Making Money

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MAKING MONEY WRITING by Lloyd Harrison Whitling
From http://www.atheistlloyd.com/subweb/makinmoney.html

An asinine idea prevails in our cultures, that a harder working man is most apt to become rich. It prevails, even though evidence to the contrary abounds in our social midst.

This startling insight occurred to me a while ago, when I discovered the reason I'm doomed to be unwealthy. Shocked by such a revelation, so obvious and so unheralded, I froze in my tracks to stare as if I'd discovered it inscribed upon our ceiling. "Amazing!" I repeated at some length, during which my wife and some friends decided I was having some kind of seizures. "Don't bother me," I demanded to the swarthy little ambulance people who came bounding through the door to grab me. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of my own self."

Maybe I ain't so smart as I think. I know I'm not the first to have made my discovery, although maybe those before me saw it in a different light. I do recall a cartoon, from about twenty years ago, in which an ugly little, baldheaded leader-type was depicted holding an ape's hand while he introduced him to his employees. "This is my nephew," it was captioned. "He's too dumb to trust around machinery, so I'm making him your supervisor."

Not only that, I recall a neighbor woman who used to say of a rich acquaintance, "He ain't so hot as he thinks. He can't even wipe his own ass without help!"

Though never uttered, the secret of success is openly evidenced by the public actions of our nation's elected officials, the most potent of whom breathe enigmatic slogans about "individual initiative", "private enterprise", and "money in the bank" while surrounding themselves with advisory minions who show how paper dollars and metal coins can be made to flow like water.

It's our money that's being spent, by aides to those advisors who, in the capacity their positions entitle, convince us to like it. "It's good for us," we somehow end up believing, "when somebody we don't even know or give a hoot about can drive around in a chauffeured Cadillac while our secondhand Plymouth is scattered all over the inside of our garage while we scrape up the money for its second rebuild." Or: ". . . can live in a castle  while we wait 'til payday  to buy that last piece of paneling we couldn't swing last week even though it's no longer on sale and we'll have to pay the full price."

Oh, no, I'm not being venomous. No way! I've learned a great lesson from such men and I'm working on how to apply it by continually observing cause and effect as these minions will make it function.

Watching elections, for example, I've learned that subtle dishonesty is a prerequisite for making it big. Straightforward dishonesty is out. Definitely! Those who achieve their aims  have learned to tell the truth in such a way as to make voters believe they've said most of the many different things they wanted to hear. Those who get all the way to the top, it has become perfectly clear, are experts at avoiding the issues all together, while making it look like they're taking a hard-line approach.

They can do it while we're perfectly aware of and complaining about it, and know they'll win because we admire them for their balls. Balls bespeaks individuality, the epitome of our expressed national ideals. We are gluttons for our own gullibility.

A good one was foisted onto our forefathers by their own peers who were making it, and we continue believing in it not only because we have nothing else to believe in and hate to admit we are wrong, but because it is such damned good fun.

We are a nation full of American geniuses, I have learned from studying all of this. A whole bunch of enterprises have been built upon slogans about "do it yourself" American individuality. "But, Mother, I'd rather do it myself!" has been with us since its inception. Now, we're even teaching our women to masturbate! In order to stay on top, men will have to start doing it themselves in public.

Not that we haven't been! Freud quite adequately remonstrated on how everything we do is related to sex. Great orators are masturbating their tongues, for instance. Good stories, writers are instructed, are required to reach a climax. Those who hold back information are only trying to make the act last longer. Writers have to do it to titillate their readers with suspense. That's why I haven't told you what my secret is: So I can sneak it in along toward the end and delight you with it, so you'll let me titillate you again in the future. "Was it good for you, too, darling?" I'm not masturbating, you see, and that's part of my secret. I've got you, and now we're just fucking around with pregnant ideas.

The lecturer has his audience to fuck with, the politician his voters, the boss his employees, storekeepers their customers. Philosophers have orgasmic insights  to share in intercourse with friends. Some people have made a living by getting people to pay for the privilege of sharing in the ecstasy wrought by such orgasmic experiences. Preachers share their knowledge with vast congregations, of how to get to

Heaven when the angels come, and how to put off their pleasure a little longer so it'll be all the greater when they get there.

Women suffering penis envy already know what my insight was about, although their expressions of it are not the same as mine; which will keep them from utilizing such knowledge to gain a higher station in their lives. Instead, many of them act it out in such ways as to join police forces so they can catch criminals by spraying them with bullets from their pistols, or writing tickets with a pen (is).

Editors know my secret, although perhaps they've never shared the insight by which that secret became mine. Because of their knowledge, I shall utilize this space to give advice to other writers: Don't ever take a writing course.  All writing courses are filled with such misinformation as that which requires you to learn how to express yourself as shortly and sweetly as possible. The workers who've made successes of those places follow a formula, from  which their employers have gleaned a lot of wealth: It is to teach you how to develop your skills in ways entirely unnatural, via methods you'll have to unlearn once you really start writing. The truth is, nobody knows how to write, not even editors. Ask them why they buy what they do for their magazines, and they'll only stare at you blankly. worse, you become an ignorant creep in their eyes because you were stupid enough to dare want to know (thus proving to them you don't).

I studied writing: Not only did I get fucked and forced to pay for it, I became married to a set of wrong ideas from which I'm still struggling to divorce myself. Sounds sexy, but it stinks like rotten crotch. While I struggled to learn how to vividly and beautifully express an idea in a hundred words or less, I did not know and was never told that every publisher has a special editor with only one job:

He (or she, okay?) sits each day by a slot through which manuscripts enter from the mails. His (or her, okay?) job is to open all of them and see if they meet the publisher's primary requirements.

One of those primary requirements has to do with word length (not the length of words, but their numbers) which, for most houses looking at short stories and articles, , must be 2-3 thousand words. This first editor can barely read, but can count like a computer on all eleven thumbs. Anything tallying one thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine or less is automatically repackaged (if sufficient postage arrived with it) and sent to a holding pen where it waits eight or twelve weeks and then is returned.

That's why so many articles and stories, including this one, are filled with irrelevancies. Most authors have learned they have to fill in all the empty space which starts one paragraph before the end, and they have to hold back their secret until that point, or anything which comes after it will do so only as the result of a lot of flaccid pumping.

So, why bother taking a speed-reading course? It's just another way of getting fucked and married to wrong ideas. Try my method instead: The first and last paragraphs will often tell the whole story.

But, now the foreplay is over and I can begin. If I can maintain control, we both will arrive mutually at the climax, and blow our minds with the juicy knowledge stored within these glandular words about my own life I will prod you with, wherein my secret is stored, and from where--Surprise!--it shall erupt.

My sheer misfortune, it was, to have been born with the genes of a mechanical genius, which forced me to become a man capable of doing anything with my hands, and the survival instinct which drove me to develop my talents in an environment of intellectual paucity.

I was a true ugly duckling at the beginning, with gangling, clumsy arms and legs, and fingers too long and stiff-jointed to be dextrous. I suffered the throes of being tongue-tied besides being filled with ideas impossible of oral expression, my handwriting too illegible to get my points across. I couldn't read it myself. My parents had no money for a typewriter and, even were that not so, I'd have been too clumsy to properly operate the keys.

Through will-power gleaned from sheer terror, my instincts for survival prevailed. Mocked, made the butt of laughter by those more able than me, I was forced to develop an amazing agility which allowed me to successfully flee from threatening occasions. My treacherous peers soon learned how to trap me into corners and against walls, where, with their greater numbers, I could be pummeled into a sniveling, bony hulk. I then learned to climb, straight up, with nothing apparent there to support my feathery weight; my fingers and arms thus gained coordination which still serves me well for other purposes. I learned to leap from tall buildings on a single bound, and land on swift feet already running.

Naturally, because of such circumstances, I grew up with a great suspicion and dread of my fellow man. Women frightened me even more, those fearsome, silky creatures so soft and luxurious, with their long, slashing nails and sharp voices!--whose lacy underwear and pimply asses  I heard other boys whisper about. I knew I'd never see such for myself, bewitching spectres haunting the corners of my mind and taunting me as viciously in their chilling, mirthful way as any of my field-hardened, sweaty brothers.

I walked around with a hardon for weeks before I dared to complain to my folks about it, and got my mouth washed out with soap and water. I didn't know what the hell caused it!--I wanted to learn. Tough medicine: The hardon went away for a short time. When it came back, I beat it to death and kept my mouth shut. Good thing: It squirted me in the eye! It went away again. When it came back, I quickly decided my own medicine was far better than my mother's.

Learning at such a late age that I could do one thing better than anybody else filled me with enough confidence to try developing expertise in other fields. I learned to fix radios, build doghouses, repair my own bike. I went from there to bigger and bigger things: TV sets, toolsheds, a motorcycle; and then full-fledged carpentry on my own behalf, electronic equipment and meters, and soon refused (after a mechanic cheated me) to let anyone else work on my car.

The world was mine. I was on my way up. Women fed me oysters. I could do anything!

I couldn't figure out how to make money. Some bastards have learned that before me, and they've cornered most of it to hide away somewhere, where it's not available for gullible slobs like you and me. My insight let me figure out how to get my share, and I'm letting you in on my new secret.

So, you see, this thing does all tie together into one meaningful piece of work. And, right there are 2 thousand words, you bastard idiot, I've counted every one of them. You knuckstrous creep, just pass it on to your boss and let him read it.

Now, I've got to pull it off quickly, or the asshole will be panting his head off at 3 thousand and I'll still be humping away.

I've learned it's all in one's attitude: Sure, I know we're taught the virtues of thrift, integrity, things like that. They're beside the point, put there to keep us distracted from the facts. Sure, maybe it's wrong for little boys to go around screwing little girls. I'm not arguing against such as that. But, think of the great lessons those little boys' parents could pass on, besides accomplishing their moral aims, if they would only teach those little boys how to lure other little boys into screwing those little girls for them.

Then, those intelligent mothers wouldn't have to worry about their pretty little boys coming home all ragged up with bloody scratches, a silly, self-satisfied smirk plastered all over their faces. No, they'd be miniature images of their wealthy parents, sexless, tense, and driven to conquest for relief.

That first step on learning the road to wealth is not so bad as it sounds. Take a look at those little boys who allow themselves to be lured, and you'll see the only alternative: They'll grow into men who learned how to do it themselves, who'll marry some fat broad to do it with only to find they'll have to do it for forty years because they'll not only never learn how to talk somebody else into doing it for them, they'll develop a foolish kind of pride that leads them  into thinking it would be wrong to want to. And so, in the end, they'll die penniless of fatigue with life at an age when their wiser brothers are still filled with zestful tensions.

Take a look at the rosters of wealthy men: You'll see the names of hundreds of individuals who never do anything for themselves. Others even hold doors open while they follow beautiful women into hotels (Who knows what they do behind closed doors?). Women bearing roses clenched between their teeth kneel down to tie their shoes. Life, to them, is a game, not work, at which they play by trying to think up another good one to put over on somebody else.

And, their asses are luxuriantly wiped by cascades of warm, flowing water. If you don't know my secret now, you never will.

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If you have read this far, you are the person to have done so.