Advice from a Powerball Winner


I don’t want to be melodramatic, but life is hard. It can be staggering. We’re all surrounded by hardship and adversity, and that’s just the way it is. Sometimes I feel like I’m teetering on the brink of hopelessness, and I’ve never even had to endure a riot in Baltimore or an earthquake in Nepal, never been among the unlucky ones picked by God or the lack thereof, and told without sympathy: “Now deal with THIS.”

But I’ve been told to calm down and quit my griping—to persevere in the face of that hardship and adversity. That was the gist anyway, of the advice I got from a commenter on my blog. And I’ve decided to turn his missive over to you. It’s the manifesto of a young man with a bold claim to all the answers. He might actually be on to something, and I’ll leave it to you to feel happy or sad about that. Here’s the philosophy of a brash go-getter who referred to himself as “President Boobs Magnet.”

President BM:
Yo, I found your name and site by accident while Googling ‘Nips Ogle,’ and I guess I’m not the best speller in the world. Anyway, I gotta call bull on some of your sentences and stuff. Keeping a positive state of mind might be a challenge to a bum, but I’m here to tell you that life really isn’t that hard. If you want to succeed, all you’ve got to do is man up, get out there and grab the world where it hurts, and correctly guess all six numbers of the Powerball drawing like I did.

Listen here, crybaby. I’m a first-time reader, last-time reader. Name’s President Boobs Magnet. There was a different, worse name on my birth certificate, but I decided to remix my whole persona the day I earned my man card by winning that $550,000,000 jackpot. I also celebrated with family and friends by raging at a Chuck E. Cheese’s on Ecstasy. Looking back, a lot of cool stuff went down on my 18th birthday.

lotteryAfter skimming through a story you did, I believe you’re overdue for a swift boot to the butt, courtesy of the boot of a millionaire. And my boots are made of diamond-studded gold, so you’d best have an insurance card, son. Your big words don’t scare me. Hell, anyone can self-publish two books. I did! The first was called Books Are for Losers. I’m too rich to care about the irony. It’s 70 pages of dope rhymes plus some finger paintings inspired by Breaking Bad. My second effort was The Powerballin’ Pimp, an erotic pop-up book that has been banned in 24 countries and parts of the Bible Belt.

So, heed my advice. Even though you failed to win the Powerball on your 18th birthday like so many other losers, you can still make something of your life. As we say at the marina, you must pull yourself up by the bootstraps before you can pull your head out of your butt, and when I say “self,” I mean “balls,” and when I say “butt,” I mean “purse.” You’d better stop making excuses, reach skyward for that brass ring, and show that Powerball who’s wearin’ the pants.

The idea of me reading your gripes is whack. You think my life has been perfect and painless? What about those hard fought 17 years when I didn’t have an 11-figure bank account (if you include the cents?) Do you think I could afford the Batmobile from Batman Begins when I bought my first car? Hell no. I had to wait until I was 18 to do that. My dad’s hookup as the owner of a dealership could only manage me a measly 2009 Lexus. And did I complain? Not often.

And do you think I’ve lost my drive just because I’ll never have to work another day in my life? Go frig yourself. I stay busy. My Tuesdays and Thursdays are dedicated to chugging bottles of blue Gatorade and Cristal and whizzing off the top of a parking garage.
Also, my weekends are pretty well booked with the ultimate test of endurance: Marathons. Sex marathons, that is. And they don’t always go perfectly. This one gymnast from Switzerland even left me with a bruised hip that kind of hurt for two days. So no, to answer my original question, my life is NOT all perfect and painless.

You know, not everyone has what it takes to hire disgraced Food Network personalities to cook their meals, or pay the principal ten-grand to fart into the microphone on graduation day, or visit the White House to see the quote-unquote “real president” only to give that broke-ass chump the finger, but winners find a way to make it happen. So, quit feeling sorry for yourself, manifest your destiny, and tell those 1: 175,223,510 odds they should have their doubts about YOU.

Real Ballers pick their own numbers, by the way. Do you think a stroke of genius like 11, 19, 29, 32, 54, 12 was an accident? Get real. Those are the numbers of my favorite players on the Patriots. I put my trust in the reigning champs with Tom “Gisele Bangin’” Brady as the Powerball and BOOM! A cool half-billion, yo. And if the haters wanna scoff at P-Ball 12 and his four-game suspension, they should know that the penalty was going to be a lot worse before I bribed the commissioner with a spaceship.

If you don’t have the spine to get rich like me and those football dudes, so be it. But I’ll tell you what the best part of being insanely wealthy is. It’s claiming Devils Lake State Park as your backyard, having all the knuckleheads who run onto the field during ballgames brought to you in chains and set loose in the wild like frantic prey—with former pop star Aaron Carter to serve by your side as gun-caddy, wingman, second banana, source on what it’s like to have a Backstreet Boy for an older brother, lackey, and personal slave. A.C. is learning the hard way that real friendship means answering the freaking fan mail I sent him in like 2003, when I just wanted to know why I wasn’t invited to “Aaron’s Party.” And that’s what life is all about.

As for this “fan mail,” I’m just about ready to drop the microphone. In closing, maybe I can deliver a bombshell to prove a point: I didn’t even win the jackpot on my first ticket. In fact, all the numbers were wrong on that one. But did I surrender to defeat? No. I learned a lesson—to never trust “quick pick” ever again. Then I looked at the other ticket I had bought, and that was the winner.
Now that’s what I call perseverance.

Your’s truly with a Microphone Drop, President Boobs Magnet

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