Huge Groovy

Huge Groovy

Poor Slobs Guide to Becoming a Millionaire – Waking Up to the Reality that I'm Not a Millionaire

Poor Slob Reality –Waking Up to the Reality that I'm Not a Millionaire

Monday August 10th

8:00 A.M.

I was filthy, stinking, rolling in money rich. A fat cat sitting beside a huge picture‑perfect pool, watching a drop dead beautiful blond as she slowly wiggled out of her bikini top exposing a set of mamaries that would make the pope cry. With a playful over the shoulder wink, she pursed her lips, blew me a kiss and dove into the cool water for a leisurely seductive swim. 

Feeling hungry, I pressed a red button labeled Afood@ which activated a remote-controlled model steam train that chugged along a track that was laid out from the kitchen to where I was sitting by the pool and brought forth from the kitchen a luscious Italian sub with all the fixin=s piled high on a gold plate carried on top of a small rail car.

All that was left for me to do was open my mouth, press another button as a toy bull dozer pushed the plate over to my face and shoved the food into my gaping food hole. Following the blissful consumption, I wiped the excess food slop off my face with a white laced satin napkin, belched and then ever so daintily leaned slightly to one side and let rip with a thundering Blue Angles salute of a fart which promptly shredded my silk underwear into tatters. 

At peace with myself and the world, I licked the excess sub slop off my fingers and settled back to watch the topless blonde who was now cavorting in the pool with her twin, completely naked sister who were waving and winking at me to join them.  Life was good.  Too good.  

Then just like that, I was abruptly pulled out of my blissful dream by the faint sound of a malfunctioning alarm clock which startled the cavorting twins, who looked up and covered their mameries with their hands, and before I could scream out a panicked ANo.@ I crash landed back to the cold cruel reality of what had become my life.  There was no Mansion, no pool, and no naked beautiful blondes. 

In this plain of reality I was laying on a filthy, flea bitten mattress in a trash strewn bedroom, already five minutes late for a job interview that my financial existence depended on.  I had put my trust and faith into a $4.95 Snoopy alarm clock, which had gone off an hour past where I had set it and was now repeatedly calling me a "Block head" over and over again as it sat there mocking me from my bureau.  I was about to pay a severe price for trying to save a buck or two by buying a cheap, discounted, blue light special of an alarm clock that had now failed me and in all probability cost me the chance to change what was shaping up to be a hum-dinger of a bleak future. 

As I felt the frustration and rage welling up inside of me, I pulled on what I thought was the alarm clock cord and watched in horror as my television set plunged off the bureau and onto the floor.  Upon impact the picture tube exploded, scattering pieces of broken glass all across the room.

This was not a great way to begin the day that I thought was going to be my new beginning to a life that ad spun completely out of control.  Enraged, I picked up the blabbering clock and threw it against the wall where it collided with and shattered a mirror and gauged a huge hole in the wall before it bounced unscathed onto the floor where it continued to mock me with it=s electronic name calling. 

"Mother F******!"  I shouted, as I reached over for my tennis racket and started beating the clock to within an inch of it=s beleaguered existence.  It was a tough little guy, kept calling me a "Blockhead" the whole time I was caving in its little electronic skull.  Then finally, there was silence.  All that could be heard was me hyperventilating, and from the apartment directly below, the sound of a wife beating up her drunk husband for spending their last buck on a bottle of mad dog.  

At my feet lay the battered alarm clock, a smashed $400 television set and a busted $125 tennis racket, each item now devoid of any monetary value.  As the financial cost of my blunder sank in, I also noticed a mysterious pain that was just beginning to register in my brain. I looked down at my feet and the shards of protruding glass sticking out of them.  It took a moment, or maybe two, but finally my brain made the full connection with the glass sticking out of my feet and promptly alerted the designated brain cells that we were standing right smack in the middle of the glass that had scattered across the floor from the blown up boob tube.  I let out a belated scream, and hobbled over to sit on my bed and began extracting chunks of broken glass from the soles of my throbbing feet.

Checking to make sure I got out all of the glass, I stood up on my bloodied feet and limped my way into the bathroom.  Grabbing the sink for support, I looked at myself in the mirror and cringed at the image staring back at me.  I was a total wreck in need of a complete make‑over. You know, like the ones that you see on television.  Except that in my case, the make over would take an entire season to fix what had taken years to de-evolve. 

Being poor meant that whatever make-over that was going to happen, was going to be here in this dimly lit bathroom and by my own hand with whatever supplies which were readily available.   Having no other choice, I picked up, from a soapy puddle on the sink, one of those readily available items which consisted of an extremely used disposable razor and began the task at hand of shaving the four day growth of fur, off of my face.  Due to an economic handicap I had not bought a new razor for the past couple of months, the result was that my disposable razor looked like a gigantic fuzzy fur-ball with a blue handle sticking out of it.  It also meant that I had to press extra hard as I dragged the fur-ball across my face to compensate for the dullness of the razor and the lack of shaving cream.   

With each brutal pass of the razor across my face I could feel the fur being ripped out by the roots.  I winced in pain, and as I stared my self down in the mirror and shouted, "take the pain!"

When I was done with the facial hair harvesting, I patched up the hemorrhages and slice marks the best I could with gobs of wet toilet paper, which made me look like a cheap bastard unable to afford band-Aids and did little to stop the blood that was now streaking down my face. 

Trying to convince myself that it was not as bad as I thought, I slapped on some "Old Sea Skank" aftershave and awaited the symphony of pulsating pain which was sure to follow.  Sure enough, the pain came and hurt so bad that my knees buckled and I almost fell to the floor.  My pulsating, slashed up face now looked like a badly botched face lift. There wasn't enough time or resources to fix what had taken years to evolve, the only thing I could do right this minute was to avoid looking at myself in any shinny surfaces and hope that other people assumed that I had been involved in a terrible battery‑acid accident and had the decency to look the other way.         

Walking over to the shower, I reached around the mildew that was in the process of devouring a washcloth hanging from the faucet, and turned on the water.  As expected, there was not one drop of hot water left.  That's another unfortunate by-product of being poor and living in an apartment building with a lot of other poor selfish slobs who could care less if you took a shower in a gas chamber, let alone save you some hot water.

"F***ers", I thought, as I imagined all my useless no-good neighbors standing there in their steamed upped bathrooms wasting all of that precious hot water on their fat bloated carcasses while my fat bloated carcass stood in my mildewed shower stall braving the freezing spray of ice cold water as I shivered myself toward a heart attack.  My ass was rank with the stink of life that had built up during the past four days and I had no choice except to jump in and scrub the grime out of my groovy. 

As the cold water blasted my body I let out a yelp and immediately began to hyperventilate as my bodys core temperature began to head toward zero.  It was so cold that I used my hands to restrain my eyeballs from popping out of my skull and I shivered so hard that I thought my teeth were going to chatter right out of my mouth.  I stood under the water just long enough to scrape away the surface dirt and then jumped right back out before hypothermia set in.

Turning off the water with my shaking hand, I reached for a towel to dry off my goose‑pimply body only to discover that there was no towel to be found.  Belatedly I remembered that my only towel was currently in the kitchen, sopping up some unmentionable fluid leaking out from under my ancient refrigerator.  The only thing at hand that I could use as a makeshift towel was a roll of toilet paper.  It wasn't exactly a towel but since there was no other alternative, I used it to dry myself off.     

I was freezing, frantic, covered with blobs of toilet paper and in the throes of the late for work shuffle.  On top of all of that, I had to bomb some submarines. (Go to the bathroom that is.)  I know that most of the time you don't hear about someone telling you about bombing submarines, most decent folk prefer not to mention their toilet habits, but this is part of what happened to me on this fateful morning and I feel that it should become part of this record. 

Looking for something to read as I opened up the bomb bay doors, I saw that my collection of magazines, we're now drenched in cold water and the only thing left to read was an old toilet paper wrapper.  Not exactly the "National Enquirer", but this was an emergency and it would have to do.           

Sitting down to do my duty, I started to read with interest about how absorbent this particular brand of paper was and how they used recycled plutonium waste in the manufacturing process to help save the ecology.  Great, I thought.  Now I was going to save a tree and grow a second a**-hole because I used radio active toilet paper.  As I finished reading the part about using recycled Pampers for extra softness, it occurred to me that I had just used up the last roll of toilet paper to dry myself off after my shower.

Now I was stranded on the toilet bowel with nothing in which to wipe my groovy with.  The only thing that I had was, the plutonium enriched toilet paper wrapper and a cardboard tube.  Man, sometimes you really have to marvel and just how bad things can get.  Having no other choice, I wrapped the wrapper around my hand and went to work.      

When I was finished, I stood up, flushed the toilet and started to walk out of the bathroom to finish getting ready for my ill fated job interview.  As I turned to exit the bathroom, however, I heard a gurgling, gagging sound from coming from behind me.  Looking back I saw that the toilet was not digesting the toilet paper wrapper and it was instead, preparing to flood the floor.

As the water inched it=s way toward the lip of the bowel, I lunged for the plunger and thrust it into the toilet, splashing water all over the floor as I pumped and prayed to the God of toilet bowls (well known to bachelors, alcoholics, and bulimics) not to let this happen.  But to no avail, I could feel the cool water cascading onto my feet as the toilet spewed forth it's overflowing contents across my bathroom floor. 

Reaching behind the toilet I managed finally to turn off the water, but not before the entire floor was at least an inch deep in brown sludge.  I prayed and cursed that the water would not seep into the apartment below me, which was occupied by an ex‑boxer who used my face as a punching bag the last time this happened.  Fearing a severe, body bruising of a beating, I ripped down the curtains from the windows and sopped up the slop off of the floor, discarding the soiled items out the window where they landed in the ally-way with a distant ker-plop.  After I was finished cleaning up that mess, I headed once again to the bedroom to continue with taking care of cleaning up the other mess that was me.

I readily confess that I am not the most tidy person in the world.  I couldn't find a nuclear weapon lodged in my ass let alone something clean and fashionable to wear in the disaster area that was my room.  My clothes were hanging from light fixtures, door knobs and scattered all over the floor.  Some were clean, some mostly clean, some dirty, and some were in varied states of biological decay that rivaled toxic waste dumps. 

Whiffing the articles of clothing to estimate their sanitary status, I gagged, then assembled a half way decent outfit that looked semi-professional and walked back into the bedroom, right across the broken television tube on the floor and for the second time that morning I sat down on the edge of the bed, whimpered, and pulled glass out of the bottoms of my feet.

Read More  at www.themilliondollarcafe.com

 

 

About the Author

Hunter Thomas is an award winning Photo/Journalist/Producer working in the Washington D.C. market for the past 20 years. Beginning his career as an assignment editor for a local television affiliate, Thomas went on to work as a photographer/editor for CNN, ABC, NBC and CBS. For the past five years he has been working as a freelance producer/photographer, producing for National Geographic and the documentary "Anthrax For Breakfast", "Kids and Guns", "24 Hours of Daytona" and "The New Mash". As a credentialed White House photographer and a general assignment producer, Thomas has covered most of the major breaking stories during the past two decades. Recently Hunter Thomas published the hugely successful "The Poor Slobs Guide to Becoming a Millionaire" and is also publisher of the www.themilliondollarcafe.com a popular financial information website.

Song recommendation pls? Really need help here!?

Okay, so i have a huge performance for drama class coming up soon... we have to lip-sync to a song, and dance/act to it... I'm looking for a song (must be sung by a female) that is very catchy, and can include groovy dance moves... (If there's a video on the dance moves, even better! :p) But must also be very meaningful and have very meaningful lyrics.

Pls and thanks!! really appreciate your help, people. Thanks a million!!

xoxo ♥♥♥

Kelly Rowland-This is love

Evanescence - Everybody´s Fool (that is a personal fav yeah there are boys in the band but the lead singer is a girl)

What hurts the most- Cascada

Avril Lavigne-Girlfriend

Avril Lavigne-Keep Holding On

Avril Lavigne- Contagious
uhh the rest i think of are sung by boys sorry
hope i helped

Stripoff Triple Header!!!! Dig That Groovy Beat