Poor slobs Guide to Becoming a Millionaire – Wake up to reality that I am not a millionaire

Poor Slob Reality-awakening to the reality I am not a millionaire

Monday, August 10

8:00

It was dirty, smelly, rich rolling in money. A fat cat sitting beside a huge picture perfect pool, watching Drop Dead beautiful blonde as she slowly fell from his bikini top to expose a set of mammary ago to mourn the pope. Shoulder with a playful wink, she pressed her lips, blew a kiss and immersed in cold water to swim quietly seductive.

A little hungry, I pressed a button that activated a model Afood @ Remote control of steam train puffing along a track that was laid out in the kitchen, where I was sitting by the pool and are made in a tasty Italian cuisine with all the trimmings = S piled on a plate of gold in a small car.

All that remained was for me to open my mouth, press another button like a toy bulldozer pushed the plate over face and shoved food in my food hole. Following consumption smug, I dried food residue from my face with a towel, satin stripe white belched and then very gently leaned slightly to one side and let rip a thunderous tribute Blue Angles of a pet which quickly shredded strips of silk I underwear.

At peace with myself and the world, I licked her face with her fingers and over again to see the topless blonde who was now playing in the pool with twin brother, totally naked, waving and winking sister join them. Life was good. Too good.

Just like that, I woke up my dream soon welcomed the faint sound of a malfunctioning alarm clock that surprised the twins antics, she raised her eyes and covered their Mamers with his hands, and before I can scream in panic Year. @ I've fallen back to the cold cruel reality of what had become my life. There was no mansion, no swimming pool, naked and beautiful blonde.

In this normal reality I was lying on a dirty mattress bitten by fleas in a room full of garbage, five minutes late to a job interview that my financial existence depended. I put my trust and faith in a revival $ 4.95 Snoopy, who had been gone an hour when I had several times since and now calls me a leader, "block" and again that I was sitting there laughing at my desk. I was about to pay a heavy price to treat to save one or two dollars for the purchase of a good market at reduced prices, the blue light special revival and now I forgot, most likely cost me the ability to change what has been promised to be a hum-dinger of a bleak future.

As I felt a growing frustration and anger in me, I shot him I'm awake cord and watched in horror as my set of black and field office. Upon receiving the impact of the TRC has exploded, scattering glass fragments around the room.

This was not a good way to start the day I thought I would start my new advertisement of a life that is out of control. I caught Furious blabbering and threw the clock against the wall, where it collided with a broken mirror and measured, and a huge hole in the wall before bouncing on the floor, where he continued freedom to mock me with it = s electronic insults.

"Mother F ******!" I cried as I reached in my tennis racket and started beat the clock to one inch of it = s existence in crisis. It was a hard bit, I called a "Blockhead" time sink into the skull-mail shortly. Then, finally, there was silence. All hyperventilation that could be heard, and the apartment just below the sound of a woman against her husband drunk to spend money seen a bottle of mad dog.

At my feet, the clock was beaten, broken televisions and a $ 400 tennis racket busted $ 125, each element has been with no monetary value. As the financial cost sank my fault, I also noticed a mysterious pain started to register in my brain. I looked at my feet and shards of glass protruding from them. It took a while, or maybe two, but finally, my brain is the essential link with the glass in my feet and alerted identify rapid brain cells were in the middle of the glass that had scattered on the floor of the idiot box burned. I cried at the end and stopped to sit on my bed and began to remove pieces of broken glass from the soles of my feet hitting.

Make sure all the glass I'm out, I have in my feet bloodied and limping my way to the bathroom. Taking advantage of the aid sink, I looked in the mirror and cringed at the image looking at me. I was a total disaster on the need for a complete makeover. You know, like what you see on television. Except in my case, the brand has more than one full season to repair what had taken years de-evolve.

Being poor means that whatever image change would happen, would be here in this room with low light and by my own hand with whatever supplies were easily accessible. With no other option, I took a puddle of soapy water in the sink, one of these items easily accessible, which consisted of a typewriter used disposable razor and began the task of shaving four days of growth in the skin of my face. Due to an economic disadvantage had not bought a new razor in the past two months, the result was that my disposable razor like a giant fuzzy ball of fur with a blue handle coming out of it. It also meant I had to press too hard as I dragged ball facial hair to compensate for the dullness of the knife and the lack of shaving cream.

With each Last of the sharp knife in my face I could feel the skin being ripped off by the roots. I winced, and looked at myself in the mirror and shouted, "Take the pain!"

When done with the facial hair of the harvest, I have the latest patched and better grades than I could with masses of wet toilet paper, which made me look like a cheap bastard dressings can afford and has done little to stem the blood that was scratching my face.

Try to convince me that it was not as bad as me thought, I pull some "old Skank Sea" pain after shaving and waited for the symphony of punches that was sure to follow. In fact, pain wine and hurts my knees buckled and I almost fell on the floor. My pulse, lowered his face now looked like a bad lift failed. It was not enough time or resources to fix what had taken years to develop, all I could do at that time was to avoid looking in all the bright areas and hope that others assumed that I had been involved in a terrible accident, battery acid and had the decency to look at the other.

Walk into the shower, I was in the Late blight was in the process of devouring a towel hanging on tap, and became the water. As expected, there was a drop of hot water left. It is a unfortunate byproduct of being poor and living in a building with many other poor slobs who are interested selfish if you take a shower in a gas chamber, but you and much less hot water.

"F *** ERS" I thought, as I imagined all my neighbors standing useless is not good in their bathrooms steam raised lose all that precious hot water in carcass fat, while my body fat was swollen puffy mold on my shower spray freezing as challenging icy water shocked me a heart attack. My ass was placed with the stench of life that had accumulated in the last four days and I had no choice but to go to the jungle and dirt from my groovy.

As cold waters blew my body, I screamed and immediately began to hyperventilate and my heart began bodys temperature to move towards zero. It was so cold that I used my hands to keep my eyes off of my head and shook me so hard I thought my teeth were chattering right my mouth. I stayed under water long enough to scratch the surface dirt and then jumped back before hypothermia set in.

Disable water with trembling hands, I grabbed a towel to wipe my body only spotty chicken to discover that there was no towel find. Belatedly I remembered that my towel as yet only in the kitchen, absorb some fluid leaks under my old refrigerator with no name. The thing, except I could use as a towel improvised was a roll of toilet paper. Not exactly a towel, but there was no alternative, I used to dry.

I was freezing, frenzied, covered with patches of toilet paper and in the throes of the end of the work at random. Besides this, I had a bomb under water. (Go to the bathroom is.) I know that most often not heard of someone claiming that the bombing under water, most decent people would rather not mention toilet habits, but that's part of what happened that fateful morning, and I think it should be part of this file.

Looking for something to read that I opened the bomb bay doors, I saw my collection of magazines, we are now soaked in cold water and the only thing left to read is a bundle of old toilet paper. Not exactly the "National Enquirer" but it was an emergency and you have to do.

Sitting down to do my duty, I started reading with interest about how this brand of paper towels was and how Plutonium is used to recycle waste in the manufacturing process to help save the environment. Great, I thought. Now I will save a tree and grows a second, a hole **- Because I WC radio active role. As I finished reading the part about the use of recycled diapers for softness, I thought I had the last roll of toilet paper to dry after my shower.

Now, I was stranded on the toilet with nothing in it to clean my great with. The only thing was plutonium package toilet paper and a cardboard tube. Man, sometimes you really have to ask "And how things can be. Having no choice, I wrapped the wrap around my hand and went to work.

When I finished, I got up, toilets and has begun to emerge from the bathroom to finish getting ready curse for my job interview. When I turned to leave the bathroom, however, I heard the gurgling, nausea sound from behind me. Looking back, I saw that nurses were not digested pack of toilet paper and has been in place, preparing to flood the floor.

Like water, has = Average s a bit on the edge of the gut, I rushed to the piston and stuck it in the bathroom, splashing water on the floor as I pumped and prayed to God Cup toilet (well-known singles, alcoholic and bulimic) not to let that happen. But nothing really, I could feel the cool water cascading over my feet as if out the contents overflowing toilet to vomit on the floor of my bathroom.

Back toilets, I finally managed to cut the water, but not before all the soil was at least an inch deep in the mud brown. I prayed and cursed that no water will seep into the apartment below me, which was occupied by a former boxer who has used my face as a punching bag for the last time this happened. Fearing a severe contusion of the body of a fighter, I pulled the curtains on windows and soaked resolve land discarding items contaminated by the window, where they landed in how to align with a Ker-plop away. After you finish cleaning up the mess, I headed back to the room to continue to take care of cleaning up the mess that others who I was.

I admit I'm not the best person to the world. I could not find a nuclear weapon done in my ass, much less a clean and elegant to wear in the disaster area that was my room. My clothes were hanging lights, door handles and scattered on the floor. Some were clean, some of the most clean, some dirty and some were in various states that rivaled biological breakdown of toxic waste.

Noting clothing for assessing their health, I gagged, then assembled dress halfway decent that seemed semi-professional and entered the room right in front of the TV broken pipe on the floor and the second after this morning I sat on the edge of the bed, moaned, and threw glass at the bottom 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.

Nancy Drew – Legend of Crystal Skull (Part_4)