Don’t buy into the myth: you don’t need to make six figures or have a fleet of designer suits or drive something from Germany in order to have a kick-ass time after college. Shit, you don’t even need a job, really, or at least you don’t need a good one. All you need is a quality city at your disposal, and the time necessary to raise hell in it.
Take it from me, people. I lost my restaurant gig three months ago, I jerk off three or four times a day, and I still manage to dodge eviction in good ol’ San Francisco, California. Still manage to attack the bars with the same vigor as any banker or consultant or man of law. And I can teach you how.
I’m no financial planner, but I do feel I’ve identified the three urban expenses that are really responsible for the day-to-day molestation of your bank account. And, if you learn how to conquer them, well, the fruits of any city on God’s good earth can be yours — income be damned.
Financial Lesson #1: Keep An Empty Carlo Rossi Jug By Your Bedside, And Piss In It
You might be thinking to yourself, “Wait, wait, wait, wait…hold up, Danny. Piss? I thought this was about finances.” It is about finances. You didn’t give me a chance to finish. And listen real close here, ‘cause the Rossi Piss Bottle is non-negotiable.
So basically, this all started one night when I drank a 1.5-liter bottle of Carlo Rossi table wine to myself, passed out, and then woke up around 4:30 in the morning with a bladder on the brink of rupture. You know how it is, though. Getting out of bed and navigating to the bathroom at a time like that is just miserable. If only there were a solution. A way out.
That’s when it hit me.
My hand shot out from beneath the blanket. It began probing around in the dark until it landed upon — Yes! The newly-emptied, high-capacity glass bottle just lying there on the floor.
I then rolled over to the edge of the bed, inserted myself, and did what you can probably imagine I did. Life hasn’t been the same ever since.
And here’s the important thing: doing all of your nocturnal urination in a bottle will slash your water bill to bits. Flushing is the silent menace, people. Come morning, I just open my window and dump the fucker out into the back yard. It smells terrible out there now, and I’m sure my roommates would be furious if they knew why, but fuck them — I’m saving gallons. Roughly 1.6 per flush.
And what about the productivity boost? They say eight hours of sleep bestows all kind of benefits, and I don’t intend to chip away at those benefits by getting out of bed, by having some awkward morning hallway conversation with a roommate, then having to aim, flush, bend down and wipe rebound splashes off my leg. Fuck that. Nowadays, I just roll over, slip my cock in a bottle, and I’m in business. I don’t even have to wake up to do it anymore. Sometimes I’ll come to life bright and early (noon) only to find Mr. Rossi full to the brim, with no memory whatsoever of how it got like that. If that kind of sleep quality isn’t boosting my ability to make money during the day, then I don’t know what would.
Financial Lesson #2: Stop Buying Condoms
Condoms. Another colossal waste of money.
I know how it goes. You go out and buy a 3-pack at CVS, slip one in your pocket on Saturday night, head out to the bars with bright eyes and a bushy tail.
But for what?
You either come home and bang out a forearm-and-bicep workout in front of your computer at 3 o’clock (the most likely outcome) or else you do hook up with some chick, but your foresight and discipline evaporate at about the precise moment her pants come off. Either way, same result: finding the wrinkled, pocketed, forgotten condom while reaching for your cell phone some time later that week. Unused and now unusable. Money down the drain.
My advice? Don’t buy ‘em anymore. Save the cash. Worry about protection when it becomes an issue. If I’m in some strange girl’s apartment and it’s real late and she’s giving me the whole “No condom, no ass” speech? Motherfucker, I’ll pull a Thomas Edison. I’ll slip off to the kitchen and whip something up. Yeah, give me a sheet of saran wrap and a rubber band, and I’ll give her the same subpar-to-mediocre sexual experience that I give every girl, protected or not.
But Danny, c’mon, be realistic, dude. I nab some fox from downtown, bring her back to my place…things are getting feisty but she isn’t on the pill…I’m not like you. I’m not about to wrap my dick in a sandwich bag or some shit.
Fair. You want to know what you should really do, then?
Yeah! I do.
Pitch in with your roommates for a communal, emergency condom. Just one. Split the cost. And then thumbtack the thing–right through the middle–to your bulletin board or to a living room wall.
What? Wait. This is even worse than the saran wrap idea! What the fuck! Why the fuck am I putting a thumbtack through the condom?
To lower demand, of course.
If you hung that bad boy up with Scotch tape or, God forbid, put it in a drawer, then, come the weekend, every wannabe Casanova you live with would try to pocket the bastard on the way out. I’m the one who’s gonna needing this, they’d be telling themselves. I’m the one who’s gonna spend the wee hours occupying some girl’s box.
But they’re wrong. And, once again, because of either failure or negligence, the rubber is going to be folded into eighths in a pair of jeans come Sunday morning.
But the thumbtack? The thumbtack will make ‘em think twice. It’ll scare ‘em off. It’ll keep overconfident, filthy paws off the merchandise until a real emergency arises.
And that’s the great thing about laytex — it’s so durable that the tack often times won’t actually penetrate the condom. I’ve looked into it, and 80% of the time the rubber will still be in play.
And even if it does break, well, you’re in a big city. Women are educated here. They understand the woes of raising out-of-wedlock babies fathered by strange men in bars. And chances are their income, unlike yours, will allow for a tablet of Plan B here and there.
Financial Lesson #3: Staple A Wig To Your Wall, And Use It To Jerk Off When Funds Become Scarce
At the start, I said that this guide would allow you to attack bars with the same ferocity as any young professional, even if you personally happen to be a deadbeat.
In SF, any night worth its salt is going to set you back at least 70 USD. Count on $100, though, figuring in transportation and all that. The day I wake up after a proper outing in this city with less than 50 USD missing from my wallet, it’ll be a Christmas miracle.
For those of us among the marginally employed, this is not sustainable. We have to pick and choose our big weekends, wait till the money is right, and then strike like a pack of feral dogs.
But just because we’re waiting for big weekends doesn’t mean we can’t, in the interim, have great nights in. And if there’s anyone who knows about those, it’s me.
Here’s what you do.
When your friends or roommates or whoever finish their pregaming, begin calling their rides, and then head for the door, look sad. Maybe even follow them out to the stoop and wave a hankie as they go. Give them no indication whatsoever that your night is about to get very awesome very fast.
Now that you’re alone, go to the closet and retrieve the wig you picked up from Party City earlier in the week. Then staple that sucker up right above your bed.
Oh yeah. That’s looking really nice. But wait — you’re not done yet.
To really make it a party, head down to the liquor store on the corner and pick up a bottle of Mad Dog ($5). Drink it, put on some tunes, and then approach the dangling hair as if it belonged to one of the post-college pixies currently frolicking about the bars. Oh, yes. She’s all yours now.
You know what comes next. Pop up onto the bed, get down on bended knee, and tug at that hair while beating yourself into a state of semi-consciousness. That, my friends, is fiscally responsible way to spend a night. .