by Leon Black
See, back in the day, a runaway was the one roaming around holding that long branch over their shoulder with the pouch on the end. Runaways are pretty hard to catch because they can scamper like mothafuckas. As for that pouch, it would be made out of some polka dot bandanna and it would be filled with loose change, underwear, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Shit like that is easy to spot. You would go to a Greyhound station and see that kid with that damn branch, immediately you would be like, “Someone grab that damn runaway!”
Or if you’ve just gotten off a plane and you’re waiting for your ugly ass suitcase by the baggage carousel, and you see that long ass branch with a satchel at the end of it, you know that runaway is gonna come claim that. So you just wait for that runaway. And when a barefoot kid with overalls, freckles, and buck teeth walks over to claim his fucking stick with the goddamn pouch, you know that’s your fucking runaway. And you get his ass home. Put him on the next flight to Pig, Tennessee. Real place, I got stuck there once, ended up tappin’ some ass. Shout to Shirley—thanks for the pie!
IN ME I TRUST
Although the name of this section is “Managing Money,” trust me, very little of it will have anything to do with actually handling and or investing money. Now, I could give you advice and it would probably be damn good, but when it comes down to it, I think instead of giving you financial advice I would rather advise you on who to take financial advice from. Take me, for example: I don’t have any damn money—I’m not poor, mind you, I’m rich in many ways. Hell, I live in a beautiful house and drive around in a fancy car; neither of them is mine, but trust me, I’m living well. That being said, on paper and in my pocket, I don’t have any money. Point number one: Don’t take money advice from someone who doesn’t have money. I don’t think I have to explain that one. And my second and final point: Don’t take financial advice from people who teach seminars by the airport. Those shady muthafuckas get you into some damn Sheraton conference room, offer you some cookies and water, and promise you that if you buy their book you’ll have their secret to getting rich. Well, I’ll let you in on the secret for free: They got rich by selling their book.
Look, I can’t have a chapter like this and not give you any money advice, so here’s one tip: Learn how to talk about your money like rich people do. Rich people don’t use terms that precisely label the amount of money they have, they use ones that make a little sound like a lot. “Five hundred thousand dollars” may sound like a lot of money, but “half a million” sounds like way more. Don’t believe me? Maybe that’s because you’re poor.
Okay, I’ll put it in terms that your poor ass can understand: I’m sure you could buy a few things with five hundred dollars, but just imagine how much you could buy with half a thousand dollars. See?!?
WALKAWAY PLAN
Style is very important to me. A lot of people will tell you that you need a lot of money to be stylish, but there are creative ways around it. And before you get it twisted, I’m not telling you to steal! As a matter of fact, I hate a thief! There are many ways to get along in life without fucking people over. I call it “The Come Up!” The Come Up is a way to keep things moving; for football fans, its like moving the chains, or moving your life down the field. You don’t have to go for a touchdown on every play, you just wanna keep getting first downs. It’s when you get greedy that you end up fumbling and that’s when you get arrested and wind up in jail. You wanna make sure you have a solid game plan for your life. You do what you gotta do, till you can do what you wanna do! Shit, I should put that shit on a fucking t-shirt.
Now, I don’t know how many of you are familiar with the term “layaway.” That was this thing back in the day where you could buy some shit from the store and pay it off over time like the way you would do a car or a house, only you could buy a hat or some drawers that way. They don’t do that type of shit anymore, but I tell you what, I do. I call my plan “Walkaway.” See what I do is I buy myself an outfit, keep them tags on, tuck that shit in, and wear it as much I want. If someone happens to see the tags, I just pretend I forgot to take them off. Then when I get tired of that outfit, I go back to the store wearing that same outfit and exchange it for something else, then I walk away with my nice new outfit. See, it’s not stealing if you’re just exchanging.
MAN-MADE
The Amish have it right. Simple living. Making your own butter. That’s the shit. But I don’t want to make my own butter. Butter is cheap and good and comes in a stick, so I like it. What I wanna do is learn how to make my own cereal. ’Cause the cereal makers keep that shit secret. It’s fucking frustrating. I mean, if McDonald’s can tell you how to make a Big Mac, why can’t Procter & Gamble tell me how to make Cap’n Crunch? I’ll tell you, because it’s fucking impossible to make. You ever read what’s in it?! All those additives and preservatives!? The average person doesn’t have the scientific ability to do it!
Not only that, but cereal is fucking expensive. Cap’n Crunch is like six dollars a box!?!?! That’s more than a gallon of gasoline! Why does a box of damn cereal cost more than a gallon of gasoline?! For six dollars a box, it should come with milk and a spoon already in there! And a divider in the box to keep that shit from getting messy.
Here’s the rub: If you do figure out how to make your own cereal, you will fuck the market up. That’s why the cereal makers are so fucking scared. That’s why they keep the Froot Loops recipe under such wraps.
But guess what? I don’t want to make fucking Froot Loops or Cap’n Crunch. I want to make adult cereal. ’Cause adults are the ones stuck with the boring ass cereals like Special K and Chex. We need to spice that shit up.
I’m making a cereal called “Junk Drawer.” That would be one of those surprise cereals, ’cause you never know what you have in your fucking junk drawer. So all the pieces of cereal would be shaped accordingly. Edible shit, only shaped like a toenail clipper, gummy bear, scissors, chopsticks, soy sauce packets, spare keys. And the box would be shaped like a drawer, and you don’t open it from the top—the compartment just slides out like a real drawer.
“Kitty Litter” is also a good name for a cereal. It just sounds good. It’s not about what it is, it’s about what it’s made of. It’s still good and sweet. And you put a cute ass kitten on the box? Boom! People love fucking kittens! You will sell that shit. Throw some chocolate chunks in there to keep it real. Even better, put a Hawaiian shirt and shorts on the kitty. Everyone loves a Hawaiian kitty. Everyone loves Hawaiian everything!
How much better would the homeless look if we gave them all Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops?
Maybe we can also create a homeless cereal that’s a little cheaper, easier to digest, and feeds them through the day. Better yet, let’s make a cereal called “Windfall.” The pieces are shaped like coins. Fucking brilliant. Fuck that. Let’s go forward backward and make all coins edible. That way people can either use it or eat it. The government’s gotta make more money anyway. That way the people who don’t have a meal at home can eat their salary, so if they ate like pigs, they can just spend it on some hookers and blow if they choose. If you go to IHOP and order silver-dollar pancakes, they’re gonna be made out of actual silver dollars, so you can eat one and pay for it with another.
If you’re a family of five and all you have is a ten-dollar bill, you go get change for that ten dollars and then you can feed the whole table. Economy fixed. Hunger fixed.
Homemade is not always a good thing. Sure, someone invites your ass over for some homemade apple pie, that’s a good thing. But what if they offer you a stick of homemade gum? No good. Don’t take any homemade thing that you can’t make yourself! Shit like gum! And aspirin! Cereal! Fucking deodorant! You mean to tell me you’re at home making deodorant? You somehow figure out the “musty code,” wise ass? No way, muthafucka. No way you are making homemade deodorant that actually works. And don’t even think of telling me it’s antiperspirant, because I know the difference between the two and I’m not risking my sex life on your ho
memade lab experiments.
DINE AND DITCH, BITCH
I don’t fuck with the gourmet shit. I watch shows about survival types of food. Living extravagantly is a pain in the ass. When you live extravagantly, you gotta spend a lot of time skipping out on the goddamn bill; you got to be the guy who goes to the bathroom and climbs out the window. But the gourmet food makes you fat and shit, and your hips get too wide to crawl out of the fucking window.
When skipping out on the bill, you can opt for the tried-and-true diarrhea excuse, especially if you hate the people you just had dinner with. (If they’re really annoying, make sure you flourish with runny, juicy, explosive, and smelly farts.) Other options include court cases and pregnancies, but if you want to keep it simple, a nosebleed is the way to go. Always carry a hankie with that red dye shit. You come out holding that hankie to your nose (don’t overtilt your head back), then shake your head, like you’re confused and shit. “Leon, what happened?” Now, DO NOT give a specific answer, ’cause then you’ll ruin your chance to repeat this technique.
Just keep shaking your head.
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“You gotta see a doctor, man.”
“I will. I will.”
You can pull the “I will” excuse two or three more times, but at some point, you’re gonna have to throw in “I’m seeing a doctor next Thursday.” (Always use Thursday—it’s the most believable day of the week.)
The bloody-nose technique can get you out of numerous situations. Like if you’re with a lady and you’re gonna come too quick, get that ejackalit out into the world, then pull out the hankie. There are some people who do suffer from chronic nosebleeds. I envy those muthafuckas. Their nose is like a blood faucet that can’t be turned off. Those fuckers can donate blood through their nose. They don’t have to deal with goddamn needles. They just stroll into the blood clinic, open their nose, and then enjoy the orange juice and goddamn cookie. ’Cause why else would you donate blood except to get that juice and yummy cookie?
ALWAYS BET ON BLACK
Listen, it’s a known fact: Parents are always tight-fisted when it comes to money. Grandparents are a bit easier, and great-grandparents (if you can find some alive) are even easier. Old people are just more generous with their money and are easier to get over on.
That’s why, when I walk into a casino, I don’t see slot machines, I see family members. I seek out the old ones, the grandparents and the great-grandparents, with a few old ass uncles thrown in. I know that those cats are gonna be eager for thrills and not as concerned with their remaining account balances. If you can find a grandpa who’s estranged from his son, even better. Those cats get rid of their cash on purpose just to spite their ungrateful kids.
Once you spot these old people, you slide on in there like the grandkid they never had. You compliment them on their clothing, their perfume or cologne, you talk to them about shit they can relate to, like Efferdent. You tell them you wish your grandparents were still alive and then get them talking about their grandparents. By the end of it, they are so emotional they just sit there and let you win. They give you more money to “Go have some fun!” and “Buy yourself an ice cream to boot.”
Personally, I stay away from the new Vegas shit: too many bells and whistles to distract me from the task at hand. I don’t need to pretend I’m in Paris and eat some French ass bread shipped in from Reno. If I’m in Vegas, I’ll hit the old stinky places, like Circus Circus. That place smells like cigarettes and ejackalit from the 1960s. It’s still on their damn carpet. They’re just too underfunded to get proper sanitation equipment or to refurbish. You find old cats in there, you know they’re alone, ’cause if they were on good terms with their family they’d all be at the Venetian, riding around in a gondola with some Dominican dude pretending to know Italian.
The best casinos are the ones right outside of Vegas, about twenty miles out. Like Primm and Jean, Nevada. Those places house the real addicts. The people who can’t wait to actually get to Vegas to gamble, they pull over twenty miles out—not to fill up on gas or get some soda; they go in so they can gamble their money away as soon as fucking possible. Those are the real addicts. Those places are hard core and give you the real gambling vibe if you want it.
’Cause let me tell you something: Vegas is like a beautiful lady who won’t give you a good time. You want to find the ugly people, because ugly people try harder.
IKEA PARTIES
Some people think this implies having a party where people come over to help you build all the shit you bought at IKEA. There are endless party rooms to choose from based on the type of party you’re throwing. You’ve got kitchens and dining rooms for nice dinner parties. You can serve little finger foods, some wine in fancy wineglasses; they’ve got all that shit there. Nothing with sauces or gravies, no sloppy shit—remember, there’s no water to clean shit up. Of course, you have living rooms for casual get-togethers and bedrooms if you want to have some light, swinger-type stuff. Ain’t nothing wrong with that. Plenty of comfortable seating. A cleanup staff. Just make sure to specify what room you are using, ’cause otherwise your guests are gonna get sucked into the marketplace section buying placemats and cutlery and related shit for the dancing.
Note: If any of your guests try and show with a bunch of Swedish meatballs from the IKEA cafeteria instead of bringing some tasty shit from home, send them to the warehouse section for punishment.
HOMELESS DEPOT
The other day I was riding past Home Depot and I saw a lot of what’re called “day workers” standing out in front, trying to hustle some handyman gigs. Now, I can’t speak for everyone out there, but I assume that most of them are either poor, homeless, or both. Now don’t get me wrong: It’s quite possible that a few of them could be some of those crazy ass rich people who either like to see how the other half lives or have lost their minds and have like $1.2 million in nickels hidden in a storm drain at their house. Anyway, I was thinking about those poor souls who need a place to stay and are willing to work hard, and all of a sudden it hit me!
Home Depot is an amazing place—you got fifty aisles and a garden center in that shit. Now, what the government should do is subsidize housing by buying Home Depots and allowing homeless people to build their own houses inside the Home Depot, ’cause they got all the necessary materials in there already! Wood, hammers, dishwashers, BBQ equipment. They can even grow their own food in the garden department. It would be the Homeless Depot! It’s a house within a house within a fucking house.
Once all the houses are built, every aisle would be a new neighborhood—better yet, a development. And the shit is gated, so it’s basically a gated community, with ample fucking parking. Tell me that’s not a good ass idea! But I do recommend getting rid of the shopping carts: They tend to attract homeless people, and that would just bring you back to square one.
JEHOVAH WITNESS PROTECTION PROGRAM
Now, apart from the homeless, who for the most part have had some fucked-up circumstance and find themselves in unfortunate situations, I want to shine some light on another group of people. A group of people who also find themselves homeless, but this group did that shit to themselves and now expect other people to take care of them and pay their way. I’m talking about muthafuckas in the Witness Protection Program!
You see them in movies all the time cutting deals and getting set up somewhere nice. And who pays for that!? Taxpayers, that’s who! And why? I mean, you fucked up! Why should I pay for you to get some nice house in Phoenix! Fucking 5346 Canyon Drive in Phoenix, with that nice ass view, just ’cause somebody wants to blow your fucking head off because you squealed on Two Finger Tony for some racketeering charge, huh, Mike? You, your wife, your two beautiful kids, your fucking mother-in-law? That’s on you, Mike! (Hypothetically speaking, of course.)
I tell you what the courts or the feds or whoever is cutting that deal should do: Make them work that shit off!
Fuck it, send them to work for the Jehov
ah Witness knocking on doors and handing out pamphlets and shit. Being with them is like being hidden in plain sight! You could show up at someone’s door with blood on your jacket, handcuffs on, racketeering money hanging out of your pocket and be wearing an I Snitch t-shirt, and still no one would make the connection. Believe me, nobody is looking to find anyone associated with the Jehovah Witness! Perfect hiding place! Now you could hook them up with Scientology, but I would only do that in cases of extreme deep cover. Actually I have the perfect job for them! Since people in the Witness Protection Program can’t show their faces, make them team mascots. You know those dumb ass costumed ones you see at games, like that green big-bottomed one, the Phillie Phanatic, or the San Diego Chicken, or even the one from New York with that big baseball head—shit, even those damn big ass sausages that race. You ever see those sausages? I think one is a kielbasa, one is Italian, one is Polish, I think there’s even a racist-looking chorizo wearing a sombrero—anyway, those muthafuckas race and it’s hilarious!
Anyway, they don’t get to be anything cool like that because those mascots fuck. Trust me, people wait for them till after the game to play out some fantasies and fuck. Think that San Diego Chicken—as long as he has been doing it—doesn’t have a bunch of baby chicks running around? Like I said, don’t let them be cool ones at major sporting events, make them work at bullshit parks in the middle of nowhere. And make sure the character they play is real degrading: Make them dress up in a gigantic ass costume, one with two big buttocks! And make sure the team has a Foot in the Ass Day, where fans get to come on the field and kick the Ass! That’s what you get, Mike!