Rich Father
My father is a wealthy man, and one of these days he will die, and I will be wealthy. He was a product of the depression years, and he couldn't rest until he defeated poverty. He can't understand why I haven't respect for money and why I'm not eager to go into business with him. I wouldn't mind being wealthy, but I haven’t the respect for those who are in power to even attempt. I try my best to be exactly opposite that breed of animal in every respect. They spend the majority of their time talking about making money. They have cute little expressions that are innate to their craft. A down payment becomes a “down stroke.” They like to talk loud enough so you may learn that they have a hot iron in the fire. It's a two hundred thousand dollar deal! You may spot these people on the streets--they have white shoes and white belts and occasionally a white tie. They never drink the poor man's beer, and they think every girl is in love with them. They have 2.1 children and their wives play cards at the country club in the afternoon. The wives drive station wagons and have their hair done on Saturday afternoon. These girls are generally pretty and dumber than a box of rocks. These people have everything that I don’t want. They look at me in the bars and shake their heads and feel sorry for my father.