The Once in a Lifetime, Guaranteed, Sure Fire, Can’t Miss Ticket to Wealth:
And other Fairy Tales.
I believe P.T. Barnum put it quite admirably when he said, “There’s a sucker born every minute.”
In the interest of political correctness, and so as not to offend anyone, (my self included), we’ll just say that the lure of easy money tends to make many of us Rubes.” Rube is a much nicer word; wouldn’t you agree? Rube hints of gems; only semi-precious gems, but gems none the less.
I usually banish any type of “Once in a Lifetime Opportunity” advertisement, or “You may already be a winner”, emblazoned letters directly to the shredder, and set my email to automatically zap that bane of our existence; spam.
Unfortunately, I occasionally have a “Rube” moment. The allure of striking gold from the comfort of my swivel chair, especially when properly pitched, can get through even the most currently upgraded, state of the art, fertilizer blocking mental software.
Apparently, I must have missed one of the automatic updates for my fertilizer blocking software a few months ago when one of my coworkers, (downgraded to coworker from friend), approached me with a sure fire, can’t miss way to buy the mountain getaway I’d been dreaming about for many years, a new truck and still have enough left over to be able to put the kids through college. To sweeten the pot, he went right for the sweet spot.
“Just think about it; no more domestic beer, Buddy! It’ll be nothing but imported from now on, Old Pal!”
The thought did, albeit briefly, cross my mind that if his proposal was that good, why was he still sitting at the desk behind me? Why wasn’t he sitting on a beach in Aruba, surrounded by supermodels and soaking up the sun?
As I said, being a Rube has the occasional brain fart effect on your higher thought processes. I now had glitz and glitter visions of a lifetime supply of imported beer, as well as images of my self in that new pick-up, crashing around in my glory addled brain.
“Aw, come on. Nothing’s that easy! If it were, everyone would be doing it!” I laughed. I didn’t ride the short bus all the way through school.
“But this is one of those overlooked, sure things!” he insisted. “I tried it on a small scale and got a 790% return on my investment in a month! If I went to the mat with it, I’d be sitting in that mountain place you keep whining about, laughing at you right now. I’m letting you in on the ground floor, Buddy!”
All I kept hearing, echoing through the deepest, cobweb infested, recesses of my mind, was the 790% return when yet another of the files in my fertilizer blocking program corrupted, rendering it useless. The blue screen flashed; then faded to black.
Had I read about this sure fire, can’t miss, once in a lifetime opportunity in some form letter, or saw it on one of those infomercials that clog the airways after midnight, preempting quality TV like reruns of Abbott and Costello movies, that would have been one thing. Hearing it from a “friend”, and not a testimonial from Alice May Fenderburger from Peoria, IL, calling me a “Rube” because I wasn’t making millions by growing mushrooms in my basement like she did, adds a certain credibility that lulls you into a false sense of security.
Let’s face it; everyone wants to be rich. Who in their right mind wants to wake up every morning and go to the same old place to toil and sweat at the same old job to make someone else rich? Rain or shine, sometimes ailing, it’s the nine to five or starve to death while living in a cardboard box beside an old railroad siding.
Think of it; no longer would your mailbox be filled to the door with bills and advertisements! Rich people have “people” to sort the ads out, and other “people” to take care of the bills, while they go to exotic places, have things lifted and tucked, and enjoy the things in life that our sweat equity provides for them.
As my “coworker” pitched away, and those delusions of grandeur flashed before my eyes, I figured, “What the Heck.” I buy lottery tickets, occasionally, and that’s about as big a long shot as there is.
This particular “can’t miss, sure thing, ticket to paradise” involved mailing a dollar to each of six people on a list, moving the top name off the list and putting mine on the bottom. Then, all that was left was to mail off a few more letters and ask the recipients to do the same while I sat back and raked in the millions.
“And Buddy, the money comes pouring in!”
This had chain letter written all over it. I’d heard about them, pro and con, (mostly con), and started to lose interest until he threw out that 790% again.
He’d really missed his calling. Either he was meant to be a used car salesman, or the rumors were true and my Mother had, in fact, raised a fool.
I let him finish, and was about to say “thanks, but no thanks”, when an idea struck me. This had the makings of a great article. I could try it as an experiment, document my results in a scientific and correct manner and, if it failed, I might be able to recoup some of the 790% I was pretty well sure I wasn’t going to get anyway.
That and, hopefully, save a few other perspective “Rube’s” from repeating my mistake.
I let the seed fester over night, and the next morning, I signed a pact with the devil.
“This is really all there is to it,” he exaggerated, (OK, he downright lied), handing the original letter to me.
This was the letter. This single piece of paper was to be the catalyst to my immersion into the annuls of the rich and famous.
After reading it thoroughly, twice, I questioned the math involved, so I started breaking everything down into dollars and cents.
This key to the kingdom’s instructions guaranteed that all I had to do was send the initial six dollars, one each, to each of the names on the list, wrapped in a letter asking that they add me to their list. This, according to the letter, made it legal because I was requesting and paying for a service. I felt better knowing I was staying on the right side of the law. I don’t photograph well.
At least I know those six new “millionaires” got a dollar of their investment back.
Step two: make 200 copies of the original letter. I was taking no chances. I followed the instructions in the letter, to the letter.
Wait a minute!? Two-hundred!
I went, reluctantly, to the local office supply center and had the copies made. That was thirty-five dollars! I kept telling myself that this was a potent letter; three pages, and one typed on both sides! Thirty five dollars could hardly do them justice given their money making potential.
Had I been a braver soul, I would have made the copies at work. A last great act of defiance against the tyranny and oppression I had suffered lo these many years. Unfortunately, I was cursed with an honest streak and, besides, they electronically monitor the copiers. I have a deep rooted affinity to being homeless.
The grand total was now at forty-one dollars, counting the initial six dollars I needed to ante up and become a member of this elite entrepreneurial venture. No biggie. I’d just postpone having my golf clubs re-gripped for a week or so.
This is where it gets interesting.
I called the “recommended” mailing list supplier listed on the letter and, without even asking whether I was looking for a list of people who watched reruns of Hogan’s Hero’s, or those who collected antique chamber pots, the lovely voice on the other end, (she must have been telepathic), guaranteed to send me a list of people who had, just recently, requested multi-level marketing information for the tidy sum of a meager forty-five dollars for 200, can’t miss, fresh off the press, names. The letter must have been somewhat dated. It clearly stated that I could get two-hundred names for twenty-seven dollars. Oh well, inflation strikes everyone. Besides, having a telepath on staff must really raise their overhead.
I’d be willing to bet the initial six dollars that the next “Rube” who called would get a list with a real fresh name on it.
I made a mental note to add an atomic powered paper shredder to my Christmas list.
The thought did cross my mind, shortly after I gave her my credit card information, that the forty-five dollars would have been better spent buying the new and improved version of the latest fertilizer blocking software, but I digress.
Total expenditure up to this point: eighty-six dollars, and we’re still not home yet.
Mail carriers swear an oath, I’ve heard anyway, to insure that neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow, nor wind, nor dead-of-night shall deter them from delivering the mail. That is, of course, unless there are no stamps on said mail. I’ve heard they frown on it, actually.
Trip to the Post office, one-hundred and two dollars counting seventy-eight dollars for the 200 stamps, and fourteen-dollars for the semi annual rental of a post office box. I wasn’t rich enough, yet, to afford “people” to sort the ads from the important stuff: damage to my debt card: apocalyptic!
New grand total: A mere one-hundred-eighty-eight dollars.
But who cares, right? In a few short weeks, I was going to need an armored truck to carry my piles of one dollar bills to the bank.
Did I fail to mention that I needed 200 envelopes for these letters to be sealed in? I ask because I forgot to get them when I went to the office supply store to have the copies made.
Additional trip to the office supply store: eight dollars, (not counting gas!)
My debit card was smoking!
I work hard and maintain a fairly descent lifestyle, but the now, one day, un-budgeted, hit of one-hundred-ninety-six dollars, tax included, was going to make playing golf that Saturday a little bit of a strain. So much for that cooler of imported beer I’d planned to bring along. It was going to be domestic all the way; and probably not one of the better domestic’s, either.
“So what!” you say; what’s two-hundred dollars when you stand to make zillions, (or was that millions? I’ve forgotten).
Someone had to collate, fold, stuff, address, press, starch and, eventually cart all these sure fire retirement accounts to the post office.
Let me state here, for the record, that my girlfriend is a real trooper, salt of the earth kind of lady that would do anything for me.
Well, almost anything.
It seems that when it came down to the “labor intensive” part of this zillion dollar sure fire venture, her Aunt Zelda, (whom I’d never met; or even heard of for that matter), came down with lumbago or something like that, and required immediate attention.
She’s a regular Florence Nightingale, my girlfriend.
After a brief trip to my desk to surf the net a little and sign my sweetheart up for every beauty secret, weight loss and other, less pleasant, newsgroup and ezine I could find, I started stuffing.
I got through the first fifty without much more than a little carpal tunnel pain. I could have gotten that from my wrist positioning while using my laptop. I’ll write that off as a job related injury, unconnected to my new enterprise.
After seventy-five or so, the paper cuts started.
Let me publicly apologize here to anyone who received one of my, can’t miss, once in a lifetime offers to share in this sure-fire, can’t lose once in a lifetime venture, for any bloodstains. I’ve had all my shots.
I’d lost any sense of time or space after one-hundred. If the seal smells slightly of domestic beer, forgive me. Stuffing envelopes is hard work! By now, even domestic beer tasted better than the glue on those envelopes.
Somewhere around one-hundred and fifty, I was getting anemic from the multitude of paper cuts and the resultant blood loss.
Fearing the remaining letters would start looking like something they’d find at a crime scene on CSI , (Las Vegas, not Miami), I took a break, called my girlfriend, (I’d find out when she gets home exactly what I called her, I’m sure), then went back on line to add my “coworker” to all the lists I had earlier added my girlfriend too, as well as a few that would have him questioning his gender when the “information he requested” reached him. At least the guys in the office would get a few laughs Monday morning when he checked his email!
Somehow, apparently with great intestinal fortitude, a “quitters never wins” attitude, and the six-pack of “imported” beer my girlfriend brought home with her as a peace offering, I managed to get every last one of those little meal tickets, signed, sealed and ready for delivery.
I looked upon each of my little accomplishments fondly as a tear streamed down my cheek, (those paper cuts really smart after a while).
I gazed at each neatly sealed, geometrically addressed envelope as a nail in my soon to be mountain retreat. I pictured a hot tub on a mammoth deck overlooking a peaceful valley, connecting through a throng of French doors to an office the size of Rhode Island with a bar, pool table, polo ponies……all the things the rich and famous have.
And I was gonna have people! Lots of people, People on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week just to do my bidding and cater to my every whim.
I’d have two people just to tee up my golf balls, two to light my cigars, (one to snip off the tip and one ready with the lighter). More importantly, I’d have my key people sit behind huge banks of computers and sign up every boss, enemy and ex-wife I ever had for the aforementioned mailing lists! At the rate the web is expanding, the list of annoying lists will be infinite. I was going to need a lot of “people” to insure those who had offended the newest king of the heap got their just deserts, (especially Stinky Winslow from fifth grade PE class!).
I became mad with power.
I swaggered to the front porch, fist raised in victory, and extolled the neighborhood, in no uncertain terms, that “I had made it!”
I began my dissertation by assuring them that I would be a kind and just ruler and that their place in my domain, possibly even as members of my key staff of “people”, was assured. They had been good neighbors and were there with me through the hard times.
As it turns out, the local police have no sense of humor when a disturbing the peace call forces them to leave the donut shop to make a visit to your home at two AM.
My girlfriend smoothed the situation over with the police, who graciously agreed that if I remained inside, and was properly sedated, they’d forget all about it. I, on the other hand, mentally added Mrs. Glickman, two houses down, to my list, and skulked back inside, stifled, yet undaunted.
I spent all day Sunday, splayed out in my recliner, mentally spending my millions. I stretched the limits of Autocad, designing my mountain retreat, breaking only long enough to add Mrs. Glickman to a few lists. I had calmed considerably over night; the thought of all that money made it hard to be vengeful.
Monday finally came. I made my pre-work trek to the Post Office to deposit my two-hundred little gems safely in the capable hands of the US Government. So what if I was late to work? I wasn’t going to be working for “the man” much longer, anyway. As a matter of fact, I had, sometime during my delirium that Saturday night, composed a rather witty letter of resignation, equipped with pictures I had from a few of the company Christmas parties and annual picnics.
For Romeo, parting was such sweet sorrow. For me, it was going to be a movie of the week! I was going out in style. I even had plans of having my letter of resignation delivered to the president of the company via Stripper-gram, (I’d certainly have plenty of one dollar bills to pay for it!)
My soon found wealth knew no limits. Within a few short weeks, I was gonna be somebody!
I contained myself, somewhat, by checking the mailbox only twice a day, (Ok, three times that following Saturday).
Nothing.
No biggie, right? If you listened to the competition’s ads during the half time commercials, the post office wasn’t exactly the epitome of expediency, anyway.
I sat down that Sunday and rationalized the entire process, computing the odds of how many of my perfectly prepared letters were now confetti at the bottom of someone else’s paper shredder. My guess was about 80%, but, being ever the optimist, and to avoid having to spend my remaining years on anti-depressants, I euphemistically settled on 30%. That meant that, at that very moment, Mrs. Gladys J. Periwinkle and Mr. Ralph Q. Papanono were sitting among friends and family, preparing to enter into the inner sanctum of fame and fortune; each with six dollars and a wad of postage stamps in hand.
Next week would be better. I just knew it. I had a feeling deep down in the pit of my stomach, (which I later determined was probably an after effect of the envelope glue and the domestic beer), that the next week was going to be National Millionaire’s Week, and I was going to be perched atop the lead float in all my wealthy glory, swathed in satin and bejeweled in gold.
By Wednesday, my twice-daily post office visits were starting to draw attention from the clerks at the counter. Given their nature to be somewhat leery of people wandering aimlessly, I did the honorable thing and cut my visits to once daily.
Thursday was my lucky day!
Well, sort of.
There, perched precariously inside my box, was a solitary letter
Taking it gingerly from its perch, I could feel good fortune emanating through the paper. This letter exuded fame and fortune.
I had purchased a special letter opener on one of my numerous trips to the office supply store just for the occasion. Taking the letter to one of the tables, away from prying eyes, I wielded the ornate opener like a knight about to do battle, and opened that first letter with the practiced precision of a surgeon.
The names my “coworker” had for me that Monday when he realized who had enrolled him in the sex change program at the Swedish hospital, couldn’t compare to the “platitudes”, (and I use that term loosely), that spewed forth from the blue fog oozing from that envelope.
I’ll paraphrase here for the benefit of the weak at heart, but there was some mention as to my ancestry, my parents ancestry, my political beliefs, my appearance and multiple accusations that I may or may not have a penchant for wearing woman’s undergarments, (that one hurt most!).
Needless to say, Mr. J.P. Hockenship from Bendover, AK was, at his rather terse request, off my mailing list. His loss. Some people just weren’t meant to be rich.
I later added him to the other list with Mrs. Glickman and my coworker, but that’s another story all together.
The next morning proved to be a bonanza!
Twenty-two letters magically appeared in my tiny little piggy bank! I was beside myself with joy.
Moving quickly to one of the side tables, lucky opener at the ready, I looked lustfully at the letters I was certain held little green pieces of Heaven and my ticket to the big leagues.
Unfortunately, this batch all sported official looking yellow stickers informing me that the now unlucky individuals I had toiled to include in my surefire, can’t miss venture were no longer at that address, never lived at that address, or must have moved and had their property demolished because their addresses weren’t addresses at all.
I guess the telepath working at the mailing list company must have had a brain fart or a sinus infection when she prepared my guaranteed list of sure fire, fresh off the press names.
After a few more weeks, and fewer and fewer trips to the post office, all my efforts netted me a grand total of a whopping one-hundred-seventy-six dollars: in the negative, that is.
Yes, there were a few other “Rubes” out there, but the promises of fame and fortune were no more than a fertilizer delivery from a “coworker, who now holds a place of honor on my “favorites” list.
As I later learned, my “benefactor” had taken on a slightly different chain letter enterprise in which he was required to send five dollars to the top name on the list, removing that name and adding his to the bottom, then sending the list to 20, not 200 other, worthy Rube’s. I was the “to the mat” experiment and, as is usually the case with guinea pigs during laboratory testing, I, like my investment, was expendable.
In the words of Thomas Tusser, “A Fool and His Money are Soon Parted.”
As is almost always the case with get rich quick schemes, regardless of how well presented, everything has a price tag, and nothing but bad advice comes for free.
The next time a can’t miss, sure fire, guaranteed opportunity knocks; don’t answer!
See you after the shock therapy session!
Order your copy of my latest Contemporary Erotic Romance novel, "The Paramedic."
You can read more of my short stories, or order "The Paramedic" at www.bgreenleaf.com
