Posts Tagged ‘fame’


The Fame Ponzi Scheme

Listen,

We can do this together. It is going to take you being unselfish and a little trust. I need all of your support on this, or we are not going to accomplish what I am about to explain. Before I go into detail, you need to know that this is not all about me either, there is plenty to go around. Nowadays with it being so cool to be communist, this shouldn’t be that difficult to get on board with. Seriously, this could change your life for the better and in a dramatic fashion.

So gather around, suspend your negativity and listen.

The theory:

Becoming famous, and the extravagance and riches associated with said fame can be a game changer for more than the person who is the “face” of this fame. One can use the fame of the famous person to their benefit. It sounds so Machiavellian, but in this instance it is not, because all would agree that this is how it should be. The person who initially finds fame and fortune is the stepping stool for those to follow. His selfless devotion to the betterment of the whole will save the day and change countless lives.

The Argument in the converse:

The Che Guevara / Castro Possibility. In this story of communist takeover, you have what I call, unoriginally, the “totalitarian in communist’s clothing” revolution. A leader guy with seemingly good intentions gets a bunch of other people with seemingly good intentions to help him overcome the oppressive regime with seemingly ill intentions. Unfortunately, upon successfully overthrowing the oppressive regime, the leader guy, who a bunch of well intended persons thought was well intentioned, becomes decidedly oppressive himself…or at least thats the way I think it went.

This is a possibility. This is why the person we send should be someone who can shoulder the burden of power (fame) and still function the way we need them to. To act as our preverbal “coyote” shepherding those he used to find fame originally through the divide separating the plebeians from the proletarians. Without using words I just looked up to find: We can’t afford to make a person famous and then have them become a Judas, who will kiss our cheek like we never existed. The person has to be of solid character, yet believably capable of being famous.

The MC Hammer Paradox. This troublesome little tale has a skilled dancer and purveyor of words who finds fame. After achieving his goal, he brings his entire neighborhood along to share in the party. Soon, Hammer finds himself struggling to make ends meet and with nothing left of the millions his feet had earned him. Regardless of how much the man prays, he cant touch this problem and it just won’t go away. When people should have had to hold him back and beg, “Hammer, don’t hurt ’em,!!!” he just let these so-called friends suck his life away.

This is much more unlikely because our plan is not parasitic in nature. I’m not, rather, the person we nominate, to send to fame isn’t just going to spread his riches, he is going to utilize the infrastructure of his fame to build the rest of the people’s. It is brilliant and absolutely without flaw. This isn’t the “come mooch off me” plan for life, it is the “let’s not waste an opportunity and only let idiots like the Kardshians and Perez Hilton be famous for nothing when we can all do it” plan.

The How:

We have to work together to make one of us famous. We have to violently enforce our will upon the outside world and take fame. We have to spread and push the name of the individual we are peddling with tenacity. Through voracious and relentless work towards a common goal we can raise one person to stardom regardless of what they are actually capable of doing that would solicit fame. The details need to be hashed out, but the premise is sound.

The Who:

As I have alluded to, this person needs to be of sound mental stature and able to deal with the pressure of riches. He needs to be convincing at convincing people he deserves to be famous. He needs to possess some intangible quality associated with people of fame. In short, this person must be of great character and willing to serve the people. Even shorter, I nominate myself.

Remember I’m doing this for you — I am your sacrificial lamb and we are about to usurp the way this world works.

Let me know?

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years….

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News Flash:  Sitting outside, in the heat of the evening last night, I was drinking a beer with our neighbor RV’er.  Innocent as an angel, I was attacked by a yellow jacket.  In my three and a halfish decades of life, I have never been stung by a bee, wasp, or stingy type bug.  However, I was certain that if stung, I would handle it with grace and dignity that you expect from a man as ruggedly amazing as the writer of this blog is.  I learned some things about myself.  I am not going to lie, for years I have wondered whether or not I would be a screamer.  Last night may have shed some light on my reaction.

I call the neighbor, “Gentleman,” because he told me his name, but as usual, I was either too self obsessed to really listen to the man, or the trauma that ensued moments later also caused memory lapses.  Because I am not afraid to lay my faults out there for you, I need you to know that he told me his name three days ago, and I am a pathetic first acquaintance.  I am an awesome friend, but you have to earn a place in my memory.  Do you know what kind of things that I am storing in my head that would be forced out if I chose to remember everything?  I am clinging to things and memories like a hoarder of thought.  I know all of the words to the opening theme song of “Who’s the Boss,” and “Growing Pains.”  I can tell you the plot lines of every “Saved by the Bell.”  These are things I need to stay balanced, to stay a renaissance man.  If I couldn’t immediately recall the fact that Zach Morris, Slater, and Screech snuck out to a club called, The Attic, underage, I would never last in future conversations that demanded the instantaneous recall of information as important as this.

So, the Gentleman is sitting across from me and sharing his life with me.  A horse photographer, that had a stint in the Navy back in ‘Nam, and has had like 37 separate careers, the Gentleman is charming and has a “man’s man” appeal.  He offers up stories of the rich people that he caters to in the equestrian world and the day-to-day grind that the rich people deal with out there.  I felt sorry for the rich people and their “first world” problems.  I mean, these people have so much money that they cannot find happiness in it, and that is sad, because money and happiness to me are directly related.  I don’t care what anybody who is reading this says; money is awesome!  When you have money, sure it can bring problems, but it can also buy awesomeness like unlimited Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.  Or, you can fill your gas tank all the way up instead of putting in 30 dollars and then just driving slowly with your windows down and the a/c off.  Money may not directly buy happiness, but it buys a lot of things that rock!

So, the Gentleman is sitting across from me.  I look down to my left ring finger and yellow jacket that has decided to land there and chill.  Because I always react with calm, cool, and collected emotions, you can expect that what followed would be nothing short of manly….

Here is what ensued.

I cannot recall if the yellow jacket was already stinging me, or that I am such a dancing nancy, that I just plain went crazy upon sighting this monster of the stinging bug world and jerked forward.  Because I was in this reclined chair, my jerk caused a flopping motion that I assume appeared as if I was electrocuted.  Because I had a beer in my right hand, I could not immediately swoosh this killer off of me.  Because, there was another man in front of me, I didn’t throw the full beer ten feet away from me and scream a string of five obscenities and three unintelligible ramblings, or did I?  Because, I can tolerate an insane amount of pain, I didn’t grip my ring finger like it may or may not have been there when I reached down, and then look astonishingly at the Gentleman when I found the finger to still be there, or did I?  Because I am my father’s son, maybe I not only killed the yellow jacket, but I sent it straight to hell with black magic words and tantrums and some form of rain dance.

As I gathered myself, I looked up at the Gentleman.  In his eyes, there was this look that I’ve seen before and could not mistake.  I have seen this look once when I was a kid and my father tried to kill me by cooking dinner using a hot skillet to fry pork chops.  I know….what a dick. I reached up and grabbed the skillet and burned my arm, I winced and cried, and then, when I looked to father for reassurance, he just said, “what were you expecting to happen there?”

That is the look I saw in the man’s eyes, except what he said was, “You know, you need to try and think through the pain….”  When another man gives you advice about dealing with pain, you have been dominated; you are no longer in any form, the alpha; you need to haze yourself.  So, I went inside the trailer and looked at my pregnant wife, who was sitting in the 64 degree temperatures looking as if she just ran a marathon, sweating, pounding water, and breathing erratically.  I informed her that I was nearly killed by a leviathan sized yellow jacket.  There in all her pregnancy, and knowing that in only two months time, she would force a baby out of her uterus and into the free world, through a canal not normally used to pass an object of this proportion, in a violent, scream filled moment where skin tears, and lesser men will pass out, Whitney will make the final push to creating life, completing the female’s punishment for eating the apple years and years ago of torturous labor pain.  Knowing all of this, I looked her in the eyes, grabbed a bag of frozen peas, put pressure on my fresh wound, gritted my teeth, and in pain wrought words I uttered the following, “You will never know pain like I have felt tonight….”

I just wanted you to know, because I have been sitting here in pain for nine hours…


Boxes are piled everywhere.  Tape being pulled from the roll makes a screeching sound that is now beginning to echo throughout the emptying house.  Through the window of the back door, two dogs watch confusedly, as movers move in and out of their home.  You can smell the cigarette smoke clinging to the workers as they pass by you weaving in and out of the crooked towers of boxes.  Deadlines:  must meet deadlines.  A small lingering anxiety lurks just above the Phillips’ House.  Moving day is here and you cannot run from yourself today.  Couches are gone; you just ate a chicken breast while dipping it in hot wing sauce.  You are trying to eat everything in your kitchen which makes for very random combinations of food.  For mid morning snack, you had olives meant for martinis and shredded cheese from a bag.  Delicious.  You next think about putting warm water and rice in your mouth and holding it there until it softens just to get rid of the rice you have acquired over two years.

Why do you have so much vegetable oil?  These are the moments you curse the invention of Sam’s Club.    You think to yourself, “How many children are starving to death right now that would love to have the vegetable oil excesses that you have in your pantry?”  Will I be arrested if I go out back and pour the vegetable oil into the yard?  It is a vegetable… 

The second you see them pack up your treadmill you think, “damn, I could be running right now.”  The following second you spend trying to remember the last time you used the treadmill for running and not just hanging clothes on while you ironed. 

All is not lost.  You have a plan, and your plan is stellar.  You are going to put your pregnant wife, Shepherd Dog, Blue Heeler, and three legged Chihuahua right into the middle of a three day road trip.  To make things easier, you have a 33ft RV that when actually placed on the road feels 50 feet plus.  Your RV has been nothing but a source of excitement between your pregnoid wife and you, but you think to yourself, “that’s just because we haven’t spent enough time in it….yeah, that’s it.”  You ask the truck driver packing your stuff up for advice on pulling a trailer and the advice he offers you leaves you wanting.  His answer, “Don’t piss the truck drivers off.”  The second he says this, you think of the movie Joyride where an evil and vengeful trucker takes his wrath out on a couple drivers. 

Luckily for you, your wife is pretty good at being pregnant.  Yesterday, she watched the packers loading things into boxes and fell asleep because of how hard the work was.  Later, you overhear her say to the neighbor, “I know I look like I just woke up, but the movers are here and it has been exhausting.”  At this moment, you flash back to earlier when she was sleeping next to you.  She was snoring and the movers actually tried to work in silence out of fear of a pregnant woman, which I understand.  The movers are here to do a service for you and you appreciate them for it.  When one of the mover’s phone rings, she apologizes profusely.  You say to her, “no, it is okay, you are working hard.”  She replies immediately and without thought, “Sir, I have been pregnant, and she deserves some quiet while she sleeps.”  You realize at that moment the following:  All women who have bore children are naturally against all men who haven’t. 

All women who have bore children are naturally against all men who have not.  What a great sentence.  You take another bite of your chicken and this time you dip it into mayonnaise.  You do this because you have two jars of mayonnaise, and you have to get rid of it.  You think about leaving a box of random noodles (you find six boxes of angel hair pasta), mayonnaise, and vegetable oil on your neighbor’s doorstep and then running.  You wish that your wife was here so you could watch her pregnantly trip over boxes and try and fit through areas her belly won’t let her smoothly travel through, but she is not, because she has abandoned you for girl time with friends.  All friends of women who have bore children who have also bore children themselves are natural enemies of all men who have not.

You look down and dip your chicken into vegetable oil, because you have to get rid of it…