Advice from a Powerball Winner

 From 2015, More Powerballin’ Times:

I don't want to be melodramatic, but life is hard. It can be staggering. We're all surrounded by adversity, overly battle-tested and under-rewarded. It’s all too expensive, somehow over 99% of people are getting owned by less than 1%. Sometimes I feel like I'm on the brink of hopelessness, full of dread for major problems that keep getting worse like climate change and wealth inequality--plus some of my favorite foods give me diarrhea. Not cool! And I’ve never even been oppressed by bigotry, nor felt singled out by the brutality of random tragedy, when it must feel like God or the lack thereof straightup mocks you: “Also deal with this.”

But I've been told to calm down and stop complaining—to persevere in the face of that adversity. That was the gist of the advice I got from a commenter on my blog, anyway, and I've decided to turn his message over to you. It's the manifesto of a young man with a bold claim to all the answers. He might be onto something, and I'll leave it to you to feel happy or sad about that. Here's the philosophy of a brash go-getter who referred to himself as “President Boobs Magnet.”

 

President BM:

Yo, I found your name and site by accident while Googling 'Nips Ogle,' and I guess I'm not the best speller in the world. Doesn’t matter. I gotta call bullshit on some of your sentences and stuff. Keeping a positive state of mind might be a challenge to a bitchy bum, but I'm here to tell you that life really isn't that hard. If you want to succeed, all you have to do is man up, get out there and squeeze the world where it hurts, and correctly guess all six numbers of the Powerball drawing like I did.

Listen here, crybaby. Name's President Boobs Magnet. There was a different, worse name on my birth certificate, but I decided to remix my whole persona the day I earned my man card by winning that $550,000,000 jackpot. I also celebrated with family and friends by raging at a Chuck E. Cheese's on Ecstasy. Looking back, a lot of cool shit went down on my 18th birthday.

After skimming through a story you did, I’d say you need a swift boot to the ass, courtesy of the boot of a millionaire. And my boots are made of diamond-studded gold, son, so you'd best have an insurance card. Your big words don't scare me. Hell, anyone can self-publish two books. I did! The first was called Books Are for Losers. I'm too rich to care about the irony. It's 70 pages of dope rhymes plus some finger paintings inspired by Breaking Bad. (Bitch, yo, bitch, blue meth! You da man, Jesse Pinkman!!!) My second effort was The Powerballin' Pimp, an erotic pop-up book that has been banned in 24 countries and much of the Bible Belt.

So, I got advice. Even though you failed to win the Powerball on your 18th birthday like so many other losers, you can still make something of your life. As we say at the marina, you must pull yourself up by the bootstraps before you can pull your head out of your butt--and when I say “self,” I mean “balls,” and when I say “butt,” I mean “purse.” You'd better stop with the excuses, reach up for that brass ring, and show that Powerball who's wearin' the pants.

The idea of me reading your complaints is whack. You think my life has been perfect and painless??? What about those first 17 years when I didn't have an 11-figure bank account if you include the cents? Do you think I could afford the Batmobile from Batman Begins when I bought my first car? Hell no. I had to wait until I was 18 to do that. My dad's hookup as the owner of a dealership could only manage me a measly 2009 Lexus. And did I complain? Only a little bit.

And do you think I've lost my drive just because I'll never have to work another day in my life? Go frig yourself. I stay busy. My Tuesdays and Thursdays are dedicated to chugging bottles of blue Gatorade and Cristal and whizzing off the top of a parking garage.

Also, my weekends are pretty well booked with the ultimate test of endurance: Marathons. Sex marathons, that is. And they don't always go perfectly. This one Swiss volleyball player even left me with a bruised hip that kind of hurt for two days. So no, to answer my own "???” from before, my life is NOT all perfect and painless.

You know, not everyone has what it takes to hire disgraced Food Network chefs to cook their meals, or pay the principal ten-grand to fart into the microphone on graduation day, or visit the White House to see the quote-unquote “real president,” only to give that broke-ass chump the finger. But winners find a way to make it happen. So, quit feeling sorry for yourself, manifest your destiny, and tell those 1: 175,223,510 odds they should have their doubts about you.

Real Ballers pick their own numbers, by the way. Do you think a stroke of genius like 11, 19, 29, 32, 54, 12 was an accident? Get real. Those are the numbers of my all-time favorite New England Patriots. I put my trust in the champs with Tom “Gisele Bangin'” Brady as the Powerball and BOOM! A cool half-billion, yo.

If you don't have the sack to get rich like me and those football dudes, so be it. But I'll tell you what the best part of being mad-ass rich is. It's claiming Devils Lake State Park as your backyard, having all the dummies who run onto the field during ballgames brought to you in chains, then set loose in the wild like frantic prey—with former pop star Aaron Carter by your side as gun caddie, wingman, second banana, source on what it's like to have a Backstreet Boy for an older brother, lackey, and personal slave. A.C. is learning the hard way that real friendship means answering the freaking fan mail I sent him in 2003, when I just wanted to know why I wasn't invited to “Aaron's Party." And that's what life is all about.

As for this “fan mail," I'm just about ready to drop the mic. In closing, maybe I can unload a bombshell to prove a point: I didn't even win the jackpot on my first ticket. In fact, all the numbers were wrong on that one. But did I surrender to defeat? No. I learned a lesson—to never trust “quick pick” ever again. Then I looked at the other ticket I bought, and that was the winner.

Now that's what I call perseverance, pussy. 

 

Yours Truly with that Microphone Drop I Mentioned to Show You How a Real Dope Motherfucker Handles His Foreshadowing Bizness,

 

President Boobs Magnet