My Plan to Get Out of Debt

Being strapped for cash really sucks, doesn't it? It seems like there is never ever enough. My debt refuses to get smaller no matter how much I pay on my credit cards. No sooner will I get one of them paid down then something will happen -- like my car's transmission will die, forcing me to plonk down $3000 for a new one. Since I have no savings to speak of it has to go on the plastic.

"Cha-ching, cha-ching!"

That's the sound of the good people at Visa tap dancing with glee on the shreds of my hopes and dreams.

It's truly shocking how much life costs these days. I can easily blow through a hundred dollars just filling up my gas tank and buying three measly little bags of groceries. Unbelievable! Do you know how long it takes me to earn a hundred bucks at The Boobie Barn? Well, only about an hour or so, but still, it's a hideous godawful hour. Believe me, the nights go by slooooooowly at work.

The obvious solution to these money problems would be to work more, I suppose, or get another job, but these ideas hold little appeal. My delicate, artistic soul cannot handle the nine to five drudgery of an office job. Been there, done that a million times. And I already spend way too much time at the strip club. Damn, it's a nasty place. I used to secretly delight in and be amazed by all the stupid drama that went on, but it got old fast. Now I barely even blink when a used tampon whizzes past my head as some pissed off stripper expresses her anger by throwing it at the smug faced manager. Gross, huh? Oh, the stories I could tell! Why they'd make you barf they would.

The thing is, how can one get more money without working or robbing a bank? I ruminated over this question for many days. Using a technique learned from watching the Oprah show, I envisioned myself with a brand new car, all my student loans paid off, and giving the finger to the credit card companies as I closed every last account. I asked the universe how to make this happen.

The universe never answered. That book The Secret is a total rip off! So I've just decided to get myself a sugar daddy.

This should work out fairly well though. Of course, I'm kinda picky. I don't want one of those run of the mill, idiot, record producer dorks who are constantly giving me their business cards and bragging about how they live next door to Tim McGraw. Ick! No, the man I'm looking for needs to be a creative type, cute, fun to be around, and super-duper loaded. Preferably a bazillionaire.

I'm thinking Paul McCartney would be pretty much perfect.



Back off, bitches! This sexy grandpa is going to be MY new sugar daddy! You guys can have Donald Trump.


Maybe you think I'm being unrealistic. Why would a big star like Paul want to spend time with an ordinary girl like me? Well, we actually have quite a bit in common.




-- We are both dedicated vegans, even though I cheat all the time by munching on cheese. Well, have you ever tried soy cheese? Bleh! Also PETA seems kind of stupid to me but if it pleased Paul, I'd be happy tag along with them when they throw fake blood on some fur wearing bitches. Heh heh, take that you rich hags! I mean....let's save the animals....yeah, that's it.

-- We both have a healthy appreciation for nature's finest green herb.

-- We are creative types. He fills the world with silly love songs, while I do my best to fill the web with stupid poetry.

-- I always tend to go for muscians anyway, I just usually bring home the young, skanky, penniless types. True, I've never yet been with a guy old enough to be my dad but hey, he's Paul McCartney! A Beatle! My third favorite after George and John. Ringo would be okay too if he'd shave off that scrubby facial hair.

-- Paul seems to go for plain-faced blondes with great racks and that pretty much describes me to a tee.

-- I'm younger than his kids but not so embarrassingly younger like say, Miley Cyrus or whatever the heck that girl's name is, would be. I'm a mature woman of the world! But if he wanted me to dress up like a slutty Catholic schoolgirl or something that would be fine.

-- I'm not interested in marriage at all -- gah, hell to the no! -- so I wouldn't be bugging him for a commitment. And I'm not a crazy ass gold digger like his last wife. A million or two would do nicely.

-- He'd never have to take me out to fancy parties. The jet set life doesn't interest me much. I'd be happy to hang out with him at his castle estate in the countryside, making up songs and crank-calling Heather Mills. That would be great!

-- Did I mention my rack? It's fantastic.


Yeah, Paul would like me a lot. His daughter Stella would probably hate me, but that poor little rich girl can fuck off. The old man deserves some fun and I deserve to pay off my credit cards.

So, my mind is made up. Instead of paying $3000 for a new transmission, I will head over to England to find Paul McCartney. It shouldn't too be hard. Years of watching bad television sitcoms has shown me that meeting a famous person is easily achieved by dressing up in a bell boy uniform and sneaking into their hotel room. Lucy did it. It worked for Marcia Brady too.

Oh sure, some wacky hijinks will probably ensue and various hilarious misunderstandings might make things a little more difficult, but it will all work out in the end. At the very least I'll get to meet Paul and possibly learn a "Very Important Lesson" which will turn out to be something really, really stupid, like all rich people are miserable and I should be happy being my poor yet spunky self, gosh darn it!

Good plan, huh? If for some crazy reason things don't work out I suppose I'll look into getting another job, but really I don't see how this could fail.