My Pact With The Devil
'I worked myself up from nothing to a state of extreme poverty.'
Groucho Marx
I dislike talking about money. I'd rather be attacked by a horde of bats than talk about it. Whenever my friends start talking about how my savings for the Russian trip is coming I try to change the topic ('Hey, I got attacked by a horde of bats the other day. Weird huh?'). If they persist I start looking for an oncoming semi-trailer that I can hurl myself in front of. This one time a friend of mine started talking about superannuation and I jumped out of a third-storey window. If it wasn't for a stenographer passing by and breaking my fall (she died instantly) I may have badly fractured my wrists, forcing me to type with my nose.
See, my father has never been good with money. Although he made a large sum of money beating up and robbing Amish people he was very bad at budgeting. He'd spend a lot of cash on useless items, so much so that in certain parts of the South Pacific his name is still synonymous with "bad investments". So although I had a very colourful upbringing surrounded by all sorts of cool things (a jukebox, a personal butler, an African elephant) we'd have to move constantly for fear of having all our belongings repossessed. One day, after my father crashed his third Ferrari, mum collected all the credit cards we had in our house and cut them up, one by one. 'Never,' she said with a sigh, 'get yourself a credit card.'
Now I find myself in the awkward situation of having to get myself a credit card. And once I have my dirty mitts on one of those babies you better believe my first port of call will definitely be to eBay. They've got all sorts of crap there. From broken laser pointers to an 18-year old girl's virginity, everything seems to be for sale. This is where cannibals can buy human body parts. You can get a grilled cheese sandwich with the face of the Virgin Mary. I heard you can even buy New Zealand on that site.
As my mind grapples with the concept of having access to crazy amounts of dough in exchange for your immortal soul I feel a sense of dread descend upon me like a horde of bats. But how can I fight something so encoded in my DNA? And why?
Performs his own stunts,
Fatman
Groucho Marx
I dislike talking about money. I'd rather be attacked by a horde of bats than talk about it. Whenever my friends start talking about how my savings for the Russian trip is coming I try to change the topic ('Hey, I got attacked by a horde of bats the other day. Weird huh?'). If they persist I start looking for an oncoming semi-trailer that I can hurl myself in front of. This one time a friend of mine started talking about superannuation and I jumped out of a third-storey window. If it wasn't for a stenographer passing by and breaking my fall (she died instantly) I may have badly fractured my wrists, forcing me to type with my nose.
See, my father has never been good with money. Although he made a large sum of money beating up and robbing Amish people he was very bad at budgeting. He'd spend a lot of cash on useless items, so much so that in certain parts of the South Pacific his name is still synonymous with "bad investments". So although I had a very colourful upbringing surrounded by all sorts of cool things (a jukebox, a personal butler, an African elephant) we'd have to move constantly for fear of having all our belongings repossessed. One day, after my father crashed his third Ferrari, mum collected all the credit cards we had in our house and cut them up, one by one. 'Never,' she said with a sigh, 'get yourself a credit card.'
Now I find myself in the awkward situation of having to get myself a credit card. And once I have my dirty mitts on one of those babies you better believe my first port of call will definitely be to eBay. They've got all sorts of crap there. From broken laser pointers to an 18-year old girl's virginity, everything seems to be for sale. This is where cannibals can buy human body parts. You can get a grilled cheese sandwich with the face of the Virgin Mary. I heard you can even buy New Zealand on that site.
As my mind grapples with the concept of having access to crazy amounts of dough in exchange for your immortal soul I feel a sense of dread descend upon me like a horde of bats. But how can I fight something so encoded in my DNA? And why?
Performs his own stunts,
Fatman
posted by Fatman | 6:30 pm
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