My Evil Plan

“My evil plan/Has failed again/For the benefit of man/I think I’ll…try again.” – Buttsteak, from their album Men Who Pause. 1995

Money is the root of all evil, and idle hands do the Devil’s work. What a shame it is (for you) that I am poor and bored. I’m basically Satan in a pair of Chucks right now. How to make a lot of money at the expense of your fellow human beings? That is the $64,000 question. I’ve been kicking around a few ideas.

Plan 74-S
Code name: Rudolph
The quickest way to make money is to steal it. The second quickest way is to create a new market and then dominate it. I’m going to make a new line of sanitary wipes. Some sort of anti-inflammatory thing for skin irritations. I’ll mix some milk and talcum powder together and dunk cotton balls into them. Super cheap to make. Call them “Cool Tips” or “Ice Clouds” or something stupid. Whatever. Leave the name up to the eggheads in marketing. Anyway, I put this product out there and then create a demand for them. The bhut jolokia pepper is the hottest pepper on earth; it is certified to be over a million Scoville units (regular Tabasco is about 5,000 units). This stuff will bring an elephant to tears. I don’t need many peppers. 10 will do. I take these peppers, grind them up and then make a little trip over to Louisville, Kentucky, Fort Patterson, Indiana, and various other places that manufacture Kleenex brand tissues and Johnson-Johnson products. Break it. Into the vat of moisturizing lotion go the peppers. Can you see it? Can you imagine the world? A little boy in a small mid-western town has a cold. His mother comes in and pulls out a contaminated tissue. He smiles at her, leans forward and blows his nose. But something is wrong. His face…burns. Everything burns! Oh my god why is his face bright red and his throat closing up?! He tries to scream, but can’t. Only a tiny gasp escapes his face, wet from sweat and tears. A man in Rockville, Maryland gets up during halftime of the big Skins-Ravens game. He sits down on the toilet and lets loose a big, wet shit. Unconsciously, he grabs a wad of toilet paper and wipes. But his comfort soon turns into blinding pain. It feels like someone is shoving a red hot poker up his ass! He falls to the ground, howling, pants still around his ankles, grabbing his ass and searching for answers. He won’t be shitting for a while.

I’d make a fucking killing.

Plan 117-T
Code name: Max Headroom
This is really an idea for a TV show, but it’s guaranteed to have 150 million viewers by the third show. It’s a sitcom. Play it on NBC. Advertise the hell out of as being “The must see show of the season!” but make it look really, really shitty. Something incredibly gay and predictable. Like a nerdy white guy who’s been best friends with a super hot chick since childhood and…I don’t know. They’re plumbers or something. In New York. Who cares? It’s supposed to be horrible. Make sure there’s a laugh track involved. Ok, here’s where it gets good. Right after the first commercial break, “interrupt” the signal transmission. Cut straight from the professional video recording equipment of this horrible show to a shaky, hand held camcorder. It’s broadcasting from some sort of industrial shithole of a basement. It’s dingy. It’s dark. It’s creepy. It’s like Saw. You can hear the cameraman’s hand as it squeezes the casing for the camera, and the echoes of a young woman screaming in this dungeon. The cameraman moves to a door where the screams get louder. He opens. Inside is a woman, bound up. She’s dirty, tired, and petrified. She screams louder when she sees the cameraman. Cut back to the sitcom. “That’s what she said!” *laughtrack*. Immediately have the president of NBC come out and disavow any knowledge of this incident and promise criminal prosecution for the signal interruption. Next week, do the same thing, except this time it’s a new girl trapped in the room, in the same spot that is now covered in dry blood. By the third episode you can make upwards of $100,000,000 in one, fucking night in advertising alone.