There exists, in this universe, a batch of magic. In this batch of magic lies a few deep wisdoms hidden from the common mortal man. These magical wisdoms are not completely lost to us though. We all know it. There is the occasional secret that has made its way into a human ear. There is evidence of it everywhere.
Go to a few bars, pretty soon you’ll see one of these secrets. There’s a skinny little twit boy surrounded by a large breasted, thinly waisted, puffy lipped, tan mob of ubber hot chics. And just to make it more painful he is fondling two of them. You know the rest want to be fondled too, but this poor skinny bastard only has two hands, so the others will have to wait. Crap, if I’m lucky enough to get attention from a decent looking chic, she sure isn’t going to let me fondle her and she’s especially not going to let me fondle all her friends. Nope. This twiggy pencil dick has been told a universal secret. And the prick sure isn’t telling it to me.
You see the same thing with money. Once in a while you’ll find a stupid hillbilly whose mother is also his sister and his dad is also his uncle George, but who is also filthy rich. These are the dipshits who made jeans with holes popular. Hillbilly gear by Armani. . . Shut UP!
Now imagine if a good looking guy learned the secret of woman, or a smart guy learned the secret of money. Shit! That guy would be SET UP! Well, I’m not good looking, but I do have the occasional brain cell. If I can just learn the rich people’s secret, THEN I can get the plastic surgery, go learn the ugly guy’s secret and RULE THE WORLD! Or at least get laid in a Lamergini.
This is why I work at Rich Dad. . . to get laid in a Lamborghini. . . and to gleam some inner secret of the rich. Something Robert Kiyosaki knows, but he’s not sharing. Well, I’ve been here over two years. I’ve gotten Robert stupid drunk. . . learned nothing (other than his fetish for smurfs). Sent super hot shirtless woman after him . . . learned nothing (other than he REALLY loves his wife or he’s gay). Sent super hot shirtless men after him. . . learned one thing (he loves his wife). Finally, I decide to just ask. One thing. What’s the biggest thing? TELL ME THE SECRET!!!
Sales equals income.
Duh. Shut up. Please tell me something that I’m not already born knowing.
Sales equals income.
I know. I know. Go play with a smurf.
Sales equals income. Hear me. You’re listening, but you are not hearing. Sales equals income.
I do not care what you are doing, you are always selling or being sold. Whose going to buy who’s shit?
You want that chic to think you’re worth the time, she wants you to thinks she’s not interested. Who’s gonna buy who’s shit? You want to tell your boss how hard you’re working and your boss wants you to work harder. Who’s going to sell and who’s going to buy?
Your hair, your posture, the car you drive, the clothes you where. You are selling. You’d better be damn sure you’re selling what you want people to be buying. Yeah, I love smurfs. I do not walk around in smurf underroos. For one thing they are too tight on me and ride up my ass, but for another, I’m selling myself as rich and powerful.
Why does it matter that I’m always selling? BECAUSE SELLS IS INCOME. God, you are stupid.
I’m still visioning Robert in his smurf panties. I’m trying to focus on what he’s saying, but smurfaroos. Come on.
Robert continues. . . Accounting is income. No.
Legal is income. No.
SALES is Income. You can’t have the rest without sales. Sales. sales. sales.
With the economy crashing, what are you going to do? Hire another accountant? NO!!! Beef up your sales department, because you’re going to need every sale you can get.
Suddenly it dawns on me. This IS the secret that skinny nerd at the bar knows. He’s sold himself as something special. This twit has refused to buy the “I’m special” routine and instead sold the “I am special” routine and now he’s got fists full of tittilicious, soft malleable boobies.
I thank Robert for sharing his secret wisdom as he drives off in his smurf blue Lamborghini.
Jack B. Loo