me from having a day job.