Money Mules, Come Home

That's it! It's the end of May and I'm fed up with my money mules. They ran off with my money and that's it. No more!

I'd heard the idea bandied around a few times: "You have money to invest, why settle for a minimal gain in the market or something as volatile as gold, vintage cars, or Pokemon cards? Put your trust in human ingenuity, the creative drive, in short, money mules. Trust them! What's the worst that could happen? They can't be all bad. Load up each mule with $100,000, send them forth, and see how much money they bring back. Give them a small percentage and keep the rest."

Yes, I fell for the free steak dinner and seminar. Which so far has cost me $20 million. That's one expensive cut of meat... Now, where the mules are, I don't know. There's a rumor going round the coffee shop that whoever handed out the steaks, or whoever's behind them, loaded the mules in the back of a covered truck and headed off for the Northwest Territories. Meaning we'll never see them again. And after I wasted a month looking out the window...

Still, if they would only come home. At least one, let's say, who could give me a line on the others. I'd love to get my hands on them, to ring their duplicitous little necks, then kick them to the curb, then tar and feather them, and -- you get the idea. Anything but welcome them back with a brotherly kiss. Although, I suppose, if they had a good excuse for their absence, I might listen. Especially if they had a sack of money.

It's possible it's all on the up and up. And that my money mules might still be coming home. Maybe they'll show up all innocent, telling me rightfully, "You didn't give us a deadline. We were making so much money we thought we might as well gather up as much as possible for you." I'd love to hear that, but, really, can life work out as fine as that? Surely not. They've surely seen their advantage; they have my money so they've run. But really, what if? It'd be great to think they were really that industrious, and on my behalf! Although it's much more likely they're just scoundrels, profligates.

I feel like taking a crowbar... Running it up my sleeve... Or maybe down the leg of my pants... A crowbar on each leg... And finding them. I suddenly find they're in a particular nightclub in Boise, let's say, and I show up, a crowbar down each leg. I'm listening to their conversation, their laughing, their boisterousness in buying each other drinks at my expense, and I make the sudden reveal: "It's me!" Suddenly with crowbars flying like nunchucks, heads colliding, screaming, the whole works. "Cheat me out of my money, will ya?!"

Until I get a line on them, frankly what choice do I have but to just forget it? Live and learn. Boise, Helena, Seattle, somewhere up there in that godforsaken country. Let me get my hands on them! Or let me forget the whole thing... It'd be great if just one of them came home, or two. I'd get them separated and grill them. Of course they'd be lying, but I might ferret out some truth by splitting the difference in their stories.

Until I get more answers, the whole money mules thing is done.

Mama Don't Allow

Note: If you're concerned about the lyrics of modern songs, and the negative impact they can have on society and morals, this is the post for you. I also long for the good old days, long ago, when an occasional reference to "hoochie koo" was the worst you'd hear.  Even then, it went over most people's heads, thinking it had something to do with sneezing.

A song that really gets my goat is a country song called "Mama Don't Allow." The key thing in this song is that the instrumentalists in the band have a chance to show off their chops. Seems pleasant enough until you listen closely to the lyrics. In each case, it has to do with disobedience to Mama, as it is clearly stated that she doesn't allow whatever-it-is, the dobro, guitar, piano, etc.

Mama don't allow no guitar pickin' 'round here,
Mama don't allow no guitar pickin' 'round here.
Well, we don't care what Mama don't allow,
We're gonna pick our guitar anyhow.
Mama don't allow no guitar pickin' 'round here.

At which point the guitar picker joyously takes the instrumental break, and I turn it off. Because, in my opinion, that's shameful. If you're just wantonly going against your Mama's wishes, you're flirting with the destruction of society and life as we know it. In my opinion, Mama's will, her desires for us are only good. And whereas it might not be immediately clear to us why Mama would disallow guitar pickin', the piano, the dobro, fiddle, and all the rest, she must have a good reason; it's not necessarily for us to know.

For me, that's the policy that's going to get us furthest in life, accepting Mama's will whether we understand it or not. I firmly believe that. Was I ever disobedient to Mama? I actually was, and I lived to regret it! One day she caught me at the lake, playing with salamanders, when I was clearly told that I should never visit the lake by myself. She was angry, I'm sure, but since her whole concern was for my well-being, I know she was mostly relieved. I hadn't drowned nor suffered salamander poisoning, which was very bad that year.

From that moment on -- and I suffered terrible dreams of being dangled over the fires of hell -- I resolved to treat Mama's word like inviolate law. She said it, and whether her reasons were crystal clear to my feeble mind or entirely inscrutable, that's the way it was. Which policy, incidentally, led to me to be the clearheaded, mentally strong, entirely wise person you know so well today.

But too many people, I'm afraid to say, haven't had those experiences or dreams. And so they've never taken the vow. And these are some of the ones singing this vile song, "Mama Don't Allow." They think they're just having a "good time," laughing it up. Maybe their Mama was broken down in spirit, and kept to herself in the other room, and twiddled her thumbs. If she did, I'm sure she had her reason, worried that her children had somehow tragically slipped her grasp. The other Mamas held her up as an example of what not to do.

Of course I understand life, I understand how it goes. The very nature of music is it appears to grant greater freedom to the soul, which quickly veers off into some dangerous territories. Because if it's received by someone without sense and maturity, they can fall off the deep end just like that. Mama comes running in, her dress up around her face, crying her eyes red, but nothing can bring her children back. The transgression is accomplished, and the foundation of society, at least in miniature, has collapsed.

Somehow, tragically, to will the good is not just in us; it's tough to know the difference. Even Mama, I'm guessing, had to learn it somewhere, probably from her Mama. She knows boundaries are important, that you want to screen yourself off from what is negative. Just like she doesn't want you running in to expose yourself to dangerous viruses and bacteria, so she wants your mental condition to be kept safe.

So, next time you hear some jug band, or acoustic combo, going strong on "Mama Don't Allow," and they're giving you that big old stupid grin like they're enjoying themselves wantonly flaunting their disobedience -- going strong and confident on the dobro, piano, guitar, harmonica, bass, or even drums -- just withdraw from the scene and save yourself. If you can pull a person or two aside and tell them what's really going on, that would be good. But for Mama's sake, don't allow yourself to be pulled back in!

We want to get back to a righteous standard. And we need more Mamas speaking up to their children and loved ones before it's too late. That's my desire in life, now that my own Mama has passed on. I can still remember, of course, and, besides, I'm getting about old enough, music isn't much of a temptation at this point. I hear it from a distance and hobble the opposite direction just as fast as I can.

The Bright Side of B.B. King's Death

First, let me say, I take no delight in the death of anyone. Least of all people I like. There's those I don't like and they die, but I still don't celebrate. I don't, because I'm very busy working on an alibi, and if I'm celebrating, that's a bad sign. On the other hand, if I look unnaturally sad that's suspicious, too.

So I basically have no delight in the death of anyone. Although, of course, I recognize that death comes sooner or later for everyone. Even me, as I know for a fact I will live to 85, then sometime after that--- everyone will be more alive than me. Sad thing to contemplate.

I do the same thing everyone does when someone famous passes, I contemplate it. Like B.B. King. Who was born a particular day a long time ago, then just recently died. Who was B.B. King? He was a famous blues guitarist and singer. He honed his craft and after honing it was really good. This is where B.B. King and I differ. Whereas I play guitar, I'm quite bad at it. And I've sung the blues, also not very good. B.B. King excelled at it and was wanted for public performances. I sang at church a few times, significantly depressing the offering.

The weirdest part about this for me is, I was within 20 feet of B.B. King and yet never laid eyes on him! How is that possible, you wonder? I'll hint at what I mean: He was in his tour bus and I was in the car right behind him, in stopped traffic, mind you. At that time what could I do? Rush his bus and demand entrance? I have my pride. If he knew I was in the car right behind me, he could've made the first move. But he didn't. Stuck up much? I'm not saying yes, I'm not saying no. The long and short of the story is, Neither of us made the first move, so we never met.

Now he goes and dies on me and I haven't got a chance to make it right. Or to insist that he make it right. The time has passed. We had that one moment in the sun, which completely fizzled, thanks to mutual stubbornness, and now we have to live with our regrets. That's me, whereas he took his regrets to his grave. Nothing I wished on him, it just happened.

But today I'm not thinking about how it is when you don't meet. I'm thinking of our relative talents. He was so good, and I'm so poor at playing guitar. But once a man dies -- and this is indisputable -- no matter how good he was before, he's no good now. You can't gainsay that. Which means, at long last -- and it's literally taken all my life -- as poor as I am, I am a better guitar player (and even blues singer!) than B.B. King!

I've been working on my fragile ego for years. But every time someone great passes, I become that much stronger. Whether it's as an actor -- and I'm now a better actor than even many one-time Academy Award winners -- or a musician, or any great artist, my talents, modest as they are, are better. I started young, too. I was six or seven when Buddy Holly died, making me quite the young prodigy! Then other folks steadily passed on as I grew up -- talented people -- bringing forth time after time even greater excellence in me.

In recent years, a lot of the classic rock singers and musicians have unknowingly given me a lot to brag about, with B.B. King being just the latest. It's sad to say goodbye to him, and we were literally that close with the bus and car, but it's as they say, Every dark cloud has a silver lining for someone. Me.

Money Mule Arms Race 2000

Note: I'm off to a slow start on this. Since it's my 2000th post, all of a sudden I'm worried about quality. How to begin? Just begin, stupid...

The last few days I've been worrying myself sick about money mules. It's a big deal because, frankly, I've been putting a lot of money into them. The idea's basically sound: Send money mules (people) out with money, stay at home myself, then let them bring back their earnings. I'd share with them some pittance and keep the rest myself.

The big problem -- it's a poison pill -- is none of them returns. They apparently think, "I've got $100,000 in my hot little hands, I'm footloose and fancy free, why should I return?" Which, I guess, I might also think were I in their position. The bastards!

Now, of course I'm not focused on any of this in a vacuum. There's plenty of others out there, now alerted to the money-making possibilities (and the development rights), jumping into the fray. And as far as I know, coming up with better techniques, ones that actually work.

That being the case, it leaves me more or less high and dry. Except for what a small-time local operator might make at the edges, two-bit stuff, while flying under the radar and keeping his activities lowkey. Similar to small taco places, that once surpassed in quality by the likes of Taco Bell, et. al., just can't compete. We spit out their crap food in a second and flock to the corporate counterpart.

Still, shouldn't a little guy, say, in the money mule business, flourish? It hasn't been proven that he shouldn't. But in any arms race there's going to be winners and losers. Those with the greatest resources have the upper hand.

The time to get busy, then, is now. Find a way to make money mules more trustworthy! There's no time to waste! Time is of the essence, ready or not! To delay is to lose! He who puts his hand to the plow ... something something something.

At this point I'm thinking my go-to strategy has to be to convey to the mules the sense that I like them, appreciate them, and trust them. Do what my mom did to me, with moderate success on her part. If I only can ... But you lose a million or so, as I have, and it does something to your confidence.

One other good tactic might be something like this, give and demand back:

I have five money mules before me. I give each one $100,000, then immediately demand back $50,000. Then half of the remainder, then another half, etc., until they have almost nothing. Then repeat, and repeat time and time again. By evening they're exhausted but hopefully have learned a message.

The arms race is heating up. This much I know for a fact, the big guys have the best psychological teams at their disposal. Just like the Nazis. You have your hands around the throat of an entire nation, of course you can command resources. And what have I got? I'm one guy, no country, no Gestapo, no conglomerate, no company. I'm like the little taco guy, doing my best with diminishing resources. Peddling a little bike and throwing tacos out of the basket and hoping people pay, so to speak.

And yet I need it to work! I have no other option. The money I get from money mules today might very well fund my retirement tomorrow. Depending on how much I lose to them between now and then.... I'll either retire or keep working the system till I die.

2000: OK, that ought to hold everyone, while I express my thanks to myself for 2000 posts since this blog started. In addition to thanks, I'd like to recognize a deep inner beauty in myself that made this moment possible. Everyday, lately, I've sat in silence at the beginning of each morning, and have looked within. I've liked what I've seen, making, almost, two of me. Get that split? I should be up to 4000 by now!

Anyway, it's a measly 2000. I remember 1000 in 2010, and now 2000 in 2015. If it takes me 5 years to do 1000, that means I'll be writing my next self-congratulatory message in 2020. At which point I'll be 67. Is it normal for 62-67 year olds to write blogs like this? Seems a bit abnormal. I know my old friends -- people I know on Facebook -- are busy grilling and taking pictures of their food. Which is also a labor of love. The question is, Do they grill 2000 cuts of meat and stop to congratulate themselves? 

Ruthie Gets Her Man

We have a love match! Old Professor Woolworth and our lovely student union cafeteria lady, Ruthie! With me the middle man, seeking to ensnare Woolworth and three other psychology profs in a compromising position. Little did I know it'd end in a whirlwind mutual seduction and wedding all the same day! For that, I can only thank my lucky stars above.

As it turned out, Woolworth had his eye on Ruthie for many years. But he always figured that his being a lowly psychology professor at the university meant he had no chance with someone at her level. She was always friendly to him, yes, but was she really? As a psych prof he looked for unspoken truths and ulterior motives, to the point he was completely mixed up on which was which. While all that time Ruthie was juicy fruit, ripe for the picking by the right man.

My part in this love story was not completely pure. I'm still trying to get to the bottom of the Money Mule question, Why do money mules always take the money and run, never returning? And I asked four professors to help in the study. But first, as always, I needed to find out if they had scholarship on their minds and not just sex. Enter Ruthie, exquisitely dolled up, a temptation for each.

Sure enough, when my back was turned (so they thought, for I had cameras in nearly every room), each professor failed the test. Professor Morningwood was up first, barely waiting for me to be out of sight. His reasoning was "The early bird gets the worm" He beamed as he got Ruthie alone. "We'll start early and make love throughout the long day!" But she was repulsed, knowing he'd only make hay while the sun shined, then desert her by nightfall.

Ruthie ran, but right into the waiting grasp of Professor Cherrywood. And "grasp" is the right word. Cherrywood is a hands-on kind of guy, always seeking out the sweetest fruit and seeing if it's ripe for the picking. With skill and dexterity, he had Ruthie against the wall, doing his full appraisal. "This is good," he thought, his grubby hands all over her: "Plump, ripe, juicy, with just the right hardness and flavor," before Ruthie had had quite enough and slapped him, leaving Cherrywood in the pits.

Next, Professor Deadwood lurked in the shadows down the hall. He knew he needed her, but he was worried, "What will I do with her if I get her?" Yet he couldn't resist, with her beauty and how exquisitely she was dolled up, and the bountifulness in her every move. So great! Something in the way she moved ... made Deadwood almost move. He was certain he felt a twitch -- could it be? ... his first stirring in years? Yes! He believed it was so. Meds hadn't worked, counseling, and manual rousing techniques had all failed, but now, with his professorial gown around his ankles and trusting the sensation of that surge of confidence, he made his move. Which -- DAMN! -- ended before it began, phantom arousal playing him false...

Watching these encounters on video, I could only shake my head. These men aren't the scholars I need ... They're lecherous! Nothing on their minds but sex! I strode back and forth in the control room, fuming, wondering what I could do now. How can the money mule question be answered if I have no help? It went on like that. I was absolutely lost in confusion, consumed by my own worries. It must have been 20 minutes of pacing and sweating, and I'd lost my focus. Then I suddenly realized, "Ruthie! Woolworth!" Rushing to the panel I pushed all the buttons. Where were they?!

I raced the halls, but hearing nothing could only imagine the worst. When I thought I heard ... yes, it is ... I heard what I can only call the very subtle whispers and cooing of cuddling and loving afterglow. I almost burst in but thought better of it. You sly dog! I thought to myself of Woolworth. You took her in complete sincerity and tenderness and now she's yours ... You are the man for the job! The job of understanding Money Mules. (As it turned out, maybe Ruthie took him.)

Long story short -- let's just say they took each other -- they were totally in love. Woolworth had more going on behind that beard than anyone gave him credit for. And Ruthie, though exquisitely dolled up, was a doll in reality. Neither one had thought they were good enough for the other, and that's what kept them apart. But being alone, apart from the high station of cashiers and low station of psych profs, they realized they were soul mates. I conducted the wedding ceremony. The others served as witnesses. And we would live happily ever after.

As a wedding gift, and payment in part for Money Mule research, I sent them forth with a big box stuffed with $300,000. Whether I'll ever see them again, that I doubt. You send someone out with that kind of money, they've never been known to return.

Keep Your Hands Off Ruthie

My failure to figure out the motives of Money Mules made me a wreck. I asked myself over and over, Why do they always run instead of returning with the money? But there was no satisfactory answer, leaving me, frankly, crumpled and crying. When that happens, I'm a mess. I'm sparking and sizzling, twitching and babbling on my bed, close to destruction; I'm afraid to brush against anything lest I spontaneously combust.

I knew I needed help, but who was qualified for the job? I'm Super Brain, and if I couldn't figure it out, who could? Wracking my mind, I came up with this thought: Those who first taught me the deeper principles of people skills, psychology profs at the university! Maybe, if they put their heads together, their collective intelligence plus my own greater intelligence would give us the answer.

I should probably mention, those guys are shells of their former selves. They're bogged down from reading the same lectures since the early '60s, while I've cruised past them, making me, the student, their master in every way. It has to be a nasty feeling to watch me run laps around them as though they're standing still, but that's what you get if you lose the hold on life and scholarship you once held dear.

Then we must add sex. We all know the go-to rejuvenator for old guys, at least in their fantasies, is sex. You're old and decrepit, like my professors, and you try to prove your abiding mastery of life by sex. The main reason being, the equipment's right there in easy reach. Surely, that guy or that lady feels as I do ... We shall rise together from the ashes! they're thinking. Which, to the rest of us still holding our mental clarity, is obviously vanity.

So, anyway, I got my esteemed profs together, and threw in one fatal juicy apple of temptation by which to test them -- the cashier from the union cafeteria, Ruthie. Were I to see them entirely resolved to scholarship and not thinking of a roll in the hay to prove their scholarly manhood, then and only then could I trust them with the Money Mule question. (This is preliminary stuff. The sex stuff plows the field before we see the harvest, the "meat of the goodie," the answers I really care about.)

There they were, then, gathered in the seminar room. And each of them had his damned eyes on Ruthie, seated next to me, exquisitely dolled up! Perverts! (I would've done her myself, had my brain been just a little looser and slightly more unreliable.)

Of course I first had to set the parameters of our study and call them unto the quest: Why, when you present a Money Mule a sum of money, say $100,000, and send him forth, does he always run and never return?

They looked like they were ready to venture a few good guesses to the question. Before we could dive in, however, I wanted to inform them that I had strict ground rules:

1) Do not approach or in any way come on to Ruthie. Keep your grubby hands off Ruthie.
2) Abide by all the best legal and academic scruples. Give me your best work.
3) A Number 2 pencil is preferable to any and all other numbers. If it ain't Number 2, it's crap.

And that's it. The professors raced forth to find their pencils and bone up on the best legal and academic scruples.

As for me, I fell to my knees where I stood, a shaft of light streaming through the skylight putting me in a very dramatic limelight, and asked the Lord: "Bless them, dear God, if they deserve blessing. But if they're not ready for this important task, please reveal that as well. Thou knowest what I mean."

Of course I referred to Ruthie. She really does have a fantastic allure when she's out of cafeteria scrubs and exquisitely dolled up. I glanced around and reached down, then told myself no.

Money Mules -- Everyone Runs

I believe it was just yesterday, I examined the money-making scheme called "Money Mules," in which selected individuals are presented with a certain amount of money. Their mission is to take it, then bring it back to you with whatever interest, profits, or winnings they made along the way. The idea is that both of you would then share the take. I've so far found one fatal flaw, the "mules" never return.

I'm an optimist by nature. I believe if you gave $100,000 to an infinite number of people, it wouldn't take very many years before you found someone honest. That's a conviction I still maintain, despite the disappointments faced thus far. My vow, first to myself, then to you, is that I will crack this nut, no matter how hard a nut it is to crack.

Some of the research has been promising, verifying objectively, and without any shadow of doubt, that people do indeed run. The data is definitive on that account. The crowning experiment went something like this:

I gave $100,000 to the father of a family. He ran.
I gave $150,000 to the mother of a family. She ran
I gave varying amounts of money to their children, from $50 down to $5. They all ran, except the baby, who had the $5; he or she crawled.
I gave a chew toy to their dog. He ran. Among my other discoveries, German Shepherds run very fast.

What is it about money that makes people, young or old, flee? This is where we need more research. Because the answers surely vary. In the last instance, the father probably fled because he wanted $100,000 more than his family. And the same for the mother. But that doesn't explain the children, willing to flee for such meager amounts. I'm left with the tentative conclusion, they're simply ignorant about money.

The worst thing about it -- other than the breakup of families that might've been saved -- is now these people are fugitives from the state. They cannot come back voluntarily. They would be executed. Yes, I conducted experiments on them. But that's no excuse. I will still file charges. And if the powers that be dare cross my path, I will systematically destroy their families as well, turning them into money mules!

I know, I sound harsh. Yet, I'm not. I have sympathy, and even sorrow, to think that I had anything to do with this horrendous state of affairs for so many. It makes me feel awful, let me assure you, and I would quit immediately if I didn't think there was something more to be learned. Such as, how to make money by finding ... honest money mules. If you're 100% honest, please contact me.

Cannot human nature be changed? Are we all thieves? That's what I want to determine. Which is ironic, since human nature is one of the fields I specialized in, having received a Ph.D. in Human Environmental Science (HES). My thesis clarified some things about human expectations and disappointments, in particular having to do with a gum machine that was clearly full of gumballs but never paid off. I won't bore you with the details, except to say, people are very tenacious when the reward is in plain sight.

But I'm so damned rusty at HES -- hellishly rusty -- I think I might need help. Especially because running money mules is extremely expensive. You lose $1 million out of your personal savings a few times, that adds up. This is challenging stuff.

Here's what I advise the rest of you to do: Hold off on money mule activities until things are clarified, till we determine if there's anyone we can trust, and how we would go about finding those folks.

Making Money with Money Mules

You need to read the conclusion first, which I will briefly state at the top: I haven't found any actual way to make money by the money mule method. The results so far are entirely negative. That's not to say there isn't a way, perhaps some variation on the honor system. But as of now, success has proven elusive.

The world of making money with money mules is potentially exciting. Part of it depends on the quality of your mules, a tiny, tiny part. The rest depends on how easily you're excited. If you're excited at the least little thing -- even to the point of irrationality -- you will find this exciting, too.

One reason it seems exciting is because there's the possibility to make more money than you have now, if not more than your wildest dreams.

How do you start? You will want to gather your resources. Anything over $1 million is a good start. Of course the more you have, the more you potentially could make. (No one's made a single dollar with this system yet, but hope springs eternal.)

Once your money's set to go, you need your own herd of money mules. These are terms for illustrative purposes. What you need are people who will take your money, then travel the various paths of their choosing until -- and here's where the system has broken down so far -- they come back to you with more money. Presumably, if they ever returned that would be a key moment.

But it is indeed a great joy to see the mules take off! They're on their way. They're happy. Your money's in their hot little hands, some of them for the first time in their lives carrying $100,000 or more. You wonder, where will they go? How much will they bring back? You're excited at the possibilities, because we've all heard over the years "Anything's possible." That's what we're banking on. Not the science of the thing, a given result, but the fulfillment of what we've all heard.

Then comes the time when you don't know what your money mules are doing. You need to have patience, since, what other option do you have? Just let the time pass. While it passes, do something interesting, perhaps take up a hobby, anything to make it pass quicker. Because, I assure you, you're going to find your patience sorely tested. Perhaps to the breaking point.

This time of testing will likely continue, as you occasionally look out your window to see if your own herd of money mules -- let's repeat that, your own herd -- is coming back. At this point, if your experience is like others, your excitement will wane. At this crucial point you must tell yourself to maintain your composure. Let your patience carry you through today, tomorrow, and all the days ahead.

Another critical moment -- sometimes coming simultaneously with looking out the window -- will be reconsidering your actions in handing out money. You will have doubt, thinking something like, "Is giving money to money mules and simply trusting them to bring you more even possible?" Of course it's possible! You just did it! What you need to ask is, "Is it likely they will return?" In your pessimism, you will think, and maybe even say aloud, "No! No! Hell no!"

But put yourself in the shoes of the money mules. Someone gives you $100,000 and sends you forth, no strings, are you going to return? You might! And that's the thread of hope you're clinging to. Maybe those mules will be like you. On the other hand, perhaps not. You're a money mule, someone gives you money, you might think, "Why should I return?" Do not let your mind take you down this channel, for that's when despair is all-consuming.

Instead, even if you see no reason to hope, do not give up. Keep your composure. Keep your trust high. And, who knows, some good may come from it. Even if it's merely the important lesson you learned: Money mules aren't all that trustworthy.

Conclusion:

No one's yet found a way to make money by giving money to money mules. But there's always the possibility that you will be first, and hence an important pioneer in the field. So weigh the risks, and if you feel they're something you can handle, go for it!

I, however, the author of this article, shall remain blameless.

Oatmeal La La Land

You haven't seen me here a few days. I hate to say why, exactly, but I owe you something. I've just been so seriously strung out I haven't been myself. I couldn't think. I barely knew my own name. I forgot everything I care about, including this blog.

Even now it's coming and going -- I could black out at any moment -- but I'm fighting through the blank spots, and using what I have left of "my legendary discipline." That's right -- even if it seems an eternity ago -- I had legendary discipline. Now, I'm wasted. Nearly shot. Haven't even got the discipline to---- sorry, drawing a blank.

The sad truth is, I'm addicted to oatmeal. God, it feels good to admit it publicly! Of course the biggest problem with oatmeal is they came up with a way for a quick fix. Used to be it took 45 minutes or all the way up to 3 hours to cook a decent batch. I blame the microwave oven industry, because they made us impatient. In the old days, I'd cook a batch, eat it, and pass out before I could cook another. Now it's bang bang bang, three batches and one massive jag of craziness.

So I was almost out of oatmeal, OK? And I was already hopped up on two batches. It was 3 in the morning. I went out and couldn't tell, in my haze, if the grocery store was open or the lights were just in my head. I sat there hunched over the steering wheel, when ... Dammit! ... two or three guys identifying themselves as cops -- they had red lights -- pulled me out of my car.

And I lost my cool. I was all up in their face. "What gives, assholes?!" and it went downhill from there. They could tell I was out of it, but why? I told them the honest to God truth, "I'm an oatmeal addict and you got me ... looking for another fix."

"Oatmeal," the mean-looking one sneered. He and the other mean-looking one talked it over. "Obviously slang for some narcotic, but which one?" These geniuses were talking it over and I saw nothing but haze. Even their talk was haze. They radioed in, then a TV crew showed up and I stripped naked and was gang-tackled by all three mean-looking cops in the ditch. "Give me oatmeal!" I cried as they roughed me up.

Later, I woke up and saw the insides of a hospital, and these mean bastards were there to make sure I didn't snap the gurney straps. The doctor was running blood tests. He said my sorghum and honey counts were elevated out of this world, sweeteners of choice, and that, yes, I indeed had oatmeal in my system.

I couldn't control myself. I went from docile to manic to feverishly crazed in seconds -- the oatmeal high oscillated between utterly flabby weakness to concentrated super human powers. And I felt the powers kick in. Everyone backed up as I eviscerated that hospital room; thankfully, the cops didn't know if they should open fire in a hospital zone.

Going down the hall, my back flap open to the breeze, I made it most of the way to freedom, and was rounding the corner when the meanest-looking cop hit me with a poison dart, hit my butt, piercing one side then crossing over and piercing the other. A double whammy of poison! I woke up two days later, confined in a treatment center.

A Nazi psychiatrist -- this is how Hitler got his start -- swore his way up one list of deities and down another to compel me to talk. "Vhat ees dis 'ottmail' you be smoking!?" "Smoking Ottmail?" I asked, confused, the haze a constant. I passed out and dreamt a beautiful dream, of a Willie Wonka-like world, with rivers of oatmeal (beautiful), but also quicksand bogs (ugly). When Hitler himself appeared, his mustache disgustingly soaked in drippy cinnamon oatmeal-- I woke up.

I blinked a few times, very refreshed, my mind completely detoxed off oatmeal, and vowed to live a clean life. When they took me to breakfast and ignorantly served me oatmeal! Immediately hooking me again...

Using my powers, I killed everyone in my way, stole an armored car, and crashed the gate. Then at the grocery store, instead of parking, I crashed the car through the front windows, craving another box of oatmeal -- and this time -- Damn the World! --  I would eat it with whole milk!

Now I'm home and on my eighth bowl. I'm writing this -- maybe the final post ever on this blog -- with the bastards even now at the door. I fear I'll have to shed even more blood before I'm able to enjoy my oatmeal supper and retire for the night, perchance to dream.