Four Years Of Hell: College V. The Army

Co-created with Lance Pauker & Ella Ceron

Which path should you choose: going to college or joining the military? Young people who’ve asked themselves this question have received a plethora of different answers. Both options are viable in helping you set yourself up for success in adulthood. Just like anything else in life, it’s what you make of it, and no two experiences are exactly the same. To help you understand the lifestyle differences between the two paths, two college graduates and one veteran will share with you a year-by-year breakdown of their experiences through those very special four years.

Freshman Year:

Lance Pauker: 

There was a lot of pressure to meet people, but at first you didn’t really know how. So you just stuck to the same three questions, consisting of things like, “Where are you from?,” “What’s your major?,” and, “Are you secretly the son of an oil tycoon?”

Overall, I think I was a little too overwhelmed to really process what was going on—there’s so much coming at you at once. You’ve got the sudden freedom, you’ve got these new people in your life that you’re suddenly good friends with, and you’ve got professors constantly asking you if you did the reading. If there’s anything you figure out quickly, it’s that nobody really does the reading.

Ella Ceron:
I went to college 3,000 miles away from my hometown and was only really able to do so on a full-ride academic scholarship. It was terrifying being in a new city—though I’m from a large city, moving to New York was still a huge change. It was weird living with so many other people my age in one building all of a sudden, and I had five roommates in a very small three-bedroom/one-communal-area dorm. There was a lot of pressure on keeping my grades up, especially when what I thought I wanted my major to be proved much more difficult to maintain, and I had to take a good, hard look at whether I wanted to pursue that dream without my scholarship or change my course. I went home for the summer after that year and very desperately didn’t want to go back. I was homesick, miserable, hadn’t found a group of friends I felt very intrinsically close to, and felt all-around awkward.

Raul Felix:
Your first year in the Army is basically where you get your teeth kicked in. Everything you were, did, and knew no longer seems relevant. You’re going to do shit the way the Army wants you to do it. From your drill sergeants in Basic Training all the way to your team leaders and squad leaders in your first unit, you’re expected to be a sponge for knowledge and to shut your fucking mouth.

Life was simple in a way: You trained hard and worked long hours during the week and got drunk as fuck in the barracks with your buddies on the weekends watching movies, playing video games, and bitching about your miserable existence and how you should have gone to college. Even if you started off as a cavalier, gleaming-eyed young man full of glee and hope, the aura of massive amounts of testosterone, cynicism, and sexual frustration was prevalent. Back then MySpace was the main social network and you’d see your friends posting pictures of themselves at college parties surrounded by hot chicks, while all you had was Internet porn and a bottle of Jack to keep you company. Since most of us were under 21 and none of us were locals, meeting chicks was very rare indeed. Luckily, a few months in, I met a great girl through MySpace that went to a local university and we developed a long-term fuck-buddy relationship that gave me something to look forward to other than drinking myself into oblivion. My cousin and I were in the same battalion but different companies. He had already been the in Army for a little over two years at that point. We spent Christmas and New Year’s together drinking heavily in the barracks watching movies as we waited to deploy.

Sophomore Year:

Screen Shot 2014-06-25 at 9.31.22 AM

Spc Tiffany Fudge, US ARMY

Lance Pauker:
An article I once read on this pretty great website called Thought Catalog (def check it out if you get the chance) referred to sophomore year as “The Year Of The Wise Fools.” I think this summation is spot-on. You’re slowly gaining a sense of who you are and how you fit within the general landscape, but you’re still, relatively, an idiot. On a personal level, the majority of cool college stories I have occurred during sophomore year.

I feel like sophomore year represents the time in which you begin to move toward that thing you really want to pursue—you’ve finally figured out which people to acknowledge and which people to slowly start ignoring, so you’re finally ready to learn on your terms. Think of it as making your way through a crowded and cramped bar and then finally reaching the cool outside area. You light up a cig, talk about how you really shouldn’t be lighting up a cig, and finally get a chance to think.

Ella Ceron:
I had a summer job in Los Angeles during the summer break and was lucky enough to transfer to a New York outpost of the same company, so I was juggling four and five courses a semester with 30-to-40-hour work weeks. Though my classes were being paid for by the school, I had to take out loans for my housing and had to fund my own food, clothes, and anything else I wanted. It was a lot, but I was able to interact with people who were already living and working in the “real world” and I realized that there was so much beyond the papers and assignments that I had been so stressed about during the previous year. I still didn’t have as many friends as college is always portrayed in the movies, but I let myself completely fill up my schedule so that I was either working or studying seven days a week. In retrospect, that was the stupidest idea ever, but it helped me cope with the loneliness.

Raul Felix:
To my bitter disappointment, that deployment I spent doing a support role for the line guys. We pushed out supplies from the main base to all of the platoons scattered throughout the country. When we did leave the base, it was doing detainee escorts where we would take captured Hajis from one prison to another throughout the country on Chinooks and Blackhawk helicopters. I saw the vastness of Iraq by the air—from our remote outpost in Al Qa’im to the major cities of Baghdad, Mosul, and Tikrit. I also fucked up a lot that deployment and made nearly every single stupid mistake a cherry private could make to the frustration and wrath of my leadership. That deployment I was hit by how real this war was—my cousin’s team leader and squad leader both got killed in action.

We deployed in three-months-there and six-months-back cycles. We came back stateside and I began to take all the lessons learned from that deployment into the next training cycle, determined to be less of a fuck-up. The lifestyle of training hard, drinking hard, and fucking hard took firm hold again. Before one knew it, it was time to go to Afghanistan. Arriving at the beginning of the blistering Afghan winter, me and a dozen other Batt Boys were tasked to man a secret prison that contained high-value targets that were freshly captured off of objectives by the line guys. It pissed me off because I didn’t join the Army to stay on the base; I joined to go on fucking missions. We spent Thanksgiving and Christmas there, and I spent New Year’s Eve 2007 on an airplane ride back to the US. Luckily we didn’t lose anyone on that deployment.

Junior Year

Screen Shot 2014-06-25 at 10.15.55 AM

KT King

Lance Pauker:
I went abroad the first semester of my junior year. Like everyone else who went abroad, I had such an incredible time that I spent the following semester acting superior to everyone who didn’t share the same new life experience as me.

Returning to college after spending a semester traveling all over Europe felt like going from an Elton John concert to an Austin Mahone concert. No disrespect to my man Austin; he just fits the reference.

Ella Ceron:
When everyone else went abroad, I moved out of the dorms and into my first apartment—a really crappy walkup that was about a 20-minute walk away from the campus. I still filled my schedule with work and school and tried to romanticize how utterly threadbare my life was. My roommate bought our couch with a bottle of Belvedere, I slept on a yoga mat before I managed to get a bed, and I wrote my papers on a busted laptop with an old radiator whistling nearby. This all sounds like something out of the New York warehouse episodes of Glee, and I deeply wish I wasn’t as proud of the bohemian bullshit I let myself dive into. I still worked 40 hours a week, and I really liked my job, but that began to happen at the expense of shirking off a lot of my papers and assignments, only to make up excuses to get extensions and not fail out of my classes. It was a wakeup call that being an adult is a lot more about work than it is about the aesthetic, and sometimes you have to decide which is more important to you in the moment and which is more important to you in the long run.

Raul Felix:
By that time, I was comfortable in the Army. I wasn’t a big fuck-up anymore, so my leaders usually stayed off my ass. I knew exactly what I needed to do, what my job was, and what I could and couldn’t get away with. I turned 21 that year, went to my first bar in Seattle, and subsequently got kicked out of my first bar.

We were set to deploy again that summer, and a few days before deployment I found my grandmother had died. My cousin and I went to her funeral and missed out on the deployment. We stayed on Rear Detachment, which meant we pretty much had half-days all the time and spent much of that time drinking heavily and attempting to find some tail, mostly unsuccessfully. One morning, news came that one of the men in our company had been killed in action. A few weeks later, another one had been killed.

Senior Year

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Spc Justin Young, US ARMY

Lance Pauker:
Senior year was the crossroads between living in an apartment that should probably be condemned and being “adult” enough to drink something other than watered-down Keystone Light. I found that I probably made the most friends in college senior year—just like senior year of high school, nobody really cares about the social distinctions they spent the past three years maintaining. People are finishing up sports, slightly embarrassed to have been a part of their Greek organization, and overall too consumed with the postgrad unknown to care about how sick Freddy’s party was. You also realize how much of an unrealistic bubble the American college experience is. While I definitely got a ton out of my four years, you certainly realize how alarming the disconnect is. If college prepares you for the working world, then playing baseball prepares you for running a marathon. They’re both sports, but that’s pretty much it.

Ella Ceron:
By senior year, I was totally immersed in my job, and a big chunk of me didn’t think I really NEEDED my degree anymore—but then I realized that the job trajectory I was on wasn’t the right fit after all. I was working 60 hours a week, could afford a lot of really nice things, made friends with my coworkers, and was acting the part of the adult—but I just wasn’t happy. I had to force myself to put any effort into my classes, because I’d saved a lot of the easy, fun classes for senior year, knowing full well I’d have senioritis. The caveat in that, however, was that I was constantly reminding myself that if I could do okay by coasting along, imagine how much better I could do by working hard. Ultimately, I realized that the degree I eventually chose meant more to me than the job I’d had all through college and that I not only wanted to actually pursue using my degree, but that I’d be disappointed if I didn’t.

Working through college was a very important part of my experience, because it gave me a crash course in the wild world of money and having an apartment and adulthood and adult friends, but I was worn really thin throughout those four years and wouldn’t necessarily suggest you try to do everything all at once if you don’t absolutely need to. If I could do it all over again, and if I had the means, I would definitely have not worked as much as I did, even though I don’t regret how hard I worked. College is a time for discovery, and sometimes I wonder if I was too burdened with bills and being a grown-up to do that then—but now I’m making up for it by discovering myself along the way now.

Raul Felix:
Another training cycle started. The same dance all over again. I had calmed down my bar-hopping since I had gotten a girlfriend, but it didn’t mean I still didn’t drink to my heart’s content. Working, drinking, and hanging out with my girl was all I contented myself with during that training cycle. It had all become second nature at that point. We took off for the sandbox again. This time I drove Strykers through the streets of Mosul on hundreds of direct action raids. I was happy because at last I was doing the cool guy shit I’ve been training for. In typical poetic fashion, my girlfriend broke up with me. This was costliest and most heart-wrenching deployment during my time in battalion. We lost three great men all within a month of each other.

It’s a strange feeling being in a bar when only 48 hours earlier you were in the middle of the streets of Mosul pulling security. I was more than eager to get out of the Army. I had acquired an annoyed and hate-filled attitude toward my job, but I knew I had one deployment left before I was free at last. I bought a motorcycle and developed a passion for motorcycle travel when my buddies and I took a trip around Washington State.

In my final deployment to Iraq, I was driving Strykers like I did before. Though we did go on quite a few missions, it was way slower than the previous high-operations tempo deployment. The war was winding down. There was a stretch where we went two weeks without a single mission. Books, video games, and TV shows were how you kept your sanity from the boredom. I came back with only a month left on my enlistment. One month later, I hopped on my motorcycle to travel the US, leaving behind the red-fenced compound that took me in during my most formative years and forged me into a man.

~Raul Felix

You can read more of my writing at Thought Catalog.

Ode To La Doña: The Linchpin Of The Mexican Family

FamiliaFelix

The Mexican man takes pride in the fact that he is the man of the house. In his mind, he possesses the huevos, so he naturally runs shit. If he wants to stay up late on a Friday night listening to musica norteña from the $1,500 after-market sound system of his ’95 GMC Yukon while drinking Bud Light, eating carne asada, and bitching about life with his carnales, he’ll do it, damn it!

Then his phone rings. “Es mi vieja,” he says as he looks down at the screen of ay-phone. He quickly picks up and answers. “Si, mi amor?” His friends hear the muffled sound of his wife yelling at him that it’s time to come home. “Mandala al la chingada,” say his carnales who are single. But they are well aware that he is in a powerless position and when his wife says it’s time to come home, he better move his fucking ass or run the risk of having his favorite Chivas soccer jersey cut up again. His wife may be young, but she is stubborn, brave, and resourceful. She has the makings a future “La Doña.”

In the Mexican family, much like the British monarchy, the man is the figurehead in name only. La Doña is the one who is the true shot-caller. La Doña is the alpha female. She could be the grandmother, oldest sister, or the most assertive, fiscally responsible, and reliable female out of the many characters that comprise the family. She has a commanding presence and rules with love, fear, and respect.

There is no love like the love of La Doña. Upon seeing you she’ll give you a hug, kiss, comment on how fat you gotten, and ask if you’re hungry. Then she’ll immediately get in the kitchen and throw together whatever she can from the contents of her fridge. Even with minimal ingredients, La Doña is able to magically assemble a delicious meal that you eat to the last bite.

La Doña will be the first person you call when life has kicked you in the balls. If you’re broke and struggling to pay your bills, La Doña is hardworking and frugal enough that she can lend you money. If life gets to the point where you lost your place to live, she’ll be the first person to let you stay in her spare bedroom until you reestablish yourself. When you’re downtrodden and everyone is looking down on you, La Doña will ferociously defend you and make it clear that your bad luck is only temporary.

She’ll be at your birthdays, graduations, and major life events. La Doña will be your biggest fan and supporter in all your dreams and endeavors, however farfetched they may be. She will speak proudly of you to others and highlight all of your accomplishments whenever the opportunity presents itself.

But La Doña will also fill you with fear. She will be the first person to confront you when you are fucking up. Get a bad grade in school? Be ready for her to yell your ear off about how if you don’t get good grades, you’ll be washing dishes at Denny’s with the other dumb Mexicans. You want to be cool and hang out with the little gangster kids across the street? La Doña isn’t going to let you become a good-for-nothing cholo that gives the rest of us Mexicans a bad name. She’ll go to their house, find you, and berate you in front of everybody with a combination of your name, swear words, your last name, and more swear words. Then she’ll grab you by the ear and drag your ass back home. Did you decide to get drunk and get your ass bounced out of the bar again? Don’t worry, La Doña will pick you up. The price: her beating the crap out of you for being tan estúpido. It doesn’t matter if you’re 27.

La Doña rules mostly with respect. Maybe she isn’t highly educated or well traveled, but her knowledge of how the real world works in invaluable. She has worked long, hard hours for low pay. She has seen life come into this world and has seen it leave. She has had her share of love and heartbreak, excitement and disappointment, happiness and sadness. She has selflessly put her family’s needs ahead of her own. She has made the right connections and has become a key figure in helping the family establish themselves in a new country.

La Doña knows how to get shit done and has connections who speak Spanish. Your ’92 Camry is having transmission trouble, but you don’t trust any of the gringo mechanics because they’re always looking to rip off Mexicans? Don’t worry; La Doña knows a guy who speaks Spanish and is trustworthy. You need a job? La Doña has a friend who owns a little taco shop and will hook you up. You’re traveling back to Mexico to visit? Just let La Doña make a couple of phone calls and you’ll have yourself a place to stay.

La Doña has more balls than most men. While many men willingly abandon their offspring, La Doña has more character in her right pinkie and will never let any child in her bloodline feel unloved. La Doña leads by example, never expecting anyone to do anything she isn’t willing to do herself. She’s the most levelheaded of the men and women in the family, often putting herself in the middle of their petty feuding to help find a solution so the family stays whole.

La Doña seems superhuman in the way she skillfully governs the chaos that is the Mexican family. Her fuel is her love for every member. Their trials are her trials. Their burdens are her burdens. Their success is her success. Their happiness is her happiness. She will have her favorite picture of you hanging up on some wall in her home. Even as you grow older and start building your own life, she will always worry about you because to her, you’re still esé niño who barely knows how to wipe his butt.

~Raul Felix
Read more of my work on Thought Catalog.

Who’s Fucking My Woman?

“You know what is really fucked up?” says my buddy, “Your future wife is out there right now and she’s banging some other dude. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Yeah, your future wife could be getting gang banged right now,” I say with a smirk because I think I am clever.

A few hours pass and I’m working out at the gym, an epiphany strikes. ”Holy fuck! My future wife could be getting gang banged right now! FUCKING WHORE!” I think to myself, “No fuck that, I’ll never accept that in a woman who would be my significant other.”

Even without going to the orgy extremes, there is still a very high chance that she probably has some other dudes schlong nestled snuggly in one of her pleasure holes. More than likely, some other guy has already been her first blow job, fuck, and anal experience. As a fully grown man, there isn’t anything you can do about it. Girls are losing their virginity before they even graduate high school. Unless you want to run the risk of losing your anal virginity in federal-pound-me-in-the-ass prison because of statutory rape, it’s a fact of life you’re going to have to accept.

I try to reason with myself that maybe she won’t be a virgin by the time she gets to me, but please don’t be a used up whore. Then I churn in my head all the shit I’ve learned about women over my short lifetime. I think of the girls I’ve known who’ve gone through their slut phases in their teens and twenties. They are now settling down into a real adult relationship or having kids, kissing their little infants with lips that have sucked dozens of cocks.

This is where the modern man and traditional machismo man inside me have a moral qualm. “I’ve had my share of random pussy and sexual experiences,” says the modern man, “How can I be a hypocrite?” Then machismo man says, “You’re a man. It’s your nature to go out to fuck random women, do stupid shit, and then apply the lessons you’ve learned when you get into a relationship with a woman who is actually worth settling down with. Whores are to be used and then promptly tossed aside.”

“Women are people too. They’re free to make their own sexual choices,” says the modern man.

“Yes, they are. You don’t have to accept them though. Just as she has the right to fuck around, you have the right to not to take a woman who has fucked around too much as a candidate for a partner,” rebuttals the machismo man.

“Well, that’s true. But, you’re not going to find a virgin over the age of 18 though. Even if you did, there’s a 95.5% chance it’s either because she’s a religious prude or just an ogre of a woman,” says the modern man.

The machismo man pauses, “You make a good fucking point. There is a balance to be had, the number just can’t be too high.”

“What’s too high of a number?” Asks the modern man.

“I don’t fucking know. Uh… hopefully in the single digits or at the most, one dude per year since she’s lost her v-card,” responds the machismo man.

I can already hear the responses about how it’s hypocritical or how if she had safe sex, it really shouldn’t matter. Or more likely, it shows lack of a self confidence in a man because he can’t handle a woman who enjoyed sex or that he’s slut-shaming. There is nothing wrong with a woman loving sex. Women who love sex are fucking awesome. The issue is how easy it was for her to spread those legs to whatever cute guy she came across after having one or two cosmos.

This is the feeling a lot of us machismo men, yes, I unapologetically admit to being very machismo, possess: we want to conquer and dominate. We want to be the best lover in our woman’s life and it irks us to know someone else possessed her at some point. We don’t want to share. We don’t want to boldly go where dozens (maybe hundreds) of cocks have gone before. We want to go to pristine, fresh grounds that only a few, very select and lucky cocks got to prance around in.

Does a woman become a less valuable member of society because she’s had a train ran on her by a platoon worth of men? Of course not. It doesn’t make her a bad person or vile creature to be avoided. She can still be a great friend, co-worker, and contributing member of society. It’s her right to do whatever the fuck she wants. There are always consequences to said actions. Consequences of being a whore is that some men are going to be put off by it.

Just like many a woman may not want to be with me because I’m Hispanic, self-centered, not her type, unstable, lower class, unestablished, an alcoholic, uneducated, or many other factors. For me, being a whore is a deal breaker, plain and simple. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still fuck her but take her as serious girlfriend material? Not going to happen.

Some may curse me for wanting that, hoping that I do end up falling in love with a whore to teach me a lesson for having the balls to state my standards. That’s on par with me wishing for a woman to end up with a cheating husband because she said she didn’t want to be with a man who cheats. Or wishing a Jewish woman ends up with non-Jew because she said she only dates Jewish men.

Part of being a free individual in our society is that we get to pick the qualities we value in our partners. No body is perfect and we’re all fucked up in our own way, but each of us have qualities that we put at a higher priority above others. A woman can be a whore and be a great person or a woman can be a virgin and be a total piece of shit.

For myself, I value looks, intelligence, good character, ambition, and non-sluttiness. Other mens lists may be different. A woman’s list may be different. Your list may be different. It’s our quest to find that person that possess the qualities we value highly and hopefully, we possess the qualities they value highly in return so they’ll actually want to be with us.

Am I such a horrible person for not wanting a whore as a significant other? Its fine, you wouldn’t want to be with such a backwards thinking, macho, misogynistic asshole who doesn’t value your right to express your sexual liberations by having cocks of all sorts destroying your orifices any ways. And future ex-wife, if you’re reading this, please try to keep it in the single digits.

~Raul Felix

“You sexist pig! Who do you think you are?” At least I didn’t make a rape reference… oh wait: Politcally Incorrect and Loving It

Why Being a 90’s Kid Was Badass

At the risk of offending the several cougar fans(you know who you are) I have who no doubt want to have sex with me if the circumstances allowed it, I have the following statement to say: Being a 90’s kid was the best and greatest time to be an adolescent so far. Sorry cougars who had their childhoods in the 70’s and 80’s. While you Gen Xers and Baby Boomers were busy raping our futures with short-sighted policies on banking and government regulations that would leave us riddled with a huge national debt, unemployment, and underemployment, we were watching bad ass TV shows, playing sweet ass video games, and messing around with some tits ass toys.

We Had the Most Bad Ass TV Shows EVER!

I’m talking about Power Fucking Rangers, Tiny Fucking Toons Adventures, Rocko’s Fucking Modern Life, The Fucking Simpsons, Ahhh… Real Fucking Monsters, Adventures of Fucking Pete and Pete, The Fucking Critic, Global Fucking Guts, The Fucking Wonder Years, and my favorite of all, Fucking Doug. If while reading that list your eyes just sparkled a tiny bit and smile ran upon your twenty-something face, congratulations, you were blessed with being a 90’s kid in fucking America.

This was the time when basic cable was at its peak. Nickelodeon had its original Nick Toons and Cartoon Network was just beginning to evolve from just airing old Hanna-Barbara Cartoon into developing their own in house shows. We had great after school shows from FOX Kids and Kids WB. We were young and full of hope. Why wouldn’t we be when he had hero’s like the Power Rangers?

FUCK YES!

FUCK YES!

Power Rangers wore sweet ass helmets with tights of different colors (red was my favorite) and beat the crap out of monsters sent to attack earth by Rita Repulsa. Then Rita Repulsa would throw her staff at the Earth and make the monsters grow as big as skyscrapers. Holy fuck, shit just got real, but not to worry, because the most kick ass part was to come. The Power Rangers would then summon their colossal robotic “zords” and each would be some type of dinosaur. The T-Rex was my favorite! Then, oh my fucking god, they would combine and form The MegaZord that kicked so much ass. In the ensuing epic battle, they would destroy the city and monster, thus winning the day. Then the episode would neatly conclude and everyone would learn to Just Say No to Drugs. Also, Kimberly, the Pink Ranger, was the perfect girl and was the source of many a prepubescent boner.

My dream girl at age 8.

My dream girl at age 8.

With that solid set of role models, we were set up for success. While adults were busy watching boring ass shows like Melrose Place and Party of Five, we were honing our funny bone with some great comedic works. A few especially affluent 90’s kids will remember The Critic. A short-lived animated series that was too good for its time. Starring the paunchy Jay Sherman as a film Critic that has low self-confidence, bad luck with women, and pretty much used as a punching bag by those he loves. The show had edge and a special wit it used to parody movies, celebrities, and current events that was only matched by The Simpsons.

Combine the many shows of that caliber and access to it in our youths, and you have 90’s kids, brought up to have a pretty wicked sense of humor. We are the generation that paved the way for all the shows that currently dominate.

We Had a Sweet Ass Video Gaming Experience

In general, Baby Boomers were too old at the time to really get into video games and misjudged video games as just another fad. While a lot of Gen Xers got into video games as well, they merely adopted them. 90’s kids were born into them, forged by them. We never knew of a world without them. Before we knew how to say our alphabets, we had a Nintendo controller in our hands. Hoping to beat Super Mario Brothers without having to start over a million times or trying to shoot all the ducks in Duck Hunt.

SuperMarioNES

FUCK YES!

Sometime during the first decade of our existence(’91), the gods blessed us with Super Nintendo and Sega Genesis, effectively ensuring our eternal dedication. They enriched our lives with Super Mario World, Street Fighter 2, F-Zero, Super Ghouls and Ghosts, Sonic The Hedgehog, and Altered Beast. Games whose names when uttered fills the body with a form of romanticism and nostalgia resembling Al Bundy thinking about the time he scored four touch downs in a single game.

It was a great time, the 16 Bit War was raging, the video game industry hadn’t run out of idea’s yet, and there were no load times. You would go over to a friends house after school and play some Street Fighter 2. Totally ignoring whatever lame ass crap adults did. Look at them, they’re just sitting around drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and NOT playing video games, what a bunch of joyless weirdoes.

Video games became a part of our generation. Nearly every 90’s kid has at least played Super Mario Brothers and most of them had video game system in their houses growing up. A lot of them still have the modern systems in their home right now. Mario, Sonic, and Pokemon have grown up to be idols to us. These characters from a more carefree and innocent time still remain with us today after we have ventured out into the cold, unforgiving world full of disappointment, gloom, and doom.

Speaking of doom, we played the shit out of Doom on PC on Microsoft DOS. Blowing the shit out of zombie marines and imps. Even though they had the same death animation, it seemed so realistic to our naive eyes that we actually felt we were going through a war with demons from hell. While older generations scoffed, and some groups tried to censor our games for being too violent, we knew better and played them any ways. Fuck the system.

Shit just got fucking real.

Shit just got fucking real.

Ours was the first true gamer generation, sure, others had guys who played Pong, Space Invaders, and Pac Man, but ours was the first one to play video games in mass and pushed the industry forward. What did kids before us do? Pretty lame crap like hula hoop and jacks. What the fuck is that shit?

We Had Tits Ass Toys

While we loved watching TV shows about good guys fucking shit up and playing good guys fucking shit up in video games, we also wanted to act out the role of good guys fucking shit up. There were a few toys from the 90’s that totally epitomized the whole fucking shit up concept.

King of the Nerf Battle

King of the Nerf Battle

The Nerf Ultimator was one of them. It was big, powerful, slow, and inaccurate. It was essentially a Nerf RPG. With this big boy you could shoot at your friends from a long distance and have some small hope of hitting them. The thundering noise it gave off while the trigger was pulled struck terror into the hearts of your enemies. The key to this weapon was shooting at close distance so it could totally rock your poor opponents world. You had to be careful if you missed because the reload time was insane and thus leaving you extremely vulnerable. If you could master this weapon, you would own the battlefield.

Though my family was poor, they put their money together one Christmas and got me the most tits toy of the year, The Megazord. I’ve explained it earlier what it was, but you have no idea how cool it felt to have a real life Megazord in my hands. My imagination will go wild as I would imagine sweet scenarios where I stomped the guts out of my other actions figures who were playing the role of enemy monsters. After thoroughly vanquishing my foes, I would imagine jumping out of The Megazord in my Red Ranger suit and making out with Kimberly.

FUCK YES!

FUCK YES!

I don’t know how any previous generations childhood could have been better than that of a 90’s kids. Seriously, what the hell did you guys do when you were bored at home on a Saturday night? I think the kids today have it pretty damn awesome. I see my two year old niece using the iPhone and iPad with a higher degree of competence than half of adults. She’ll never endure commercial breaks, 56k modems, or AOL banning her from chat room because she cursed too much. She’ll never feel the pain of having to beat a video game with no save points or having to blow into the cartridge in order for the game to work. She’ll never be disconnected from the internet when her mom picks up the phone or have to deal with being forced to watch novelas during the time she should be watching The Simpsons because there is only one TV in the house. I just look at her in amazement and jealousy of how awesome her childhood is going to be because of all these neat toys and video games she has access to. Spoiled brat.

~Raul Felix

Life has been rough to me since the 90’s… got any advice?: Three Rock Solid Way To Become a More Marketable Bum

Lost in Manhood

I’ll admit it, sometimes I feel lost in this thing called manhood. There are times and days when I feel like I am on track toward becoming the man that I want to become. Other days, I feel derailed and demotivated. On those days I look back and wonder what the fuck I did with those 24 hours. The answer is disheartening: nothing, and a lot of it. That’s when I look deeply at the reflection in the mirror and spit at it in disgust.

There is no urgency for me to completely grow up. I don’t have crushing student loans, a mortgage, or car payments. I don’t have a serious relationship with the prospect of marriage in the foreseeable future. I’ve even managed to avoid the ultimate crux of being Mexican: getting a chick pregnant at a young age. No little Raul Jr running around draining money out of my bank account, crushing and shitting on my dreams with his mere existence. My working theory is that it’s because I specialize in fucking and dating white chicks who dislike their fathers enough to be with a dark skinned man, but not so much that they want to be with a black guy. Hispanic chicks can’t be trusted to fuck without condoms even in relationships; they’re insanely fertile and since a vast majority of them come from overbearing catholic families, abortion is not an option. Asian chicks never dig me because they know dating me will bring great shame to their family.

Raul Felix only has to only worry about Raul Felix. Since I am very self-centered and a bit aloof to what others feel, it’s a pretty easy task. I’m the only male in my family over the age of 23 who isn’t married or doesn’t have a little shit-machine ankle biter. However, that doesn’t mean I never want that. When I picture how my future will be like, I see a beautiful wife with ample breasts and an amazing ass who I will have hotter sex with than two bunnies in a wool sock. As fuck trophies, there will be a couple of Felix spawn roaming around wreaking havoc.

I’m 26, in a few days I’ll be 27, and all I can think about is: what the fuck is the rush? My generation, Generation Y, we’re expected to live well into our mid-80’s on average, even to our 90’s and 100’s. That’s a long ass time to be a responsible member of society.

Whenever I meet an older person, male or female, I always ask them what they would have done differently if they could do it all again. The most consistent responses are: get an education in a real major, one that actually gives you a real world tangible skill such as engineering. Hold off on marriage and having children until you discover who you are and what you truly want out of life. Travel when you are young and free of responsibilities.

I don’t have a college degree, so according to my boy Kendawg, I have no right to make fun of him like I constantly do because he made the ill advised decision to major in Archaeology. I just know that a vast majority of people who I know personally who have a humanities degree are not even working in the field they studied in and have no hopes to unless they get their masters and in some cases, PhD. While the people I know personally who have a STEM degree (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math) actually are gainfully employed in those fields. With that knowledge, my other friend, Sleazy-E, and I, in our late 20’s now, have taken it upon ourselves to major in engineering. He in Civil Engineering and myself in Computer Engineering, though we’re both still a long ways off from graduating.

Just from being a writer, I’ve run across a few people who had to pretty much restart their lives after their kids left the nest and are currently struggling to discover who they are. Hell, the cougars I’ve picked up at the bars have shown me first hand how freshly divorced women who didn’t really get to enjoy their 20’s because of the responsibility of a husband and children behave when they get their hands on a half-decent looking man, such as myself. (Hint: if you’re an attractive cougar in the Southern California area, send me an e-mail.)

I feel it is a manifestation of making up for lost time. They want to live the life they never got to enjoy and in my eyes, they have the right to do so. Better late than never, tis grandeur to be a hot cougar on the prowl than a bitter old spinster. For the more ambitious types of men and women it can mean finally going after what they truly dreamed of doing, the thing that they had set aside, but always was lingering in the back of their head, because of the burden of being a grown up.

There is a world of difference between traveling with just backpack on a bums budget and staying in shady hostels and partying with people from all the different places of the world with questionable moral values than traveling with family. There is an insane amount of independence when you travel alone or with just one companion. There is minimal logistics, budgeting, and you’re able to be quite serendipitous with your time and what you do. I’ve traveled through thirty states of the United States on my motorcycle for 2 and a half months, spent three weeks traveling the entire country of Italy on a motorcycle, and backpacked randomly through Western Europe for a month. I can only imagine how lame and how expensive that shit would be with a snot monster to drag around.

Depending on your prospective, I can be seen as a failure or a young man on his way to the top. I don’t really have a hard set career path yet, I don’t make six-figures, I haven’t “manned-up” and decided to just pick a reformed slut who doesn’t meet my high standards for a woman and just get married. I have no stability in my life and I live in a hovel with four room mates who drink too much, curse too much, play too many video games, and have the most obscene sense of humor.

I’ve decided to take the advice of those older people and take my god damn time because why the fuck not? There are a lot of things I want to accomplish before I settle down and become a family man. I want to travel the world on my motorcycle, fuck more women, drink more booze, spit more blood, take big risks, exceed my comfort zone, get my education, and make sure I pick the right career for myself. My bad I’m not a prodigy who has it all figured out by 26. I’m not the most mature and responsible person, but I know enough to know that I don’t want to make huge life commitments until I truly feel I am ready emotionally, financially, and eager to give my all to them without any resentment or regrets. I’m not fully developed, yet, are any of us?

~Raul Felix

“You traveled the US on a motorcycle? Tell me a story!” Alright: The Gay Meth Story

Taking the Hits

“The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It’s a very mean and nasty place, and I don’t care how tough you are, it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard you hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward; how much you can take and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done! Now, if you know what you’re worth, then go out and get what you’re worth. But you gotta be willing to take the hits, and not pointing fingers saying you ain’t where you wanna be because of him, or her, or anybody. Cowards do that and that ain’t you.”
-Rocky, Rocky Balboa

Just when you think you have the world by the balls, the world throws a quick, clean, bone shattering haymaker squarely into your jaw. You’re on the floor, dazed. It happened so fast that it seems surreal. The world is standing over you, spitting in your face as it yells insults and in your current state, you’re helpless to do anything about it.

You lay there for a moment or two. That was a powerful hit, probably the hardest one you’ve ever taken. Yet, you’re still alive, it didn’t kill you. In those moments, you think deeply. All the mistakes you’ve made come rushing into your mind. Each one, you analyze deeply and pick apart. What if I had done this? What if I had said that? What if I had understood that before? What if, what if, what if…

Another moment passes. You feel hopeless, self-doubt creeps in. How can you recover? That hit was hard as fuck. Your eyes are watering, your ears are ringing, and you’re coughing out blood. Maybe you’re not as tough as you thought. You’re rattled, scared, and unconfident. Your once proud demeanor has been routed. Still, you managed to gain what little semblance of will power you have and crawl on your knee’s.

The world has forgotten about you, left you in disgrace, and is off to destroy its next victim. You’re struggling just to barely crawl. You see your muscles still work and you’re not completely broken. You have a small spark of fire reignite within you. What can you do different? What can you do to better prepare? What can you do to not make the same mistakes? What can do, what can you, what can you do…

You linger on all fours. You talk to yourself, motivate yourself, and you push yourself. You’re beaten, but not defeated. You feed that little flame. Slowly, it grows brighter and hotter. You regain your confidence, composure, and you’re no longer rattled. That hit wasn’t that bad. You have been toughened by the previous beat downs the world has given. Your recovery time has become shorter and shorter. You’ve handled tough situations before and you’re still here. You’ve never given up on yourself, even in the darkest of times. You figured out what you can do. You’ve eliminated some options and decided what you will do. You know what you will do to be smarter. You know what you will do in order to never take the same hits again. You know what you will do so you will be a tougher competitor for the world. What will you do, what will do, what will you do…

With a mighty push you get up on your feet. There will be no more feeling sorry for yourself, no more negativity, and no more loser thoughts. You’re salty and hardened by your experience. You’re intense and you have a clear focus. You’re implementing the changes that you’ve thought about. You’re doing the work, you’re paying your dues, and you’re growing as a human. You’re becoming better and better, day by day. You’re breaching the threshold that at one point you plateaued at. That flame inside of you has become a wildfire, its radiance and power overwhelming your very being. The you that was downtrodden is long gone and the vigorous and invigorated you presently appears. You are ready. You think back at all the things you’ve done to prepare yourself. All the things you’ve done to create a better you. All the things you’ve done to never make the same mistakes again. All the things you’ve done, all the things you’ve done, all the things you’ve done…

You strut up to the world, ready to take it on once again, and look at it right in the eyes, “Hey mother fucker, remember me? You fucked with the wrong son of a bitch.”

~Raul Felix

Hey world! Fuck you and read this: Warrior-Scholar

Tough Love

“Men kick friendship around like a football, but it doesn’t seem to crack. Women treat it like glass and it goes to pieces.”-Anne Morrow Lindbergh

My best friends are assholes. Whenever they see an opening to berate me and talk down to me, they not only strike viciously, but effectively. They are well versed in the guerilla warfare that is shit talk. Innovative, ruthless, and accurate in their ability to destroy my spirit and ego, they stop at nothing to beat me down and bring me back to reality. For this I am blessed.

Anyone can pretend to listen to you and tell you the things you want to hear to make you feel better about your adorable little problems. It’s a temporary patch that heals nothing and just strokes your ego. Your best friends are the ones who will rip into you and tell you the truth and what you need to hear. They won’t sugar coat it, but there will be plenty of whisky to help out.

You could be moping around, feeling sorry for yourself because Betty Sue won’t return your phone calls. You thought she was darn special didn’t you? Your friends don’t understand the heart break you’re going through. She’s a fucking unique snow flake and the prettiest of them all. She may be the love of your life. Damn, are you reading that? You see how pathetic you sound? That’s bitch talk.

If your friends are true friends, they will listen to your little bitchfest, but probably give you three, four minutes tops until they tell you stop being a pussy. That they didn’t know you were on your period and you should probably go to Walmart and get the premium brand of tampons to stop your heavy bleeding. No, in fact, your crimson tide is so heavy that you need to go to Costco and buy in bulk. They thought Betty Sue was a bitch any ways and thus, you shouldn’t be grieving for her.

You’re being a lazy, fat fuck who is apathetic about his future? You lack the self-awareness to recognize the useless piece of shit you’ve become? Don’t worry, your best friends will let you know how truly worthless you are. They’ll let you know that the path you’re on is leading you nowhere and that you’re wasting your life.

Don’t even think you gaining those ten extra pounds will go unnoticed. You think your boys are going to pass up the chance to ridicule you for being a lard ass? It will be such exquisite treat for them to mock you as your once mediocre body spirals downward into something resembling a potato sack with arms.

There are two reason they do this. One: it’s funny and fun to pick you apart and break you down. Two: they care about you. They want you to toughen up and not let a simple woman have so much control over your emotions. They want you to be successful and live up to your potential as a man. They don’t want to see you spinning your wheels forever. They want you to move forward and make something out of yourself.

They’re your best friends because you have a deep connection forged by years upon years of shared experiences and tomfoolery. You’ve grown up together and seen each other at highs and lows. They know what you are and are not capable of. It pisses them off when you’re not living up to your true potential, so they do shame you into, hopefully, doing something with your meager existence.

When you do actually start doing something to better yourself, they’ll be your biggest fans and supporters. If you start taking writing seriously, they’ll read every piece of shit article you write, hoping that you’ll eventually write something readable. If you take your musical talents seriously, they’ll be at your shows alongside your mom and no one else. When you decide to go back to school, they’ll warn you not to major in a worthless degree like they did.

There are a lot of men out there who don’t have close friends. If you’re lucky enough to have a few key men you can depend on no matter what, you’re way above the curve. The tough love they dish out comes with it. You truly need and want men who are honest with you, even brutally so. If not, you may as well be friends with gossipy chicks who will be your best friends to your face and talk shit behind your back.

~Raul Felix

You’re a dumb ass and you need to read more. Educate yourself: Politically Incorrect and Loving It

Note: This post has been featured on Return of Kings

Every Race is Worthless

“…You are the lowest form of life on Earth. You are not even human fucking beings. You are nothing but unorganized grabastic pieces of amphibian shit! Because I am hard, you will not like me. But the more you hate me, the more you will learn. I am hard but I am fair. There is no racial bigotry here. I do not look down on niggers, kikes, wops or greasers. Here you are all equally worthless…” -Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, Full Metal Jacket.

Hartman

We are all born equally worthless. It doesn’t matter if you’re born white, hispanic, black, asian, arab, jew, or whatever other racial groups there are. We are all equally worthless to the world. Your race does not entitle you to shit. You’re not superior nor are you the lesser of any human being just because of the color of your skin and the features of your ethnicity. What truly matters is the content of your character and how you define yourself. Not simply conforming to how society thinks you should be like.

Real racial bigotry has gone to the wayside in most of the American populace. Being a legitimate racist comes at the high cost of ostracizing yourself from society and only socializing with closed minded bigots. Though, trace remains still linger in the psyche of the general public, both in the former persecutor and the formerly persecuted. Because of past racial turmoil, policies of political correctness and affirmative action have taken effect. These policies have neutered politicians, employers, and police departments ability to do their jobs effectively. Affirmative action has created resentment among employee’s about their minority co-workers because they’re not sure if they were indeed the best candidate or were hired because the employer needed to meet a demographic quota.

It also spawns the idea that minorities, specifically hispanics and blacks can’t make it on their own without the assistance of the state. Because we’re supposedly so beaten down by the system that we’re not able to motivate ourselves to accomplish and stand out above our peers without those added little incentives employers get for hiring a “culturally diverse” work force. That is enraging and real racism at its core. When I apply for a job and am being considered for employment, I don’t want the deciding factor to be that they need to fill the spic quota. Rather, I want it to be because the hiring manager saw a great amount of potential in me and my past experiences show that I am capable of handling the tasks that will be assigned to me.

Even though I haven't lost touch with my roots.

Even though I haven’t lost touch with my roots.

We have also forged an apologetic culture in the United States where anything one may say that would be considered racially insensitive can cost them their social status and possibly their career. We’ve gone from being one of the most racist countries on the planet to being one of the most über politically correct one. A racist joke told to a co-worker and overheard by the wrong person can label you a bigot or at the very least makes you take an equal opportunity class. Though it makes sense why those policies are in place in order to keep the integrity of the work force, the real question is: Who the fuck still feels real racism to such a degree that a simple joke will crush their precious little feelings?

Hasn’t my generation, Generation-Y, grown up in such a racially diverse environment that we honestly don’t give a fuck about a persons race? You know what we do care about? Whether that person is actually cool or a total tool. We care if they’re actually a good friend who is loyal and reliable, not if their ancestors immigrated from the same shitty third world country as ours. We care about the experiences we shared together, not if our ancestors were rivals. We care about the jokes we can tell at one another’s expense and laugh uncontrollable together. We’re friends because we share the same activities, hobbies, and taste in entertainment, not because it’s nice to have a friend of different race to make one seem cultured.

"See! We're sitting in a circle of different races! We are so open minded and cultured!"

“See! We’re laying in a circle full of people of different races! We are so open minded and cultured!”

Race is irrelevant in modern friendships. Racist jokes at the expense of whites, hispanics, blacks, asians, arabs, and jews are common among any group of friends of whatever mix of racial demographics. Laughing together at the quirks of each others cultures and race is more conducive to healing the wounds of hundreds of years of racial tension, hatred, and violence than all the vacant, politically correct talk and worthless social policies in the world.

We’re at the threshold of an age that Martin Luther King Jr. spoke about in his timeless speech:

“I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

You are all equally worthless, as Gunny Hartman said to his recruits, as they were all broken down and later rebuilt as Marines. So, all of us human beings are all equally worthless at the beginning of our lives, no matter what ethnicity we enter this world as. That is until we grow, learn, develop, and work towards where ever our ambitions (or lack of) take us. That in turn creates our character; what we truly deserve to be judged by. Once judged by our character, we are all no longer equally worthless.

~Raul Felix

Don’t Miss: Inch by Inch.

One Year & Driving On

“Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else.”-Gloria Steinem

One year ago, I started this little blog in an effort to pressure myself to get my writing out there for the dear and avid reader, such as yourself, to enjoy. It was a really tough step for me because I wasn’t that confident about my writing up to that point. But, it has been more rewarding than I thought it would be. Even though I harbor no delusions of grandeur and I know I am small fry and I don’t have a huge following. It feels great and humbling to know that people take time out of their day to read the kind of stuff I come up with. It’s beyond the grasp of my writing ability to describe how it feels when a friend, acquaintance, or a stranger tells me they’ve read one of my entries and found it hilarious or insightful.

One of the most rewarding parts of it has been that I surprise people with my ability to write. I’m not trying suck my own cock here, but it brings a shit-eating grin to my face when those who knew me at some point in my colorful life say they can’t believe my dumb ass wrote that or that I’m a good writer. I’m proud when I get that response, because it means I am evolving not only as a writer, but as a human being. My skills were not always up to par, as one of my best friends, Sleazy-E once put it, “Felix, I want say I’m actually impressed. Your blog is good. In several years you went from obvious reaching for vocabulary words to an efficient and effective use of the English language.”

I’m not sure what I expected people’s responses to be. But I believe I am lucky because I have received nothing but support from my friends, family, and acquaintances that I’m pursuing this avenue for myself. No one has berated me and told me that I have no hopes of becoming a writer. Though, that also has to do with the fact that I’m doing other positive things with my life and I have no aspirations to be a stereo typical starving artist.

There is a big cliche out there that there are writers who don’t write and just want to call themselves writers in hopes of sounding artsy and getting that hipster pussy. That’s not what I am about. I feel that it’s a title that needs to be earned with constantly pouring yourself into the craft and having the balls to let the world see the dark parts of your mind and self. I have just barely grown comfortable with calling myself a writer and not just an aspiring writer. Some may take that title lightly, but I don’t, because I believe this is what I was born to do and I give it the respect it deserves.

It’s such a unique and under-appreciated skill set to come up with writing that people actually want to read. I try to be as funny, witty, and insightful as I can. Sometimes I hit the mark, other times I fail. But with each post, I’m trying to push what I am capable of as a writer. So far, it has been a mixtures of some of my life stories, my philosophies, and quite a bit of machismo and misogyny. Some entries I try to write in a fictional way to make the point more clear and others I make my best effort to be as accurate to the true events as possible.

While I am proud of every single one of my entries, some stand out more than others. The Feminine Aficionado was a milestone, where for the first time I let out my bold thoughts and feelings on how I view each woman I see in public. I’d Pee in Her Butt put to light how men truly feel about women they only keep around to fuck and because of its title, has been one of the most memorable and most read. Three Rock Solid Ways to Become a More Marketable Bum was not as successful in attracting views as I thought it should have been, but I believe without a doubt is my best written piece to date. Four Things You Didn’t Think of Before Joining the Army was my first success in giving out real world advice in a funny and witty manner. Shy Girl holds a special place in my heart because it’s inspired by those many lonely nights I spent in the barracks as a 19 and 20 year old Private in the Army looking for girls on myspace to meet up with and constantly getting ignored and rejected.

Writing has given me an outlet to express myself. I don’t know how I went so long without fully embracing it. Because as of now, I can’t imagine living a fulfilling life without it. I made it through my first year and didn’t quit, I think that puts me in the top 20% of bloggers/writers just in itself. Now, its time to take bolder, more aggressive steps to get myself up to the 10%. Thank you for supporting me in my first year. I will continue to push myself to deliver the quality, bull shit free content you have come to expect from me and hopefully, give you a few laughs along the way.

~Raul Felix

Where it began: It Begins.

Three Rock Solid Ways to Become a More Marketable Bum

With the current global economical crisis and quite possibly the fall of the American empire, times are getting tough for people of all professions. While we read countless articles detailing the plight of recent college graduates who are unable to obtain jobs in their chosen career path of Communications, Journalism, and baby sitting retarded kids. Not to mention, of office drones losing their soul crushing cubicle jobs to Abu in India who does it for half as much and feels having a crushed soul is better than starving. There is another, forgotten segment of the population that is being pounded by the fall out. We’re talking about a profession with a long history, deep culture, and high espirt de corps; being a bum.

The glory days of bumming are over. No longer can you create a funny, yet truthful signs and expect people to give you their loose change. The internet has desensitized us all and at the most you’ll get out of your clever “Why lie? I need beer,” sign will be a roll of the eyes and people thinking that’s so 2007. In order to help you compete in these cutthroat times, these are three simple ways to help you get those spare nickels, dimes, quarters, and the holy grail of them all, a spare dollar.

Get with the times ol' timer.

Get with the times man!

Develop a Talent

People these days expect a lot out of their bums. It’s not enough to just be stinky and dirty, you have to be stinky and dirty with a purpose! Start singing, juggling, street painting, or break dancing. People will begin to build their own little back story for you. They’ll assume that you were once an aspiring entertainer or artist and then the drugs and alcohol took too firm a hold of you and beat you down to the life the you live today. People love that sort of drama.

The key is to start developing your talent in public right now. You suck a drawing? Just start drawing lines and squares and whammy, you’re a misunderstood modern artist. People will toss you the occasional nickel while you paint. Its like getting paid to learn and its way more fiscally responsible than getting into debt $40,000 for a Fine Arts Degree. Can’t sing to save your life? Invest in a $9 harmonica and start using your raspy frog voice to sing the blues. Use your brutal existence as a source of inspiration for your music. Lyrics such as:

I had woman
Left me for another man.
Now I’m out here in the cold
I know you don’t give a damn.

Just need a dime or a quarter
So I can go buy some booze
I’ll drink deep into the night
While I sing the whore of an ex-wife blues.

Those simple lyrics will get you attention from at least 50% of your customer base. Because 50% of men have been with cheating whores and will sympathize with you and 50% of women have been cheating whores and will feel guilty.

No money for paint supplies or a harmonica? Start break dancing or juggling random stuff you find in the garbage. Both require no monetary investment and with your first nickel you’re already in profit mode and thus already doing way better than 90% of American businesses. Both are skills that can be learned for free via youtube at the computer stations at your local public library, you know, that place you use to go shower at in the sink.

Now these kids are going places.

Now these kids are going places.

Become a Cripple

You’re a run of the mill able bodied bum with a drug and alcohol problem so severe that it cost you all your friends, family, and means of employment. Its tough finding work when you’re an addict, you justify. That may be so, but to the rest of the population you’re no different then the 20 other bums they passed that day. What makes you stand out? What makes your unique struggle so much more special than your peers? A horrible disfigurement may be your answer!

Human beings naturally take pity on people who are crippled because it digs deeply into their own fears that it could be them one day should such an accident happen. You can leverage this fear into profit for yourself.

There are various ways you can cripple yourself. You can run into traffic or jump off the 2nd story of a building. One other effective method would be to owe enough money to the Mafia where they will break your legs, but not so much where they will kill you. Sometimes its best to let the pro’s do the work.

Now, this will require a real commitment on your part. By intentionally becoming crippled you have decided you’re no longer making bumming a “just in the mean time thing while you sort things out” but a full fledged career. A big step proving that you’re growing up and taking life seriously. Don’t try to fake it, because people can see through that bull shit and will call you out. There is also an increased chance of getting robbed because you will be a more vulnerable target. But those extra few bucks you get a day will more than make up for it.

If FDR can, so can you!

If FDR can, so can you!

Adopt a Best Friend

It’s a fact that people care more about dogs than their fellow human beings. It quite justified actually, because while dogs show love unconditionally, human beings are conniving and have ulterior motives. Yes, it may be another mouth to feed, but it will be a loyal mouth the will attract so much sympathy from the animal lover in all of us that you’ll be balls deep in nickels.

Many people won’t turn twice to look at you if they know you’re starving. But they will stop immediately and pet a cute little puppy and check him out to see if he is okay. In the process they will ask you what his name is, scratch his belly, and make kissing faces at him. Since dogs can look both pathetic and adorable at the same time, they’ll give you some money to make sure he gets feed. Some untrusting folks will just buy the food for the dog directly using your booze money and feed it to him. It’s a little dehumanizing to you, but you must remember never to show any jealousy toward your four legged friend. You two are a team, just let him do all the work and you may even be able to afford vodka that doesn’t come in a plastic bottle.

Being a bum with a dog puts you in an elite class in the brotherhood of homelessness. Its like being a Fighter Pilot in the Air Force or a Ranger in the Army. It’s rare, unique, and so few people can pull it off or have the opportunity to do so. It will be tough at first, but once you accept this challenge, it will pay you back tenfold in profit and in love. It’s a perfect symbiotic relationship.

You only feel bad because  of the dog.

You only feel bad because of the dog.

We all need to up our game in these turbulent times. It’s suggested that you only do one of these at a time. Pace yourself and perfect one of the three, before moving on to the next. For those of you of true ambition, you’ll be crippled, singing the whore of an ex-wife blues, and having your best friend howling along in no time. Just because your at rock bottom, doesn’t mean you can’t shoot for the moon!

~Raul Felix

Read another! It’s not like you have anything better to do: Four Things You Didn’t Think of Before Joining the Army