He was a lucky guy, some would say. It was because he owned successful stocks, and as simple as that, but what really pissed people off about the guy was the way his portfolio looked like. The stocks this man owned were merely a reflection of his taste in life. So how ironically sick that he enjoyed all the most delicious foods and drinks society had to offer, while having done a little research into where the stuff came from and staking a share. It's just that he knew what would sell. He wasn't a businessman or anything like that, but his taste in material objects and services was impeccable. Some would say his taste for life made his life all the more better. But what happened when he lost his taste for high class drudgery?
Don't be silly, he didn't lose his sense of what was hot, what was in, until he grew old and careless anyhow. It was as if he had pie charts in his head showing percentages of people and what they liked. Sure he dressed, ate, behaved, and lived a certain way, but he still could tell what the biggest amount of people liked and whether or not they'd buy the shit out of it.
He was but a young man when he realized his gift. Actually, it wasn't a gift to him, for he felt it'd been there all along, he just wasn't forced to ever quite seize it. It was really quite an easy feeling of intuition and frankly common sense, the guy heard providing advice and its 2 cents worth every now and then. Now and then being the all too often television image or advert or Internet pop-up - the latter of which mostly gets ignored or glance-passed (or would it be pass-glanced?). The beginning didn't come easy, however. This fuckin guy had to do some manual labor working waste management for the city for three years before he could invest a healthy chunk of change in anything worth while. So he saved up thousand some dollars over a few years from really scratching away. He lived alone in a shitty apartment, I mean his life sucked. But the time finally came when this young man would become a regualar-perhaps-even-one-day-upper-middle-class man. He'd been researching companies that had somewhere down the line produced something he enjoyed or at least a piece of it. The first two of three, he had decided upon, challenging himself to invest in the latest, newest, and hottest technology for the third. The first company this fuckin pirate bought into was a Canadian herbal oil scent diffuser some kinda shit. Long story short, people buy the things to vaporize their dope with! And it's fuckin great, our guy here received many a complimentary accessories to accompany his well-resined Sci-fi toy from deep space. Not yet approved by health agencies, today's free world doesn't give a fuck, and the aluminum cones that provide a high with zero carcinogens to boot has been selling like hot cakes (which don't actually sell that well, especially since that IHOP on Brooklyn Ave got demolished), successfully, I mean. Only one on the market with a remote control.
The second order of business had our man scratching his head: "I've addressed one of my habits - something that's turned out pretty popular as a lifestyle choice. What else is something fun for all ages, shapes, sizes and colors?!!" But alas, it was in his back pocket the whole time, people! Our gentlemen, being the dramatic little twat around only wanted an excuse to scream: "EuREEEEKAAA!!" belligerently animal like, punching a hole into his shoddy sheetrock wall even though no one was around to see. Foaming slightly at the mouth, the sonuvabitch replaced himself in front of the computer to make a few clicks, fill a few forms, and finally sit back to take a long pull of somewhat cheap whiskey, celebrating the purchase of thirteen stocks of Ajinomoto, the original producer of monosodium glutamate. Our newly retired garbage man chuckled to himself, pleased by his thoughtfulness. The hard part was next.
He couldn't read the label of the bottle he'd just finished when he finally called it a night, no less without a third selection to diversify his new assets.
The next morning our guy over here, wakes up tangled in his blankets as he usually does, rubbing the dissatisfied sleep from his eyes, and feeling the rabbit foot that replaced his tongue. He shuffled to the bathroom to pour down three ibuprofens and melt the scales off the inside his mouth. Ambling back over to his bedside, the neanderthal took a small pinch of finely ground ganja bonanza out of his grinder and into the glass bowl that would funnel air over 400 degrees to produce clean THC steam. As his unit warmed up, our playboy ambled the four steps to the cupboard to grab a bag of ramen and pot, bowling some water in preparation for a two-pronged assault on his hangover. Meanwhile, he turned the fan of his machine on, reducing the temperature slightly, watching the balloon grow slowly with white vapor, like a witch's snack or something. The painkillers were beginning to ebb the suicidal urges throbbing across his head, as he put the noodles in the boiling water and emptied the precious flavor powder in too, shaking it and rubbing every crystal of flavor right out. While the soup cooked, he got high. After he got high, he ate his soup, and made a screwdriver, taking an Imodium along with it. "I should have bought some o' that Huy Fong shit," The stoned moron wondered aloud, referring to the company that made his hot sauce. He believed the sauce cut the msg flavor of the soup just perfectly, though the screwdriver always could be a wild card...
Sitting back down in front of his computer, this wily chum punched in his password to be greeted with two Internet windows open one on top of the other. The onlooker gasped for a moment, then broke out in a shit-eatting grin. The smaller on was a blinking ad for a Fleshlight. Apparently it was America's number one male sex toy. He clicked on the window behind. It was a news article with video of a Japanese man who had invented life-like dolls that could actually take dick, and in some cases talk, albeit like a fucking robot. "Well that's just sick," he said to himself. But some of the dolls were very life-like, frighteningly so in fact. There was a temptation that said buy it, man, you know it'll sell. Each one was about eight thousand USD a pop, and he could tell it would sell, even if it were to a niche market. But how well? If a man can spend that much on a doll, why not rent a real woman? Instead of pondering what a silicon or whatever synthetic material those dolls assholes were made of, or more importantly felt like, our man went back to the Fleshlight. Not too different form that other product, he thought. It's lighter, semi-portable, and only about sixty bucks! But wait, he thought, my previous investments were towards things I normally use... a vagina flashlight might change my life in ways I'm unprepared for. "Shake it off man," said another voice, "What are you, a pussy? You gotta at least try it."
"No son, it'll ruin you forever, you'll never get married, you'll go on forever without a woman's touch, do you really want that?! Get your head out of your ass, and buck the fuck up, find some fuckin pussy!"
That night Charles, as it turns out, went out with some friends. They insisted that our eligible bachelor and budding stock shark come out drinking and join the never-ending hunt for female mates. "Come on Charles, you just quit your shitty job, you're movin' outta that dump, and up up up, buddy! Let's go fuckin celebrate!" his friend Randy yelled into the phone, "we're not taking 'no' for an answer asshole. Concede or be kidnapped!!"
"Alright, you motherfuckas, I'll come out, be over there in an hour. With a bottle, no less."
Randy had a pretty splendid fuckin setup in his neck of the woods. Charles had to take the bus to get there, but he didn't really care, he was going to be rich one day. Hopefully the rest after that one, too. The boys were sitting at the patio playing dominos. Henry was there, and Thomas, and Walter. They were all drinking whiskey with ice, so Charles poured one of his own, sitting down with the crowd. Randy came over with a great, big, shit-eating grin, teeth gritted around a fat cigar, "Tonight boys, we're celebratin' our buddy here's freedom, intuitions, and hopefully luck! Ha! May we all be lucky, and outlive the many drinks and smokes that have frequented our magnificent lives!" They clinked glasses, and Randy passed everyone a cigar. After every drop of whiskey in the building was drunk, the boys set out, set out to celebrate all that hogwash back there...
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