grift (grift) Slang n.
1. Money made dishonestly, as in a swindle.
2. A swindle or confidence game.
v. grifter n. intr.
1. One who engages in swindling or cheating.
For as long as I can remember, I've always wanted to be a grifter. Not a thug, or a hoodlum or a killer; I have little patience for blood. I've always thought it better to make my fortunes by fooling people. I want people to be fully aware that they've been had by me. And then they will say, "Dang. I've been had by him. I'm so stupid." And then somewhere far, far away from the scene of the grift, there I will be: laughing; dive-bombing into my enormous pile of riches like Scrooge McDuck.
And laughing. Agreeing that they were stupid for being had by me.
I'm not ready for the big-time just yet. I already know this. It takes three things to reach the highest plateau of Grifterhood. They are as follows.
1. Clothing & Accessories. To the untrained eye, there is little difference between a passable suit and an expensive suit. That's why you only need worthy accessories to make an impression. Watches and shoes are where it's at, man. You should see my collection. Matter fact, when you get a free moment you should Google "Ace's awesome watch and shoes" and see the pictures that come up.
2. Connections. I haven't any and that's a problem.
3. A Motor Mouth. You'd be surprised what you can grift if you know how to talk your way into it. Just look at Vince Vaughn. He grifted his way in both 'Jurassic Park 2' and Jennifer Aniston's pants.
I'm fine with running my mouth. I've been able to talk my way into or out of just about any situation handed to me. In school, when I was a kid, bullies often targeted me as a good choice to take their self-hatred out on. I believe this was because of my height and the self-confident little smile I adopted. Every teacher I ever had up until college loved that self-confident little smile. Bullies, to the contrary, hated tall, beloved students and so I often carried a bullseye on my back. If memory serves I've been invited to no less than eight major kafuffles in my time spent in lower education and was never forced to carry out the fight in any of those occasions.
For the record, a major kafuffle (as defined by me) is any school incident in which the agressor challenges the agressee to meet him or her after school. It has to be announced and prepared for.
Steam and fear must build.
Rumors started and exaggerated.
Sides taken.
Impromptu fights are kinda like streaking across the highschool football field: sure it'd get talked about, but without a prepared escape route once you fled the field, you'd always find yourself standing in the visitor's endzone all cold and trapped and cupping your nuts...
...okay so that's not really an accurate analogy. Just trust me okay? Impromptu fights never worked; you just had to meet him (or her) after school.
1. Money made dishonestly, as in a swindle.
2. A swindle or confidence game.
v. grifter n. intr.
1. One who engages in swindling or cheating.
For as long as I can remember, I've always wanted to be a grifter. Not a thug, or a hoodlum or a killer; I have little patience for blood. I've always thought it better to make my fortunes by fooling people. I want people to be fully aware that they've been had by me. And then they will say, "Dang. I've been had by him. I'm so stupid." And then somewhere far, far away from the scene of the grift, there I will be: laughing; dive-bombing into my enormous pile of riches like Scrooge McDuck.
And laughing. Agreeing that they were stupid for being had by me.
I'm not ready for the big-time just yet. I already know this. It takes three things to reach the highest plateau of Grifterhood. They are as follows.
1. Clothing & Accessories. To the untrained eye, there is little difference between a passable suit and an expensive suit. That's why you only need worthy accessories to make an impression. Watches and shoes are where it's at, man. You should see my collection. Matter fact, when you get a free moment you should Google "Ace's awesome watch and shoes" and see the pictures that come up.
2. Connections. I haven't any and that's a problem.
3. A Motor Mouth. You'd be surprised what you can grift if you know how to talk your way into it. Just look at Vince Vaughn. He grifted his way in both 'Jurassic Park 2' and Jennifer Aniston's pants.
I'm fine with running my mouth. I've been able to talk my way into or out of just about any situation handed to me. In school, when I was a kid, bullies often targeted me as a good choice to take their self-hatred out on. I believe this was because of my height and the self-confident little smile I adopted. Every teacher I ever had up until college loved that self-confident little smile. Bullies, to the contrary, hated tall, beloved students and so I often carried a bullseye on my back. If memory serves I've been invited to no less than eight major kafuffles in my time spent in lower education and was never forced to carry out the fight in any of those occasions.
For the record, a major kafuffle (as defined by me) is any school incident in which the agressor challenges the agressee to meet him or her after school. It has to be announced and prepared for.
Steam and fear must build.
Rumors started and exaggerated.
Sides taken.
Impromptu fights are kinda like streaking across the highschool football field: sure it'd get talked about, but without a prepared escape route once you fled the field, you'd always find yourself standing in the visitor's endzone all cold and trapped and cupping your nuts...
...okay so that's not really an accurate analogy. Just trust me okay? Impromptu fights never worked; you just had to meet him (or her) after school.
Lucky for me, I never got challenged to fight a "her". In general, any physical interplay between a man and a woman yields absolutely no positive result for the man, as you are either a dirtbag for competing against (and beating) a woman or an utter sissy-wimper for competing against (and losing) to a woman.
I learned this the hard way in third grade when I was taunted into arm wrestling my classmate Amanda Daniels. She was the tallest person in our grade (I was the second tallest) and whereas my height embarrassed me, her height created a chip on her shoulder. For three days she said she could beat me in arm wrestling; she even got everyone in our class to choose sides.* Eventually, I was shamed into combating her.
She beat me in less than four seconds and for reasons that are no longer clear (and very well may never have been), I had to give her half of my tater tots for like, three weeks.
I'm not sure what the moral of this story is. I originallystarted this tale of yore with the intent to illustrate why it is a fool's bargain to ever compete against a girl if you don't happen to be one yourself. But as I sit here waxing-nostalgic on my elementary embarrassments I am reminded of the final outcome to this whole situation: I was forced to give Amanda Daniels half my tater tots for like, three weeks, which served as the impetus to start eating lunch with her (cooties and all) which served as the impetus for me to befriend her and invite her to normal grabassing during recess, which begat my (truly) accidental groping of her not-yet-formed-but-nevertheless-groundbreaking-bosoms, which eventually sparked Amanda Daniels as the first girlfriend in the personal history of yours-truly.**
So what is the moral? Hell, I dunno. If you're gonna fight a girl, fight a cute girl, I guess.
Wait... wasn't I talking about grifting? How did we get to my elementary school trysts? Let's backtrack:
1st girlfriend ==> tater tot comeuppance ==> emmasculating arm wrestling ==> runnin' my mouth ==> not ready for the big grift.
Ah-ha. Okay. So I'm not ready to enter the "Ocean's Eleven" world of swindling. I've already got a day job. I'm a teacher, I haven't got the means or connections to hoodwink coorporations and fat cats (that being said, I am brilliant when it comes to sneaking into movie theaters). I'm on a constant search to discover, how better to swindle the general populace?
I was sitting in a coffeehouse earlier this morning when it hit me; something my Bubby told me several years ago.^ We were in a department store and she was talking to a shopgirl looking at earrings or perfume or something, I can't recall. The shopgirl left whatever it was she was showing Bubby atop the counter after being called away for several minutes. Bubby then turns to me and says, "You know, I could put that in my pocket and convince the sales girl that she took it with her."
Taken aback slightly I said, "You think so?"
"Absolutely. I'm old. The elderly can get away with stealing anything as long as they aren't caught red-handed. They would blame you ten times before they ever blamed me."
You'd think Bubby was Calamity Jane the way she was rollin' me at this moment. Calamity Jane she is not, and in the end, she never touched whatever it was the shopgirl had left behind.
That moment nevertheless, opened my eyes. The best grifters use the people they are stealing from as a weapon against themselves. This is the thought that consumed me thid past Friday while taking Neddy around town.
Important Information About Neddy
1) His name is not really Neddy. I changed it in hopes of keeping my job. Amanda Daniels, however, is my third grade girlfriend's real name. And if you find her, tell her I want a rematch.
2) Neddy is my student. And yes, that does mean that I am someone's teacher. And yes, you are right to fear for Neddy's well-being.
3) Neddy has Downsyndrome.
This last fact about Neddy is the most important because if there's one thing I've learned as a teacher of teenagers with various disabilities, it is that they herald in a high amount of discomfort while maintaining an equally high amount of sympathy.***
Neddy would be a perfect partner-in-crime. He's a bastard, first-of-all, which is not a nice thing to say about anyone, much less someone with Downsyndrome, but it's true nevertheless. Neddy is a bastard because he is intelligent, far more intelligent than the average person gives him credit for. He's been underestimated his entire life and it's made him angry.
Resentful.
He's developed a keen sense of how to utilize his disability (which most people wrongly assume renders him both useless and harmless) to completely take advantage of everyone around him.
And I plan to take advantage of him. Let the circle remain unbroken.
Yesterday, Neddy and I went around town fundraising for our school, which was more than reminiscent of Tom Cruise lugging Dustin Hoffman to Vegas in Rain Man: frustrating and style-cramping - but highly profitable. We went to banks and bakerys and restaurants and grocery stores and Neddy stuttered through spiel after spiel and manager after manager about his school's fundraiser. And "oh-wouldn't-it-be-nice-if-we-could-get-this-donation-or-that-donation and the whole time Neddy's eyes are drooping and puffy and his hair is messy and all the managers in all the places of business felt uncomfortable. Neddy stuttered and stuttered and the managers felt uncomfortable. And guilty because of their discomfort. All the managers in all the stores want to get back to work, but felt guilty for wanting to get back to work. Guilty because the managers assumed that their life was better than Neddy's. They didn't know Neddy is loaded. He can buy and sell us all. All the managers in all the places of business assumed that not giving Neddy one more minute was shameful. They felt shame. Guilt and shame and they were going to hell. So the managers would give Neddy one more minute of their time. One more minute and a gift certificate. Hey, it's for a good cause. two good causes because of Neddy's affliction.
Here kid, here. Take two dozen bagels - on me. Here's a free set of tires. A hundred dollar gift certificate. Whatever. The managers are guilty and they just don't wanna go to hell.
Meanwhile, I didn't lift a finger to help Neddy. I didn't need to. He loves this stuff. I bought a car freshner while Neddy's droopy eyes got us a fistful of gift certificates. I bought and ate a donut in the bakery, read the newspaper in the bank, the restaurants.
I didn't even leave the car when Neddy tried the gas station.
Neither of us ever showed anyone any proof that such a fundraiser even existed. The people of Massachusettes are tortured with guilt and highly gullible - not MidWesterner-type gullible - but easily duped nevertheless.
Visions of Raymond and Charlie Babbit.
Visions of Bonnie & Clyde (dibs on Clyde).
Visions of The James Gang.
Visions of The Long Riders.
Visions of Scrooge McDuck leaping into his enormous pile of riches.
And Neddy doesn't need the profit, he doesn't want it; he wants the game. He wants to make every manager in every store feel bad, to give him stuff because of their guilt. But Neddy doesn't want this stuff. He wants power. He is a bastard, and bastards want power. He wants the game like I do.
I want the game but my eyes are not droopy and I haven't got a lisp. But I can talk. I can talk my ass off. Talk a whirlwind.
I can talk my way out of ever having to arm-wrestle a girl ever again. I can talk, but my words cultivate no guilt.
Visions of Mickey & Mallory Knox.
Visions of 'Pretty Boy' Floyd.
I would come up with the grift, implement it; coach Neddy. Mentor him. Shape him. We'd travel state-to-state. He'd get to mindfuck an entire nation. Wrongheaded revenge against a God that retarded this boy's body and mind but spared his spirit. He would get the mindfuck, I would get free oil changes and lattees and Fender guitars, and iPods and whatever. Like the Catholic church before us, guilt will enblazen us with riches.. Dolly Parton's tits are worth a million dollars, Neddy's puffy eyes will be worth twice that. Quadruple that.
Visions of Baby Face Nelson.
Visions of Richard Nixon.
I am Neddy's brain. Neddy is my forcible will. We are pistons pumping the well-oiled machine that is your guilt. You haven't stopped us.
[I am a bad teacher.]
You aren't even aware we need to be stopped.
[Should I quit or wait to be fired?]
Who's next?
[Neddy deserve better. Bubby is not to be blamed.]
Guilt. O great destructor! Ruiner of men!
Visions of Ned Kelly. Visions of Ma Barker.
Visions of Cole Younger. Visions of Perot Rocaguinarda.
Refrigerators, Nike shoes, free buffets, 2 liter sodas, gift certificates. Who's next?
[I'm getting carried away?]
Who will fail to stop us next?
=========================
* The boys cheered for me, of course, and the girls... well, I guess the girls cheered for Amanda, but they mostly just stood behind her braiding each other's hair while Amanda talked shit about what a little sissy I was.
** "Having a girlfriend" at Hawthorne Scholastic Academy in 1988 consisted of nothing more than passing notes with hearts scribbled on them. I suppose it also meant that the two tallest kids in Mrs. Gelderman's third grade class had formed an unbeatable empire of harmony and strength.
^ I am not Jewish, nor is "Bubby". But when I was about to be born, my grandma wasn't ready to be called "grandma"; she said it made her sound old. Desperate to find a more suitable label, "Bubby" is what she settled on.
*** Children and dogs still attract the most love and sympathy, but most people feel comfortable around both entities and that is a liability to any grifter worth his or her sand.
I learned this the hard way in third grade when I was taunted into arm wrestling my classmate Amanda Daniels. She was the tallest person in our grade (I was the second tallest) and whereas my height embarrassed me, her height created a chip on her shoulder. For three days she said she could beat me in arm wrestling; she even got everyone in our class to choose sides.* Eventually, I was shamed into combating her.
She beat me in less than four seconds and for reasons that are no longer clear (and very well may never have been), I had to give her half of my tater tots for like, three weeks.
I'm not sure what the moral of this story is. I originallystarted this tale of yore with the intent to illustrate why it is a fool's bargain to ever compete against a girl if you don't happen to be one yourself. But as I sit here waxing-nostalgic on my elementary embarrassments I am reminded of the final outcome to this whole situation: I was forced to give Amanda Daniels half my tater tots for like, three weeks, which served as the impetus to start eating lunch with her (cooties and all) which served as the impetus for me to befriend her and invite her to normal grabassing during recess, which begat my (truly) accidental groping of her not-yet-formed-but-nevertheless-groundbreaking-bosoms, which eventually sparked Amanda Daniels as the first girlfriend in the personal history of yours-truly.**
So what is the moral? Hell, I dunno. If you're gonna fight a girl, fight a cute girl, I guess.
Wait... wasn't I talking about grifting? How did we get to my elementary school trysts? Let's backtrack:
1st girlfriend ==> tater tot comeuppance ==> emmasculating arm wrestling ==> runnin' my mouth ==> not ready for the big grift.
Ah-ha. Okay. So I'm not ready to enter the "Ocean's Eleven" world of swindling. I've already got a day job. I'm a teacher, I haven't got the means or connections to hoodwink coorporations and fat cats (that being said, I am brilliant when it comes to sneaking into movie theaters). I'm on a constant search to discover, how better to swindle the general populace?
I was sitting in a coffeehouse earlier this morning when it hit me; something my Bubby told me several years ago.^ We were in a department store and she was talking to a shopgirl looking at earrings or perfume or something, I can't recall. The shopgirl left whatever it was she was showing Bubby atop the counter after being called away for several minutes. Bubby then turns to me and says, "You know, I could put that in my pocket and convince the sales girl that she took it with her."
Taken aback slightly I said, "You think so?"
"Absolutely. I'm old. The elderly can get away with stealing anything as long as they aren't caught red-handed. They would blame you ten times before they ever blamed me."
You'd think Bubby was Calamity Jane the way she was rollin' me at this moment. Calamity Jane she is not, and in the end, she never touched whatever it was the shopgirl had left behind.
That moment nevertheless, opened my eyes. The best grifters use the people they are stealing from as a weapon against themselves. This is the thought that consumed me thid past Friday while taking Neddy around town.
Important Information About Neddy
1) His name is not really Neddy. I changed it in hopes of keeping my job. Amanda Daniels, however, is my third grade girlfriend's real name. And if you find her, tell her I want a rematch.
2) Neddy is my student. And yes, that does mean that I am someone's teacher. And yes, you are right to fear for Neddy's well-being.
3) Neddy has Downsyndrome.
This last fact about Neddy is the most important because if there's one thing I've learned as a teacher of teenagers with various disabilities, it is that they herald in a high amount of discomfort while maintaining an equally high amount of sympathy.***
Neddy would be a perfect partner-in-crime. He's a bastard, first-of-all, which is not a nice thing to say about anyone, much less someone with Downsyndrome, but it's true nevertheless. Neddy is a bastard because he is intelligent, far more intelligent than the average person gives him credit for. He's been underestimated his entire life and it's made him angry.
Resentful.
He's developed a keen sense of how to utilize his disability (which most people wrongly assume renders him both useless and harmless) to completely take advantage of everyone around him.
And I plan to take advantage of him. Let the circle remain unbroken.
Yesterday, Neddy and I went around town fundraising for our school, which was more than reminiscent of Tom Cruise lugging Dustin Hoffman to Vegas in Rain Man: frustrating and style-cramping - but highly profitable. We went to banks and bakerys and restaurants and grocery stores and Neddy stuttered through spiel after spiel and manager after manager about his school's fundraiser. And "oh-wouldn't-it-be-nice-if-we-could-get-this-donation-or-that-donation and the whole time Neddy's eyes are drooping and puffy and his hair is messy and all the managers in all the places of business felt uncomfortable. Neddy stuttered and stuttered and the managers felt uncomfortable. And guilty because of their discomfort. All the managers in all the stores want to get back to work, but felt guilty for wanting to get back to work. Guilty because the managers assumed that their life was better than Neddy's. They didn't know Neddy is loaded. He can buy and sell us all. All the managers in all the places of business assumed that not giving Neddy one more minute was shameful. They felt shame. Guilt and shame and they were going to hell. So the managers would give Neddy one more minute of their time. One more minute and a gift certificate. Hey, it's for a good cause. two good causes because of Neddy's affliction.
Here kid, here. Take two dozen bagels - on me. Here's a free set of tires. A hundred dollar gift certificate. Whatever. The managers are guilty and they just don't wanna go to hell.
Meanwhile, I didn't lift a finger to help Neddy. I didn't need to. He loves this stuff. I bought a car freshner while Neddy's droopy eyes got us a fistful of gift certificates. I bought and ate a donut in the bakery, read the newspaper in the bank, the restaurants.
I didn't even leave the car when Neddy tried the gas station.
Neither of us ever showed anyone any proof that such a fundraiser even existed. The people of Massachusettes are tortured with guilt and highly gullible - not MidWesterner-type gullible - but easily duped nevertheless.
Visions of Raymond and Charlie Babbit.
Visions of Bonnie & Clyde (dibs on Clyde).
Visions of The James Gang.
Visions of The Long Riders.
Visions of Scrooge McDuck leaping into his enormous pile of riches.
And Neddy doesn't need the profit, he doesn't want it; he wants the game. He wants to make every manager in every store feel bad, to give him stuff because of their guilt. But Neddy doesn't want this stuff. He wants power. He is a bastard, and bastards want power. He wants the game like I do.
I want the game but my eyes are not droopy and I haven't got a lisp. But I can talk. I can talk my ass off. Talk a whirlwind.
I can talk my way out of ever having to arm-wrestle a girl ever again. I can talk, but my words cultivate no guilt.
Visions of Mickey & Mallory Knox.
Visions of 'Pretty Boy' Floyd.
I would come up with the grift, implement it; coach Neddy. Mentor him. Shape him. We'd travel state-to-state. He'd get to mindfuck an entire nation. Wrongheaded revenge against a God that retarded this boy's body and mind but spared his spirit. He would get the mindfuck, I would get free oil changes and lattees and Fender guitars, and iPods and whatever. Like the Catholic church before us, guilt will enblazen us with riches.. Dolly Parton's tits are worth a million dollars, Neddy's puffy eyes will be worth twice that. Quadruple that.
Visions of Baby Face Nelson.
Visions of Richard Nixon.
I am Neddy's brain. Neddy is my forcible will. We are pistons pumping the well-oiled machine that is your guilt. You haven't stopped us.
[I am a bad teacher.]
You aren't even aware we need to be stopped.
[Should I quit or wait to be fired?]
Who's next?
[Neddy deserve better. Bubby is not to be blamed.]
Guilt. O great destructor! Ruiner of men!
Visions of Ned Kelly. Visions of Ma Barker.
Visions of Cole Younger. Visions of Perot Rocaguinarda.
Refrigerators, Nike shoes, free buffets, 2 liter sodas, gift certificates. Who's next?
[I'm getting carried away?]
Who will fail to stop us next?
=========================
* The boys cheered for me, of course, and the girls... well, I guess the girls cheered for Amanda, but they mostly just stood behind her braiding each other's hair while Amanda talked shit about what a little sissy I was.
** "Having a girlfriend" at Hawthorne Scholastic Academy in 1988 consisted of nothing more than passing notes with hearts scribbled on them. I suppose it also meant that the two tallest kids in Mrs. Gelderman's third grade class had formed an unbeatable empire of harmony and strength.
^ I am not Jewish, nor is "Bubby". But when I was about to be born, my grandma wasn't ready to be called "grandma"; she said it made her sound old. Desperate to find a more suitable label, "Bubby" is what she settled on.
*** Children and dogs still attract the most love and sympathy, but most people feel comfortable around both entities and that is a liability to any grifter worth his or her sand.
No comments:
Post a Comment