Easy money?
There is a simple formula, which goes thus:

1) Convince yourself that it's your right to be famous, by doing absolutely fuck all to deserve it.

2) Once you have achieved this, wander around vacantly for a bit until you stumble upon auditions for a well known, but frankly tired, reality TV show.

3) Convince the programme makers you are just what they are looking for in the next series by inventing a serious personality disorder that marks you out as being 'a bit wacky', and therefore likely to entertain.

4) Once you've got yourself into the house, either (a) get your knob / tits out as often as possible, or, (b) pick fights with your housemates at every opportunity, thus ensuring maximum exposure in the tabloids and 'lifestyle' magazines. For added effect, you could try innocently calling one of them a nigger, although these days that's likely to get you kicked out and damage your chances of making any serious money on the outside. Plus it's not big or clever, kids!

5) For added effect, find a housemate you quite fancy, and throw yourself into a full on romance with them. If you're particulary brave, indulge in repeated acts of shagging under the covers in front of the cameras (again, see 4 above).

6) Got to week 6? Congratulations, you're half way there! Try amusing the nation with your complete cluelessness as to current affairs, how many weeks are in a year, the location of Wales, and general cuntfuckery, but remember to say that you like teh kittums - this should guarantee you the b3ta vote!

7) Repeat steps 4 and 5 as necessary, especially if the object of your desire is evicted - mope for a couple of days, then attach yourself to the next available housemate (this is optional).

8) In the event that you do get evicted before the final, sell your story for untold thousands to the first available tabloid and 'celebrity' magazine. The Daily Star is a good bet, as is OK! magazine. Fuck it, you've got your pick really. Maintain your exposure by going on 'celebrity' editions of the Weakest Link, reinforcing to the British public what a clueless fuckwit you are, but never mind, it's quite endearing isn't it? If you're of the lady persuasion, the lads mags will be falling over themselves to offer you serious wads of cash for getting your norks out (if you're shy, they'll probably let you keep your hands over your nipples. But they'll keep coming back with bigger offers until you go all the way. This could be a good strategy - keep your public on tenterhooks for a bit, then whip 'em out as the pound signs flash in your eyes like a demented fruit machine). This only works if you're not a complete boiler, though.

9) If you actually win, collect the £100,000 and also see step 8 above.

10) Should you have managed to keep your romance intact, get engaged and then married in record time, thus ensuring a further cash cow as the glossies scramble over each other to offer you both a multi-thousand pound 'exclusive' deal (which, lets face it, will be picked up by everyone else afterwards anyway - another result).

11) Following step 10, you could always try divorce some 9 months later, thus ensuring more 'exclusive' deals where you can give your account of the marriage and how she never swallowed / he always tried to get you to swallow (delete as appropriate).

12) An added option is to find yourself a satellite TV station that's watched by about 12 people, and get a presenting job.

13) Congratulations! You have achieved fleeting fame and notoriety, before plunging into general obscurity again, safe in the knowledge that you have managed to fleece several thousands of pounds from the gullible media industry (helped by the general public).

14) Finally, if you are a complete mong, you may be lucky enough to snare yourself a protracted but inexplicable stay in the limelight - maybe try going on the 'celebrity' version of the show, and racially abusing a housemate or demonstrating homophobic tendencies. Then cry about it afterwards on breakfast TV, insisting it was all a mistake. To back this up, you could point out that some of your best mates are black. Or gay. Then write your autobiography, even though you're only 22. I say write - why waste time on that shit? Christ, you can't even spell. Get some other fucker to do it for you, and reap the rewards for 6 months, before finding yourself in the bargain bin at Asda.

15) Sorted!
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Tue 5 Aug 2008, 14:11, 12 replies)

Charity.

Zebo, a half blind five year old African orphan, has to ride 7
miles a day to school with only one leg on a bicycle with buckled wheels
and no brakes.

Give just a small donation of £2 and we'll send you the video. It's fucking hilarious....

Shirley bindun?
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Mon 4 Aug 2008, 11:52, 3 replies)

This Time Next Year I'll Be A Millionaire
.
Bloke I knew came up with a brilliant invention that every woman would want and buy.

He invented a bra that stopped women's nipples sticking out in the cold and, as a bonus, it would also stop tits bouncing when running.

I killed him and ate the plans.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Sat 2 Aug 2008, 7:19, 4 replies)

Glastonbollox
Part 1 - Nice one matey!

Back in the day or 1993 if you prefer, my mate Erad had an old ambulance. A plan was hatched to get into the Glastonbury festival which involved:
tarting up said ambulance
a flashing blue light for the roof
siren noises
ambulance driver uniforms

So the ambulance was cleaned and buffed with T-Cut, windows blacked out, new go faster stripes applied. Magnetic flashing blue light was purchased from industrial suppliers. Speaker was placed under bonnet and wired to £1 special effects key-ring. Blue caps and pullovers were purchased from same industrial suppliers.

We were ready to go but how does this relate to money making? That was in the form of a massive stack of crates of the most piss-weak lager known to man purchased from Netto for the princely sum of 25p per can.

Worked like a dream, two in uniform in the front, another 5 hidden in the back. We drove in through the exit, light flashing, siren sounding pretty iffy but who's to question it? Security just waved us through. Found a nice quiet spot obscurred by some big traveller buses and the selling of the wank-beer could begin.

Sold out in no time, had to put the price up from £1 per can to £1.50. I remember one chap asking "is it any good?". "No it's piss" I replied. "I'll have 4 please" said he.

Great weekend spending our ill-gotten gains.

Part 2 - Bastards!

Tried the same trick again next year but made the mistake parking in an area that had to be cleared to erect a stage. Thrown out. Beer confiscated. Ambulance impounded costing £150 to get out which we didn't have so I phoned my girlfriend and her dad paid it, the shame.

The police interrogation was quite a laugh, lots of daft questions like "do you turn up at the scenes of accidents?". Yeah we're necrophilliacs. The Chief Super or whatever he was called said "If I see you again this weekend I'm going to shove you right up my arse", some West Country custom? "Can I have that in writing" I said. He went a slightly more purple shade of purple.

Happy daze.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 31 Jul 2008, 19:09, 5 replies)

entrepreneurial
As a youth, I was quite the money maker. I'd spend my weekends washing people's cars, clearing up leaves and generally doing odd jobs for cash. Then I hit upon my golden goose.

She was a dementia sufferer called Dorothy - about 90 years old and with a huge house. My first job for her was weeding her huge garden for four hours, but by the time I'd finished the job she'd forgotten who I was and thought I might be her grandson. I got 20p and a 14-year-old digestive for that work - but it gave me an idea.

The next weekend, I turned up and knocked on the door telling her that I'd just re-tiled her roof and she owed me two grand. She paid me in cash from a stash under her bed and I gave her a 'receipt' (an old Quavers crisp packet, which I took back later while she was watching Countdown.)

I spent some of the the money on pornographic material and alcohol, and thereafter spent most Saturdays in her shed whacking away - before telling her I'd replaced the guttering/painted the windows/installed a solarium etc. in return for an inflated cash payment.

After some time, I was becoming quite wealthy, but she appeared to have no relatives and I was under no suspicion. Once, she came into the shed and found me balls-deep in a honeydew melon, but I told her I was inflating her football and she staggered away to get me £50 for the privilege. Happy days!

I made £23,000 over the space of that year while doing nothing at all. Only once did she ever question my 'work' - when I charged her £500 for installing a greenhouse that didn't exist. I got out of that one by telling her the glass was cleaned so perfectly that it was effectively invisible. After that, she just paid up.

She died in 1988, just before I did my GCSEs. I don't know if she left a will, but the house stands empty still and I smile fondly whenever I look at that shed.
(frankspencer, Tue 5 Aug 2008, 15:01, 6 replies)

Charity begins at home
I pay off the local vets for Labrador corpses. I then laminate them and put them on display where there's a lot of footfall.

Like this:
farm3.static.flickr.com/2055/2482026967_5ddfe85e73.jpg?v=0

I'm not claiming this idea as my own as most of my childhood was spent similarly ensconced in plastic with leg braces on. Cheers Dad.

That slot's a bastard when it rains.
(Heyzeus, Thu 31 Jul 2008, 17:53, 4 replies)

secrets and lies
i had a friend at university. more than one, believe it or not, but this story concerns one friend in particular. lovely dennis.

dennis was a mother's dream. tall, good looking, very well spoken, got a first, played football on the first team, and was an outstanding musician with a band that was starting to go places on the london circuit. however, towards the end of our final year, he got involved with mrs dennis. she was not so much fun and she did not like him doing anything without her. so gradually he began to change and we heard less and less from him. eventually we gave up altogether.

fast forward two years after graduation and they were married with a baby and a bun in the oven. i hadn't heard from dennis in all this time, so was thrilled to get an out of the blue email from him inviting me over to sunday lunch in east london. he said the invite had a purpose, but he'd "have to kill me" if he revealed what it was. he and mrs dennis would be driving in from berkhamsted, he added. hmmmm. odd. i had forgotten they had moved out of wapping. why were we going for lunch in east london when i lived in west london and he lived way around the m25?

anyway, the day came, and, as instructed, i got dressed in a suit and all made up. hmmmm. odd. why a suit?

the dennises arrived too late for lunch, but it was ok, they'd eaten on the way there, apparently. well, i hadn't, and i spent the drive to east london hungrily eyeing up the baby. then we arrived at this hotel way out in the docklands. hmmmm. odd. why so isolated?

the crowd of people was enormous. there were hundreds of them. now, dennis is blond and about 6'5. he stands out in most crowds. but he really really stood out in this one. as did mrs dennis and i - because we were the only three people there (plus baby) who weren't (i) in their 40s or older; (ii) very very stout; (iii) wearing glitter; and (iv) black. we stuck out like pork pies in a synagogue. except that a lot of them were all loudly praising jesus, which i guess doesn't happen so much in a synagogue. hmmmmm. odd. why had dennis brought me to what appeared to be a deep south black baptist revival ceremony?

mrs dennis and the baby headed into the bar with a book and vanished. how i envied them. instead, i followed dennis into this top secret cult-ish presentation. it was immediately obvious to me that it was a scam. i kept thinking of that line in the simpsons where they say, "now this isn't one of those illegal pyramid schemes, no sirreebob. this is a trapezium scheme." the propaganda was literally unbelievable. we were made to stand and sing and clap, then we were bombarded with loud music and images of speed boats, luxury houses, cars, yachts, paradise islands, private jets, all pounding on wide screen televisions with funky music, and every now and again the gorgeous black american girls at the front would stand up, wiggle their bums and yell, "do you wanna fulfil your potential? yes, do you want to live up to what de lord gave you?"

in and amongst this outrageous stuff was the details on how to do it. how you signed up, then got people to sign up under you. for every instruction there was about 20 mins of these glamorous pictures and testimonials. it was the most brainwashy thing i have ever seen, and every few minutes another person would leap up and scream that they would join, and then everyone else would have to stand up and cheer. stiff white people in suits with no rhythm do not do this well. not at all. especially when one is embarrassed as hell and, being a trainee lawyer, is pretty damn sure it's both a civil and a criminal offence. i really couldn't work out what dennis was thinking, dragging me to it.

anyway, after about 5 hours, we were allowed a break. i was thirsty, starving, baffled and exhausted. dennis asked me what i thought. at this stage, i'd have done anything to get the hell out of there and had almost convinced him i was ill enough to go home. then mrs dennis' mum arrived. she was 200lbs of evil, and she sat straight down next to me and asked me if i'd signed up yet. when i said no, she looked really affronted. then she said, unbelievably, "well, you must. dennis and mrsdennis are a young couple with two babies; they need all the help they can get." she had no more shame than to say this. then she showed me her own pyramid of sales people and said that she had made £20,000 so far. well yes. the people who get in on these scams first always do.

when we went back in, the real sales push began. you weren't allowed out of the room without speaking to an advisor. if it's about £200, i thought, fuck it. i'll just sign up and never come back. no way would i ever have brought one of my friends to these meetings. and i couldn't believe dennis had done it to me. but then, after a 2 hour wait, i got to see an advisor. it turned out they were taking TWO THOUSAND POUNDS off these people. my jaw quite literally hung open. i refused to sign anything, and eventually dennis took me out of there.

mrsdennis' mum was really angry with me. she said, "so we've all wasted the whole day, then." ffs. i did not ask to go! i thought we were having a catch up pub lunch. i sat in the back of the car, shaking with rage. the next day, i did some research, and sent dennis a long email about the criminal offence he had committed by taking me to that - it's an offence to sell something of which membership of the scheme is the only thing you are selling, to keep it brief. dennis replied and said thanks for the tip, but that it was working well for mrsdennis' mum so they'd stick with it if i didn't mind.

a month later it was shut down for being illegal and the directors stripped of their assets. god knows how many people were ripped off by it. dennis and i haven't spoken since. but it was a real experience for me, if a truly frightening one - i've never seen anything like that level of brainwashing before.

apologies for length, but it's what the lord done give me.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 31 Jul 2008, 19:03, 10 replies)

few waves, bit of a reflection, maybe some lillies,
and bam - quick and easy Monet.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 1 Aug 2008, 21:59, 5 replies)

"How's my driving??"
I have a high-viz jacket for cycling to work.

It says "How many red lights have I gone through? Text 85324"

Reverse charged text at £1.50 a shot. It usually pays for lunch each day
(pineapple_juice, Fri 1 Aug 2008, 14:56, 3 replies)

Squirming on my tongue
It was near the end of another year at school, and time for the summer fete. The call went out for volunteers to run stalls, and a select few of us formed a plan - a plan that would make us rich beyond the dreams of avarice!

Stage one was to approach our form tutor and suggest our stall. This went off without a hitch. Stage two was the construction of our apparatus - again, a simple task. We made ourselves a poster, laid our claim to a prime piece of playing field and, the day before the fete, procured our final component. All was ready.

"Maggot Racing!" our sign proudly proclaimed. The track was a simple wooden tray, painted with gridlines and with ineptly-constructed balsa wood lane dividers. The competitors, in several attractive colours, were procured from the local fishing shop and writhing away in their tubs. The concept was simple: 5p buys you a maggot, 10 maggots to a race, and the owner of the first maggot across the finish line takes home 25p, with the rest of the entry fees as profit. Not profit for us, you understand, profit for the school. Our plan was more cunning than simple embezzlement.

There were three of us. The school insisted that two of us man the stall at all times, but this left the third free to pretend to be a punter. When purchasing their maggots for a race punters usually just picked a colour, although the more serious gambler would often specify a particular maggot and the occasional adventurous soul would choose their own by hand. The maggots were then placed on their lanes under starters orders until we had enough for the race to begin. It was perfectly legal to handle your maggot prior to a race, although this wasn't advertised and most were content to allow their wriggly athletes to prepare themselves in solitude. We, however, knew better.

Whichever of us was playing the punter would purchase a single maggot for the next race. The runner would be selected for the enthusiasm of its thrashing about in the tub. Unknown to many, maggots perform best in a racing situation when warm, and so the little fella would be swiftly placed onto the tongue and held in the mouth, there to squirm around in moist, warm, dark ecstacy until the starting pistol. Better than half the time, to the disgust of the other gamblers, the mouth-maggot would romp home to an easy victory and another 25p would join our rapidly growing fortune. At peak times we were raking in almost £3 an hour!

At the end of a long day, we had accumulated a total of around a tenner - a fortune! When we realised that this would then have to be divided between three of us it was a slightly less impressive fortune, but still none too shabby.

Obviously we immediately spunked most of our ill-gotten gains trying to win a bottle of Liebfraumilch on the tombola, but just think what we could have accomplished with a bit of investment! Stuff the horses, maggot racing is the future.
(wellgroomedwookiee is a filthy-minded hobgoblin, Fri 1 Aug 2008, 16:11, 9 replies)

Get Rich Quick?
Why? What's he done?
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Fri 1 Aug 2008, 16:03, 2 replies)

Drug dealing at festivals
This is not to be recommended if you are middle class and soft, like every braying bastard Sebastian and Jack is at Glastonbury since the mid-90s. We found two teenage boys snivelling outside the Christian Aid tent and asked them what was wrong:

"We spent £1000 on a block of hash to sell. We got in, and went up to this bloke and asked him if he wanted any drugs. He said 'great, thanks', pulled out a knife and took the drugs, and our wallets, kicked us up the arse and then walked off whistling".
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 1 Aug 2008, 12:25, 9 replies)

When I was a Military Policeman

I had the misfortune/pleasure of attending Princess Diana's memorial service at Winchester Cathedral in September 97' (I think most Cathedrals had one at some point)

So there we were, in full numbers 1's watching all these old dears crying and it was then me and my mate noticed all the funeral booklets (I'm sure they have a proper name, but can't remember) at the back of the church.

Well when everyone had left we grabbed a load of them (about 20 each) these things were lovely, patterned card outer and watermarked pages inside, with all the words in from the proper funeral at Westminster Abbey including all the songs and poems etc...

So obviously these slowly filtered onto ebay early on this decade, it's amazing what Americans and Chinese will pay for a bit of paper.

My best one sold at over £200 from what I remember.

Cheers Diana you really were the Queen of my heart, and helped me out of a lot of shit.


Regards
Kip


(Kip, Fri 1 Aug 2008, 13:12, 9 replies)

It takes 9 months, but that's quite quick:
1. Have a baby.
2. Sell it.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 31 Jul 2008, 17:23, 5 replies)

Not funny
Some years ago, I was a registered firearms dealer with my own premises etc. I went to several weapons manufacturers in the course of my work, and thoroughly enjoyable it was too! On my travels I came across a pair of semi-automatic rifles from the same manufacturer, one "General" grade and one "Sniper" grade. On examination, I found that I could probably turn a "General" grade into a "Sniper" grade with some minimal hand-fitting and a couple of specially machined parts. I did so and found that I could sell these modified rifles for £500 less than the official sniper grades AND make.............wait for it...........£1,000 clear profit!
Over the next three months, I demonstrated the new modded rifle and took 500 deposits, yep 500!!
I took delivery of the unmodded rifles on partial credit, safe in the knowledge they were all pre-sold and set to on the gruelling job of making £500,000.

When I'd finally finished them all and had the proof house check my work (a bit more expense but what the hell!) I sent letters for my customers that their rifle was ready and they could, with the right paperwork, come and pick it up.





That day, Michael Ryan ran amock in Hungerford.

Very soon after, the Home secretary suspended all semi-automatic rifle permissions on Firearm Certificates. My rifles could not be sold.

Very soon after that, the police came and confiscated my stock (illegally, I subsequently found, too late and too expensive to fight it)and destroyed it.


Instead of the cool £500k in cash I was expecting I was in shit street. The rifles hadn't been paid for fully and the company couldn't take them back as they had been destroyed. I had to pay the deposit money back, some of which I'd used to fund the project.

That's how I ended up with the dodgiest mortgage in Christendom and a deep deep hatred for politicians and the police.


Apologies for lack of humus, but the girth makes up for that.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Fri 1 Aug 2008, 14:45, 26 replies)

Affiliate Linkage
My website pulled in quite few bob for a while.

Basically it was an archive of eBay auctions that were in the news but were pulled by the auction site. They were usually people selling stuff that wasn't their’s such as football teams, wives and various DNA related listings. Pretty dull stuff, but it covered by the media so people wanted to see them. Tens of thousands of people a day in fact, it turned out.

Sometimes I would spot a breaking news story about an auction and manage to archive it before it was removed. Most of the time however I would simply have to search "completed listings" and the whole listing would still be sitting there on their servers.

The sneaky bit would be posting a link on eBay to my website using keywords in the heading relevant to the removed auction. People would visit "my auction" and click through to my site to "find the information".

Once on my site they could read a small bit of copy and then "click through to the listing on eBay". Naturally the click back to eBay was an affiliate link.

This paid my mortgage for a couple of years for about half an hour's work a day. Most of my readers were in The States and I ended up on quite a few US radio stations as King Nutter giving the latest from the auction scene. It became cat and mouse with eBay as they kept closing my account and I had to open new ones, but it got to the point where I would open fifty accounts all at once with a new credit card number.

Media interest in eBay faded, but then YouTube came along and started banning vids so I did exactly the same with their keywords. If you entered "Daniella Cicerelli video" (half a million hits one weekend) a short video would play saying "Visit kingnutter.com to see this vid".

Not as lucrative as there was no affiliate incentive, but still good fun. I had Google ads that paid for my server costs at least thrice over. Which may have been the problem...

The site was going really well and about a year ago I had an interview with Google for the position of UK Editor of YouTube.

They seemed very interested about my ingenuity and ability to help users find the content they wanted, so I told them how it all worked.

I soon discovered they were not that impressed. I didn't get the job, YouTube permanently disabled my account and amended their T&Cs to stop people linking to sites containing Google Ads. To be honest it wasn't about the money at this stage and I could have easily dropped the ads. Bypassing their ban by opening any number of accounts was possible too, but it's not as fun without my own username.

I'm not disheartened. I have another idea up my sleeve which will make far bigger bucks if there are any PHP / Data Modellers out there who'd like to lend a hand. And this time no big corporate will be shutting down my accounts.

There was always something fun about getting caught though...
(kingnutter, Wed 6 Aug 2008, 10:42, 2 replies)

Pearoastish
Contrary to popular opinion, I always enjoyed Home Economics at school. My mum didn't trust me with cooking at home (due to a mild pyrophilia) and so any chance to get busy with the pots and pans was taken with relish.

One week, we were assigned with the task with making our own cakes. The school would provide the boring stuff like flour, eggs, milk, water, etc, but we would have to sort our our own icing, jam, skunk or whatever else we wanted to liven up the sponge with.

Now, you have to get into the mindset of the modern (well, 1990's) teenager. As if you're going to remember instructions. I recall mumbling something to my mum about 'cake stuff' and left it for a week.

Come the morning of the cake bake, and yes, I had bugger all to show for decorations. Luckily, my dear mum had purchased icing, jam and SILVER BALLS; hard, sugary goodness coated in a colour that could only be tenuously described as 'silver'. I was prepared.

Now, William Burroughs described Heroin as the ultimate commodity, as the consumer is sold to the product, rather than the other way round. If only he was present in Room HE1 that day.

It turned out that barely anyone else had brought anything, and my little hoard of confection was the only means of enlivening their shitty sponge.

Knowing that some 'Jesus and the feeding of the five thousand' situation wouldn't commence - despite my protestations, I am not the Son Of God - I decided to charge:

10p per silver ball.
20p for a level tablespoon of icing sugar.
50p for a level tablespoon of jam.

I made a killing. In fact as demand outstripped supply I was soon doubling prices in a feeble (yet ultimately successful, as I happened to come out with some lovely butterfly buns) attempt to maintain my own decoration supply.

And lo, at the age of just 13, I appeared to have mastered the tenets of classical economics and exploited the powerless working classes in a way that would make Milton Friedman celebrate and Charlie Marx chew furiously on his beard, all the while having plenty of sugary goodness to return to my pro-active mother.

Marvellous.
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Tue 5 Aug 2008, 16:17, 2 replies)

For me, ‘Weird Science’, ‘Blade Runner’ and ‘Westworld’ were more like documentaries…

As far as a ‘get rich quick’ scheme goes, I realised that I must discover a new, as yet unexplored market and exploit it for all its’ potential.

As a result I’ve been working on a new invention; and on completion I think I may be on to a bit of a result.

My basic design is that of a human form exoskeleton surrounded in a super-realistic mannequin latex / play dough coating…kind of like the Terminator…without the homicidal tendencies.

It’s called ‘Shag-a-tron 2000’. There are two basic forms: ‘Shag-a-tron-M’ and ‘Shag-a-tron-F’.

Although initially packaged in a Brad Pitt / Angelina Jolie format, you can mould them to your exact specification with the unique set of attachments...in other words you can design the proportions with whatever floats your twisted, pervy little tug-boat.

As I haven’t yet perfected the biomechanics I’m afraid it doesn’t do much in the way of movement, just your basic stand / sit / walk / bend over / huge hip thrusts etc…but all in a sexy, smouldering / strong, silent understated manner of course.

I have also fitted a basic but spookily realistic speech synthesiser and voice response system (one that actually works, not like the Vista one that doesn’t understand a fucking word when you’re pissed)

Now in its ‘M’ form, the Shag-a-tron 2000 promises the following:

No snoring / farting / eating toenails
Puts the toilet seat down
It will NEVER say your bum looks big, even if you have the arse of an elephant acrobatic display team
It nods its head in an approving manner and looks adoringly and attentively at everything you say…without being needy
It sits and holds your hand through weepies / Rom-coms
Never treats you like shit or eyes up your girlfriends
Will go like a rabbit on Red Bull when required
(Deluxe models come with their own credit card)

…However, in its ‘F’ form:

Never nags / has a headache / has painters in
Will always actually mean what they say – none of that ‘Nothing’s wrong’ bollocks
Will happily wear ‘that’ outfit that you’ve always requested
Will watch the footy with you with a permanent smile on their face…whilst holding your beer
Cares not a jot about your nerdiness / disgusting habits / crap job
Stands happily in the cupboard waiting for you whilst you go out with your mates
Thinks drunkenness is sexy.
Swallows.
Let’s you put it where you want it (but not in a 'Nike advert' sort of way)
Will also go like the veritable clappers.

On both models there is also zero chance of babies or catching any of those ever-so-slightly-annoying STD’s (providing you don’t lend it out to your mates).

After preliminary tests the Shag-a-tron also effortlessly integrates with your family and friends on the premise of:

“(S)He’s just a bit quiet, that’s all.”

Each model comes arrives complete with full internet access so you can tailor their personality, and an adjustable ‘self-respect’ mode so you can make them as confident or timid as you wish.

And as you grow older – they stay the same age!

I’m not quite sure how much to charge but I was considering throwing in a 30 day full-refund guarantee…providing you wipe it down before returning it.

Anybody interested in trying one out?



…and as for length?... You decide!
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Mon 4 Aug 2008, 16:27, 15 replies)

50 pence - Get Rich or Die Wanking.
At a factory, where I worked years ago was your stereotypical, balding, toothless, dirty mac wearing, buy-a-bride type bloke and in the voice of Harold Steptoe, "A Dutty awld man".
He had a big fuck-off satellite dish in his garden. It was something that wouldn't look out of place on Desperate Dan's table next to a jug of cactus juice.
This dish could receive pron from all over the place. Please don’t ask about the technicalities, but I think it could rotate to constantly pick up signals and he had a number of VCRs set up to record 24 hours a day.

Anyway, he marries/purchases a Thai bird. The only middle-aged one I have ever seen in my life, the reason being that you never see middle-aged Asian women. They're a bit like bananas. One day they're lovely and ripe and then they age overnight, just like that. I don’t know if there’s some sort of rapid ageing thing going on. I digress…..
Upon her arrival to this country she insisted he got rid of his extensive collection of porn and this was something that he was sadly lamenting in the works canteen. And this is where I cut in.
“So, uh what are going to do with it then?”
He looks up, still chewing his sandwich, of which some of the mayo was now dripping from the corner of his mouth. “You want ‘em? You can have ‘em for 50p each if you’re interested. They’ve gotta go today or I’m in shit street.”
“Yeah ok, how many have you got?”
“Dunno, about 400 at least.”
My yoghurt yo-yoed and exited via my nose. “Fuck!”
At this point I had a weird out of body experience whereby I was now an observer looking into the canteen. It was a bit like in the movies where the shot freezes, zooms out, pans a 360 and zooms back in again. There’s me with yoghurt coming out of my nose, there’s him with mayonnaise dribbling out of his mouth and we’re discussing a monumental stockpile of hardcore Scandinavian porn. Please God nobody walk in now, please! I pulled my hanky out, wiped off the offending dairy product and stammered, “F fuh four hundred? Are they any good?”
That question launched him into a soliloquy that was akin to Cheech Marin outside the Titty Twister. “Penetration, double penetration, anal, double anal, double vaginal and double anal, white on white, ebony on ivory, farters, squirters, blow jobs and jerkers, you name it.”
“Okay okay okay. Jeez!” I was praying nobody was going to walk in. “How are we going to do this?” Then I realised what a dumb question that was.
“Well duh! You give me two hundred quid and I give you the tapes.”

At this point I realised I had £200 in the bank but that was all I had. I phoned my best buddy - my wing man and partner in crime if you will - and told him what the deal was. He wanted in on it and we agreed to go halves. I said that I would cover his half and he would pay me later. It was situation GO.

That night I turned up at this blokes gaff and he’s stood at the door with a number of large boxes next to him. He was grinning like a monkey having a wank. In fact he probably just had, you know, for old time’s sake, so I didn’t shake his hand just in case.

We loaded (forcibly rammed) the precious cargo into my little Metro. It was brimming.
We had to drop it off at a mate’s house because we were both living with our parents at the time due to an ‘unfortunate’ accident at a previous residence that we shared. We opened the boxes and they were meticulously sleeved and labelled, they looked good.

I’m going to shorten this a bit. We each took a couple of samples home for product testing and they were fine. Good porn, no dodgy shit like donkeys and dwarves, which is what I was dreading they would be, and we were set to make some money.


We paid 50p each for these and we had a big network of friends and friends of friends who all love a bluey. The going rate at the time was £10 each and we banged them out at 2 for £10.
We had a good influx of customers in the first week and even set up our own 'fucky dip' whereby you just put your hand in and pulled out your 2 mystery prizes. We sold about 50 and that was excellent, we made our money back and had £25 each in our pockets. We went down the pub to celebrate and had a nice piss up.
The next week we sold about 30, which meant that we now had £75 each in our pockets so we took the Friday off work and had a 2 day piss up and piss it up we did.
The next few weeks were a bit different, I think we sold about 4. Still, we had another £10 profit each so we went to the pub.
Then the whole thing dried up, what with the amount we sold and the few we kept or gave away to people, we still had 300 of these bloody things and our mate was getting restless about having all these vids still in his house cluttering up the place. We couldn’t shift them for love or money.

Now, with hindsight, I realise what happened. It was a case of supply and demand. We had flooded the market. The punters were merely swapping the ones they had bought with people who had also bought some and it was like a perpetual chain of porn. By the time you got back the one you’d watched first it was almost fresh material. We weren’t selling any because the need for fresh porn wasn’t there.

We ended up having to sell them for like a quid or 2 quid each here and there and, since it was only change in our pocket, would get spent pronto.

We thought we were onto a good thing. The projected profit we should have made if we sold them all would have been £1800. Instead we pissed all of the money we did make up against the wall and were lumped with 300 boxes of filth that nobody wanted any more.
We ended up giving them away.

No business sense and a penchant for alcohol will always mean that I will never get rich.

Apologies for length - At least 2 hours per tape.
(oneinthepink is at your cervix m'lady, Fri 1 Aug 2008, 10:31, 2 replies)

smoke me a kipper reminds me!!
We were doing a car boot sale the day Di lost an argument with a pillar, and there was loads of gossip about is she dead or not etc etc.

I strolled to the shop to buy a paper to confirm the news that she had indeed died.

We took one look at the Charles and Di wedding plate we were selling that had been studiously ignored all morning, took off the £1 sticker and replaced it with a £20 sticker.

sold within 10 minutes.
(Halfy By light alone, Fri 1 Aug 2008, 13:15, 2 replies)

Darth Vader
Darth, you're often made out to be the ultimate bad guy, yet not once did we hear of you being in it for the money (yes I'm looking at you Han Solo, and ok you joined the alliance in the end but that was really for the poontang wasn't it? And your so-called mate Lando, he was only in Bespin for the profits really and even then he sold you out to keep his moneymaking schemes protected)

Poor, misunderstood Darth.

There was no massive safe featured anywhere in any of the death star plans. No planet 'MBNA IV' where you kept your stash.

You had all of those stormtroopers to feed, the construction workers to pay, not forgetting the investment required in water filtration and waste management. Yet you never heard your guys complain about facilities, condition or pay.

All of those guns to buy, ships to build - and you built massive ships Darth - not forgetting your constant reinvestment into developing technologies. You kept your men in the very best of equipment which surely would go some way to saving their lives in the line of duty. A noble thing indeed.

Hell, your own outfit, which you wore for years, didn't have pockets; not even a place to keep an egg card, and you even stuck with the old trusted lightsaber you had as a young adult.

Even as second in command in the universe you didn't employ any servants. Why have someone there just to fetch you what you need when a wave of the hand or the odd mind trick can save on such unecessary overheads?

Sure, you were brutal, but you didn't waste money on unecessary PR, press conferences, spin and such like. You just did what you did using your own resourcefulness.

The planets that you ruled were pretty well kept. You didn't see them being stripped of their natural resources, nor did you ever heard Mon Mothma talk about it as a reason to remove you from power.

Sure, there were taxes, people had to be kept in line from time to time. Yet it was never for personal financial gain, you had a universe to rule and taxes helped maintain the status quo and standard of living. OK, there were victims. There always are. Collateral damage we call it now.

I mean though, you didn't even have your own TV network to brainwash the masses with, nor did you luncheon with other leading businessfolk in the universe and do contras to line their pockets and keep you in power.

You were just a simple guy who wanted to rule the universe whilst maintaining your Sith belief system.


Poor misunderstood you, Darth. The evilest bad guy ever.

Whilst here on earth we vote in Blair and Bush who do much worse than you ever did.
(Heyzeus, Fri 1 Aug 2008, 8:48, 3 replies)

I have a cunning scheme.
Follow Scaryduck around wherever he goes, especially when he goes into pub toilets.

Then, just after he leaves, check the urinals for money. Don your favourite type of disposable gloves and fish out said cash. Repeat ad infinitum.

You are now rich.

www.b3ta.com/questions/experiments/post208104
(Rotten_Cointreau is a proper scientician, Wed 6 Aug 2008, 14:05, 2 replies)

Any day now…

I’m just off to the patent office to register my idea for the ‘Thatcher is Dead – Thank Fuck!’ Commemorative mug.

Each one is crafted from Fine Bone China and has a picture of the old hag with a cross through it – Ghostbusters style.

Also, when you tilt the mug it plays ‘Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead’ from the Wizard Of Oz.

Get your orders in early, folks. I have a feeling they’re going to shift pretty fast.

(c) Pooflake ltd. 2008
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 5 Aug 2008, 12:02, 38 replies)

Gambling
I was well on my way to getting rich in a casino once but then I got kicked out. Not for cheating though; I just misunderstood what the crap table was for.
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Mon 4 Aug 2008, 8:51, Reply)

I am zimbabwean bank manager
and i for you have 100million zimbabwean dollars!
congratulations lucky person
for you to must have first you send me your bank details, address, sort code, phonebill, picture of your mother* and £200 english pounds to cover transfer costs yeeeeees?
It for good time for you to have!



*I masterbation require to have
(Freddles, Thu 31 Jul 2008, 17:19, 6 replies)

women
All you have to do to get rich from women is is feast upon their sense of inferiority, of poor body image, of disease susceptibility, of unattractiveness etc... Just look at the articles and ads in any woman's mag:

- Why he thinks you're fat.
- 10 ways to make him love you
- Eye cancer - you've probably got it.
- Greasy hair and spots? - buy this cream
- He lies to you because you deserve it
- Why you look older than you are
- This cream cures plague and cancer overnight
- Are you fat? Only if you use the wrong cream

But men's mags are pure fantasy:

- Your cock is huge
- Why women love fat drunks like you
- Keeley: I don't need foreplay
- Beer cures cancer and makes you intelligent
- Women are pathetic - take advantage!
- You need this gadget to stay alive

Go figure
(frankspencer, Wed 6 Aug 2008, 12:43, 11 replies)

child labour
i made loads of money as a kid. in summer, i used to stand outside sainsbury's with my brother and offer to take people's trolleys back for them. this was when trolleys had to have 20p put in them, of course. we'd often get extra money for helping to put shopping into people's cars for them, too. it was easy to make over £200 in a week, which was blown on sweets, smokes and crap.

then there was penny for the guy. that was good for extra cash, too. if you chose the right spot, you could get around £70 a day. mum still tells her friends of the time she had her purse stolen and, without telling her, i took my homemade guy out in her shopping trolley. within 2 hours, i'd made enough money to fill the trolley with food and carry the guy home. mum was so touched by this that she cried, which was sweet. the only problem was the idiots who thought it was funny to give you one penny and try to take your guy. it wasn't funny at all.

then there was that good old yuletide favourite, carol singing. what could be better than warbling out some festive crap for strangers who will give you money just to get rid of you? well, those that didn't try to palm you off with a tangerine, anyway. the best i ever managed was £57 with my cousin in just under 3 hours. i don't know many jobs that pay that well!

if i'd been smarter, i'd have saved all the money i made as a kid. i'm sure it would easily have been in the thousands. instead, i blew it all on childish things and had a great time with it.

i don't care about being rich. as long as the bills are paid and i can put food on the table, money isn't important. it's how you spend time that counts.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Tue 5 Aug 2008, 0:42, 3 replies)

I think that this is going to get worse before it gets better.
I, just now, inspired by this question have posted the advert "I will do stuff for money" on craigslist- in the "Job Wanted" and "Erotic Services" sections.
I immediatedly got this email
"31 year old handsome guy in a 5 star hotel looking for company for dinner drinks and fun...can u please send a pic and some details?

I am for real and my pic is attached.


Thanks
N"

See, I'm looking for fun as well. I sent him this picture.


with the message "I can do whatever you like. Picture attached."

Gosh I hope he likes me!

Update: Uh, oh- more every few seconds. The latest
"hi,
How can I contact you? I am going to visit UK from Canada this month.

Cheers"
They will all get the same response.
(you FUCKING *BANG* BANG*BANG* AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!, Sun 3 Aug 2008, 20:03, 4 replies)

Dear Ryanair
1. You are a bunch of rich cunts. But, unfortunately, you're proud of that fact.
2. You hate people. You hate your staff. You hate your passengers. Your contempt for people is utterly unparalleled. They hate you. Its fine. However, your flights are astonishingly cheap.
3. I have the solution to your PR. It will make you nicer and people might not hate you as much. Therefore - ultimately richer!
4. Here's a clue. I would rather pay £50 IN ONE GO for a flight, than a flight advertised at £1 with £49 worth of hidden extras, totalling £50 because I feel every time you do this, I feel like i am being raped by a stupid irish cock. You make me feel like shit. Which is why I fly Easyjet now. Who incidentally, are like a Bugatti Veyron to your rusty reliant robin.
5. Make the inside of your planes SLIGHTLY nicer. Just tone down that fucking yellow.
6. Michael Leary whatever your name is. You are a cunt.
7. Profit!
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 1 Aug 2008, 16:08, 14 replies)

First foray into capitalism
When I was a youngun (8 or 9)I decided to become a chocolate tycoon like Willy Wonka, having shrewdley noticed that kids like sweets.

I had a quick look to see if I could employ any oompa loompas, (my little brother was the right height but objected to being painted orange with a crayons)then decided to strike out by myself.

My business planning would have made Branson proud. I set up a stall (cardboard box) in front of my house selling individual sweets for 2 or 3p, kinda like a pick n mix. The maths was simple Tube of smarties= 25p and you get about 20 sweets in a tube. Selling individual smarties for 2p each = 40p giving you a nice 40% profit (or something). I even spent an afternoon making posters to stick around the street.

Incredibly I started raking in 3 or 4 quid a day, my poket money at the time was 30p a day so that was MEGABUCKS! I started to dream of branching out and living a life of fast cars and faster women but my dreams were cut short.

One afternoon a cop came past and asked what I was doing. I told him and hinted that maybe he would like some free rolo´s for his trouble. He just looked at me and then went and knocked on my door and asked for my dad. Then he and my dad (who knew nothing of my scheme)had a quiet conversation about the trading laws. When he left my dad and me had a rather less quiet conversation about how much beating I could take with his shoe.

I´ve never been in sales since.

Edit. I should point out the beating was mainly for the attempted bribery and only slightly for not cutting him in on the profits.
(Bo Nidle Coming back in from the cold., Fri 1 Aug 2008, 13:43, 2 replies)