I Got This Killer Money-Making Idea

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WASHINGTON—Noting that the level of mental strain associated with the profession was far and away the highest recorded, a federal study on workplace conditions and occupational stress released Thursday has confirmed that your job is the most demanding career in the entire nation, and that none of your friends or family fully understand how hard it is.

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I Got This Killer Money-Making Idea

Hola, amigos. Whazzup? I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, but I've had a lot going on. First off, I've been living on a diet of bread and cheap-ass Corn King hot dogs for a week now, 'cause I've been broke as hell. See, I lost my job delivering newspapers after I decided I needed to take a little impromptu vacation to clear my head.

I gathered up all my cash, grabbed some clothes and headed off to Illinois to find Kevin Cronin from REO Speedwagon. It was sort of like a holy quest, if you know what I mean. But after one week of living out of my car and being hassled by the Illinois pigs, I decided I'd had enough and headed back home, quest unsuccessful. I wasn't upset, though. The important thing was that I cleared my head. Only problem was, when I got back, not only was my head clear, but so was my wallet and my schedule, 'cause my boss canned me on the spot for disappearing like that.

Anyway, none of that matters, 'cause I've got this new, sure-fire way to make money. Answer me this question: What's the number-one killer of cars? That's right—rust. And what is the number-one cause of rust? Salt. Sure, it may go good on an order of fries from any restaurant besides the crappy one I used to work at, but it ain't doing your car one bit of good.

So think about it: Where do they use road salt? Up north here. And what's the opposite of north? South. So, the way I figure it, they must have all kinds of cars that are in sweet condition down in places like Florida and Arizona. See, not only do they have no road salt down there, but they've also got shitloads of old geezers dropping like flies all the time. That's just the kind of place that'll have the type of car I'm looking for—some decent set of wheels owned by a little old lady who only drove it to church on Sundays before she keeled over. It'll have no rust on it and will be real cheap 'cause there's a million cars like that down there.

Now, in case you still don't see where this is going, I'll tell you. It would be real easy for two people to go down there, buy one of those cheap, old-person, no-rust cars, and bring it back up north to sell it. Why two people, you ask? Man, you must be stoned or stupid or both. You need two people to drive down in one car, and then you each drive one back. Piece of cake.

All I gotta do is convince Ron to go in on this with me. I don't know anyone else I can trust on this one. I brought up the idea to him once already, and he actually seemed into it. Problem was, he was pretty tanked at the time, and he didn't remember the idea the next day. I didn't have the energy to re-explain it to him, so now I'm waiting until it comes up again. Only this time, I'll wait until he's got just a slight buzz on. That way, he'll be loose enough to agree to it, but he won't be so fucked up that he won't remember what he agreed to. I'm tellin' you, this'll be sweet. It'll be like shooting fish in a barrel.

I ain't working for the man ever again. Mark my words. You're looking at the dawning of a new Jim Anchower. Just don't steal my idea, though, or I'll kick your ass all over the county. Don't fool yourself into thinking I won't find out, either. Believe me, I'll know.