[Bryan the Lucky Asshole is a set of ten essays detailing how the author made tons of money and what he did once he was rich. The text was published in Volume 8 of The Essays & Lectures of Bryan Ray. It is also available as an audio album.]
I used to be all poor and stupid, but one
day I totally wised up and won the lottery. Yes, I earned hard cash in the amount
of seventeen million five billion trillion fourteen thousand point nine quintillion
dollars, plus very many pounds, yuan, pesos, and Louis D’or. — Pardon me while I
cheer for myself.
Then, after confirming my big win, I took
my usual trip to the government office to pick up what would be my last welfare
payment. As soon as I got the check in my hands, I turned to address all the folks
who were waiting in line there — I said: “You can all go to heck. For I won the
lottery; now I’m famous. My plan is to buy the rights to all the best recorded music
and then allow corporations to use it on the soundtracks of their advertisements.”
So now I’m a big fat millionaire billionaire
zillionaire. I’m actually the world’s first multi-thrillionaire. I own a mansion
in the hills, a home on the lake, a yacht and a jet, and my own robo-butler named
Devlin. Take a look at my car. Yes, I caught the get-rich-quick disease. Now I’ll
just pluck a few quintillion-dollar bills from my money trees that flood the landscape.
My cash orchard extends as far as the eye can see. And these mountains of fur coats
and diamonds are mine, all mine. To keep everyone out, I built a vast electric barbed-wire
fence with armed guards around the border.
I got a brand-new vehicle that has leather
plush seats and chrome on the wheels. It was engineered by NASA, so you can drive
it fast. It also has a computer that steers for you. This car can fly, and it is
glossy and fresh. Its interior is neon blue, and it has a TV mounted on the wall,
plus an inlaid bar. The transmission lever is covered in soft mink, and its chauffeur
is a Playboy Bunny made entirely of silicone.
Speeding down the road in my new automobile,
I pull over police officers and make them apologize to me. My car has wings that
flap and spikes that come out and jab you. It has eight exhaust pipes with engine
flames, and a gold case that holds your cigarettes. I don’t ever worry about traffic
because I simply steamroll over all other vehicles.
Money is the key to happiness. That’s why
I bought myself two fine wives. Both are blonde, thin, and tall, and they take turns
doing chores. They can grab each other because they’re flexible and good at stunts.
They are both hot to trot. My extreme wealth brought us all together. I doll them
up in shiny skirts that fit too tight. The weather is never bad, because I’m rich.
These wives sure are fine: watch them brush each other’s hair. One of the ladies
is kinda sassy, teasing and sly; and the other one is different from that — I forgot
their names. We have zero children together. But I own countless cars and houses.
One wife cooks; the other cleans. Look how I framed and displayed both prenuptial
agreements.
I Don’t Need Help, I Got Money
When I was poor, I would pray to God for
support. But now that I’m rich, I have happiness: there’s nothing that I cannot
buy — money takes care of all danger and chance. Therefore I conclude that only
poor people need God. And the poor are resentful of my wealth, so they tell me that
it’s impossible for a rich man to enter Heaven; but I am in Heaven right here and
now, in the only life that actually exists. The notion of an afterlife where souls
are rewarded or punished is nothing more than an idea; and poor people believe in
it, because their only possessions are hopes and dreams. Note as well that none
of their wishes ever come true.
Look up in the sky at that flying object
— is it the archangel Gabriel waving a sword of judgment? Or is it Kronion Zeus
with his shining magical aegis? Perhaps it’s the supernal chariot of Ezekiel’s vision
. . .
No: it’s a solid gold helicopter, and I
Bryan am its pilot. I’m hovering up here, just floating in the breeze. Now I press
forward on the accelerator and cause the contraption to go faster than a leopard.
The exterior is blindingly glistening with very many sparkles; and, when I land,
the wind from the spinning blades stirs up dead leaves and pigeons in the ghetto.
I fly all around the globe, just to show off.
I’m Taking My Wealth with Me
When I Die
Earlier, I proved that the notion of Heaven
is false and the afterlife is a hoax. But then some heckler among the poor warned
me that I’ll probably end up in Hell when I expire; and Hell is the opposite of
Heaven. So, after thinking about this, I decided that it would be best to hedge
my bet: I therefore paid to install an escalator in the lowest depths of the underworld,
so that, if I find myself there, I can just ride up into the clouds.
Also, I ordered my engineers to make a
toggle switch that controls the whereabouts of all my earthly treasures. Here’s
how it works: Once I die, my physical body shall fall forward and convulse upon
this button, thus triggering the device to transfer all my riches into the spiritual
realm. That way, all my cash and belongings will no longer be trapped here, in the
normal world; rather, they will follow my deceased soul wherever it goes. In short,
I’ll be the first rich man to regain paradise. Planning ahead, I already put in
the highest bid to purchase God’s throne, as well as his faceless facemask; plus
I bought Gandhi’s mansion, which is between mine and Christ’s, and had the property
bulldozed and converted into a parking space for my golden vehicles.
I hate the high tax rates of all the existing
countries on the earth; that’s why I bought an island and named it after myself.
I also bought the surrounding ocean.
Bryan Island has palm trees and unclad
women. (I had all the menfolk sent to America.) We go swimming in the clear blue
water during the day, and at night we gather on the pink sand to do communal dances
such as The Human Claw and The Frog Spring.
Our isle enjoys a constant stream of fresh
female immigrants. Each incoming nymph is given a warm greeting; then I ask her
to raise her right hand, so that I can swear her in, to make the citizenship official.
The sacred vow goes as follows:
King Bryan: “Welcome to Bryan Land. I am King Bryan.
Do you promise to be one of my hot-voodoo love-slaves?”
New Recruit: “Yes, please allow me to serve you on
your Island of Doom.”
Now a colossal cauldron is carved in the
top of the mount, to store all my precious gems, ingots, and coins. I also establish
a pure gold landing-pad for my chopper. Finally, I don the blank facemask of divinity
and take my seat on the crystalline god-throne. The multitudes sing pleasant songs
to me continuously, while I calculate the best price to charge all nations for planet-rent.
You Infringed My Hydrogen Patent
Well, now that I own all the oceans, land,
and air, I’m patenting and restricting the use of the element hydrogen, which forms
a part of nearly every living thing. If you can’t pay, you die. That is all.
So, if I happen to catch you breathing
or drinking some water, you’d better be prepared to show a receipt. Anyone who gives
me the slightest trouble about this must answer to my robotic Police Force.
Yes, my hydrogen patent is humane, fair,
prudent, and kind. Also safe and effective. “Attention, Robot Cop,” I address the
Officer standing beside me, “destroy that pretty flower that is stealing my nutriments.”
I own all the scientists, therefore I can
instruct the baryonic matter of the universe to obey no force but me. And, if the
tired poor huddled masses refuse to comply, then they’re welcome to go try to live
a hydrogen-free existence.
I’m Evicting Everyone and
Building a Golf Course
QUESTION: Why am I forcefully removing
you and your spouse from your longtime home, tossing your kids, pets, and knickknacks
out on the street, and setting the whole place on fire?
ANSWER: I’m evicting everyone and building
a golf course.
A wrecking ball smashes through the front
door. Your children are screaming; their belongings are burning. – I hand you a
bill for the current month’s rent and say assuringly: “Don’t worry; I’ll garnish
your earnings.”
Now, high above, I survey the landscape
in my gold helicopter. My plan for the site is that it shall have some fairways
that are nice and green, a tropical bar, a path of sapphire, and solid gold golf-carts.
This is hardly a poor person’s sport; that’s why I properly disposed of you and
your family, to make way for eighteen resplendent holes of golf luxury.
[Here ends Bryan the Lucky Asshole.]