Hunter Thomas

Standing inside the bank lobby you are usually thinking about two things, how poor you are and how to rob the bank. My bank knew this, and placed around the lobby little subtle reminders that robbing them was not a good idea.

Entering the bathroom, I almost tore the door off its hinges as I raced over to the urinals and tried to pull my wee wee out. But now I had a little problem in my hands. How to let go of my wee wee without going pee pee in my pants.

Opening the door to the bar was like opening the gates to hell. As the door swung open I was hit full face with a blast of smoke and beer fumes that attacked my nostrils and singed what was left of my nose hairs. Stepping inside my eyes adjusted to the low light and I saw that I was in a dimly lit humanity dump filled to the brim with rush hour casualties like myself.

As my car slid into the opening I watched as my counterparts collided with each other trying to muscle into the half space that was behind me.  The burning guy rose, no longer on fire but still smoldering, only to be scooped up and thrown to the side of the road by a massive dump truck equipped with a snow plow on the front of his truck.

There I was sitting at a greasy spoon restaurant counter drinking my tenth cup of coffee, a flagrant abuse of the unlimited refill policy, when I look over next to me and see a half eaten piece of pie sitting lusciously without owner all alone on the counter.  As I eye-balled the pie my dignity and fear of public embarrassment kept me at bay, and for the moment, I did nothing to humiliate myself. 

I was filthy, stinking, rolling in money rich. A fat cat sitting beside a huge picture‑perfect pool, watching a drop dead beautiful blond as she slowly wiggled out of her bikini top exposing a set of mamaries that would make the pope cry. With a playful over the shoulder wink, she pursed her lips, blew me a kiss and dove into the cool water for a leisurely seductive swim. 

Unbeknownst to me, corporate America had once again for the millionth time, committed assault and battery on my cerebral cortex and implanted a subliminal message that would cause the reluctant expenditure of cash.

To get rich, the poor slob must stay away from easily available mind detractions and that includes computer games, video games and whatever else is out there to distract you. Unless you are developing a game of your own, or operating a successful online business, then you should stay the hell away from these time eating, money gulping, bottomless pits.

Stubby old lady dressed in a potato sack plaid skirt and sporting a mini pearl floppy hat, comes in with her arms full of newspapers and throws them down in front of me. She then tells me that she hopes that I'm not related to any of those "sons of a bitches" that I was requesting information on. Upon hearing this, I cringed.

Playing golf is a real millionaire killer! Some say it is a place where million dollar deals are made and men have a chance to do some real male bonding. This is the problem. Bonding usually means there will be a beating involved at some point during the encounter. Combine this with a game involving metal clubs and competition and you have all the ingredients for a real "Millionaire Killer".