Hello, dear readers. Remember me? I haven’t had much to write about for a while, so I haven’t written anything. Anyhow, I just read this fascinating story about a boy who started off poor and managed to become a millionaire at age 14.
Coincidentally, I started off my business in a similar way. I collected large rocks and painted popular Star Wars characters on them. I called these works of art “Star Wars Paperweights” and priced them at $7 a piece. Before too long, I had managed to sell the nine rocks I had made and received orders for 20 more. I quickly painted up another batch of rocks and increased the price to $10. The rocks sold out within days and I started getting orders from as far away as New York (that’s really far from here). Unfortunately, I also got a call from a lawyer who said George Lucas was pissed and unless I pulverised any existing Star Wars Paperweights and mailed the resulting dust to George Lucas, they would sue my ass.
Now, keep in mind, at the time, I was only 12 and had no idea what “suing my ass” meant. So I ignored their warnings and kept on making those paperweights. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for George Lucas to come knocking at my door. At least I think it was George Lucas. He was wearing a disguise: a big, black mustache and a sombrero. He called himself Jorge, pronounced WHORE-HEY, and used a very racist accent. Anyhow, Jorge asked if he could come inside and, being the stupid 12-year-old that I was, I gladly invited him in.
Once Jorge stepped inside, I asked him if he wanted a drink or maybe a snack. Continuing with his racist stereotype, he requested something called horchata and some refried beans. As Jorge chowed down on a can of refried bean, sans horchata, he asked me if I had any hobbies. I told him that I like to collect dead flies and glue them into Civil War dioramas, but he didn’t seem too interested in that. I also shared with him how my alchemy experiments destroyed 17 bathtubs. Again, he didn’t give a shit. He was also disinterested in my collections of rare paperclips, false teeth and plastic sushi I had stolen from various Japanese restaurants. But when I happened to mention my Star Wars Paperweights, Jorge’s eyes lit up.
I brought him up to my room (stupid kid) to show him my latest works: a stone depicting Boba Fett riding a Tauntaun and a smaller rock with a Jawa face on it. Jorge picked up the Boba Fett stone and admired its craftsmanship. Then, without warning, he brought that stone down on my hand, shattering almost every bone I had in there. And just to ensure he did, he bashed my hand in ten more times. As I held my basically boneless hand, Jorge punched me in my 12-year-old stomach, then kicked me in the face while I was down and dumped his remaining refried beans on my head. “You want to fuck with George Lucas, motherfucker?” he said, his accent strangely disappearing. Before I could reply, he continued, “This is just a warning. Next time, I’m not gonna be so nice.” Jorge then took the Boba Fett stone and the Jawa rock and left me on my bedroom floor, gasping for air.
After a severe beating like that, you’d assume I’d give up on my dream—if you were an idiot. I mean, did you not read the title to this blog entry? I became a millionaire at age 12. You think I’d lie about something like that?
In any case, having the bones in my hand pulverised into dust never deterred me. Sure, it slowed me down a bit—OK, a lot—but, still, I persevered. I purchased the hand of a lunatic for $50 and had it attached in Chinatown for $30, plus tip. Though slightly off-colour from my original skin tone, the hand functioned well. About the only noticeable side effect was that my thumb would often twitch violently for hours on end. And sometimes I would involuntarily give people the finger and tell them to fuck off.
With my new hand and a new lease on life, I decided it was time to get back into business. Of course, Jorge made it clear that continuing with my Star Wars line of paperweights would not be a wise choice, but making stuff out of rocks was the only thing I knew. Besides, if Jorge should return to crush my new hand, at least I wouldn’t feel it, as I could not afford to have any of the nerve endings reattached.
And so, one night, as I was strolling through the town in my top hat and tails, because I was a very strange child, I spotted one of the most amazing rocks I had ever seen. At that very moment, I was struck with inspiration. I tossed the rock through the window of the local jewellery shop. Then, covering my face with my new hand, I used another rock to break into the display cases and got away with about $50,000 worth of gold and diamonds. I sold the jewellery on the black market for half of its worth, then used the money to purchase one of the most amazing rocks I had ever seen.
Now, you might think that $50,000 was a lot to spend on one rock, but that would prove how you’re not really paying attention. I said I got away with about $50k in jewellery. But I sold it for half of its worth. That means I only had $25,000 to spend. Now don’t you feel stupid?
Anyhow, so I took that perfect rock and I carefully sanded it down to get rid of all the shininess, then applied a thick black coat of paint. This would be the base of what would turn out to be the most significant work of my career.
I then had my parents drive me and my masterpiece to Marin County, California, where my artwork found its rightful home, right in the middle of George Lucas’s personal study. I placed it there myself by throwing the $25k-rock through one of George’s windows in the middle of the night.
As the alarms sounded and the security lights turned night into day, I sprinted away, literally blinded by the light. But my escape was cut short by a small hole in George’s yard, just large enough for my foot to slip into, which immediately snapped every bone in my ankle, tearing my foot clean off.
I sued George Lucas for $4 million, but settled out of court for $1 million. I used all but about $35,000 of the settlement to pay for lawyer fees, medical expenses and the cost of a bitchin’ new bionic foot. Unfortunately, I could never afford to pay for a more adult sized foot after I had grown up.
And that, dear friends, is how I became a millionaire at age 12. Oh, and in case you’re wondering what I painted on that $25K rock I threw through George Lucas’s window that fateful night, it simply said “You Suck” in red letters, with a crudely painted Darth Vader on it, giving him the finger.