Term Papers & Smut: Writing for the Lazy & Socially Moronic

The Blueprint for Writing Success

Term Papers & Smut-Writing for the Lazy & the Socially Moronic

Working in a bar as a kid in the eighties afforded the opportunity to work the Saturday morning shift which required cleaning the bar. Cleaning the bar paid three-fifty per hour, slightly above the minimum wage of three-ten per hour, along with all the money dropped by drunks during the night. The job sucked but didn’t matter being a laborious, necessary effort to obtain success and happiness karmically promised in diligence, hard work, and time.

Sweeping the bar as the owner Bill entered the establishment invited an often annoying drunk talk. Bill’s booze-inspired conversations garbled in nonsense but sometimes proved worthwhile when he divulged information or exploits he shouldn’t. Unencumbered by professional ethics, sobriety, and age of majority restrictions, Bill drew wisdom from a relentless daily routine of fucking waitresses while blowing coke in his office. He stood in the doorway watching the broom’s motion across the floor that swayed his body in exhaustion and inebriation. He pointed near my position. “Son, you’re going to do well in this world. Just remember if you do the work other people don’t want to do, you’ll make a fortune.”

Bill walked to the office to get some needed sleep, and as I returned to the task of sweeping, a glance at the dirty floor showed a twenty-dollar bill resting in the trash. Unknown at the time, picking the bill from the dirt outlined the blueprint for future success. That Bill might be right. I smiled and pocketed the twenty with a laugh.

Entering college at eighteen and leaving the retail food career for a job at a bank that paid six-twenty-five per hour brought a feeling of luck and a sense of life moving in the right direction despite being broke. More importantly, the bank brought the networking and experience of many interesting people one of which would expand my blueprint for success.

Betty was in her seventies and a weekly customer of the bank, and on each visit, she deposited checks while conversing with the tellers. One week while handling her transactions, the name of a publishing house printed on her checks caught my eye which led to the question of her being a writer.

She smiled. “Why yes, I am.”

Lost in the shuffle of career choices, authorship held appeal but felt impossible and this spurred interest in her journey to authorship. Imploring Betty’s wisdom yielded a smile and prophetic words. “Son, you should know there’s no money in writing fiction unless you’re really lucky. If you write a chemistry textbook this might be a good avenue for success because schools need textbooks, but you’re going to need to be a chemist. Now, I write smut which is the literature family’s bastard no one wants to acknowledge. If you can write smut, you can make a ton of money because there’s a huge demand for dirty books. You see, very few people read quality fiction since most people can barely read. Even newspapers must write articles at a fourth-grade level. My advice is to write what people need and want, and you’ll do fine.”

Betty left as I stared at her deposited check printed with an amount three times my weekly pay. Reminded of Bill and that Saturday morning in the years prior, the question festered. Could it be true that all you had to do to make money was write crap that people wanted or needed?

Fate provided the answer in the weeks to come when sitting in the E-lounge at community college, Mary Jane entered and slumped frustrated in the chair across the table. The beautiful Italian girl’s troubles provided the opportunity to earn some nice-guy credits desperately needed for a date. “What’s wrong?”

Flustered, she whipped her long, lovely hair in a quick shake of the head. “I messed up so bad I have a two-page essay due in like an hour and forgot about it.”

I smirked. “Oh, that’s no big deal; give me the directions.”

Handing me the directions she moved to the same side of the table distracting me with her hotness, but determined wielding of pen and paper forged an essay in about twenty minutes.

“See if that works.” I handed it to her.

“Thanks, it would have taken me forever to write that.”

“Really?” The essay seemed simple to me.

She frowned as if speaking to an idiot. “I hate writing papers.”

She departed for class as essay writing machinations bore identification of a market, and leaving school, I purchased a top-of-the-line Smith Corona word processor. With the help of Mary Jane, people began requesting service and paying for essays. Quickly, a portal opened to a wondrous place of hot Italian sex, paper writing, and partying. The ease of market entry confounded in an ever-growing business that quickly rivaled the pay of the banking job. The simpleness of obtaining customers from word of mouth paled in the marketability Mary Jane suggested while smoking weed after having sex. “Dude, you should just go to the people who need the papers the most, the jocks. They’re all idiots.”

The Ancient Smith Corona Word Processor

The Ancient Smith Corona Word Processor

She was correct. Returning to school the next day to visit the lounge occupied by football players, I found a jock who shared my astronomy class. “Hey Martin, do you know anyone who might need help with writing papers? I am trying to earn some extra money.”

“Yo! You just don’t know. We got to maintain our grades, or we can’t play. If you can help us out, I know about five guys who would pay you.”

Paper after paper written for dumb jocks occurred as they found me almost daily in the E-lounge. Most times they presented directions and money, but sometimes jocks didn’t understand their mental inferiority and attempted to write the papers. This resulted in commendable but futile efforts returned from professors requiring revisions. Revision work provided much entertainment as Mary Jo stood on my sofa in her underwear and recited the jock papers while smoking a joint.

“One night I went to bed and dreamed I was a woman.” She tilted her head and closed her eyes. “When I woke up, I found I no longer had a penis and balls. I had a furry bush where my balls and penis used to be.” Her eyes and mouth widened in surprise. “Yes, I had a vagina, and I decided to explore my new vagina.”

She smoked the joint and read in a peal of laughter that clarified the necessity for paper writing, and soon, the fun and money earned outstripped the banking job’s torment. Clearly, the job hindered the new career path and needed to go, and I would like to say I stormed into the bank and defiantly told them, “I quit!” Instead, several months passed before a night of drunkenness caused termination, but life progressed swimmingly anyway.

Like all things, hot Italian love and term papers ended in time with the beautiful Italian lover disappearing into the ether of young adulthood as work absorbed me. For paper writing was a thing of college, not a real job, and certainly not meant to be a career. In the aftermath of education, attempts to write books and publish met with defeat, and time wore on in a day-job doldrum that paid the bills and then some.

Eighteen years passed, and now struggling in the career that once paid well frustrated with less money and ever-increasing hours. The real job betrayed and from that betrayal rose Mary Jane standing in her underwear laughing and reading jock papers. Could it be the answer?

The world changed since the eighties with the new millennium bringing an internet gold-rush promising riches for those willing to stake a claim. An ad to Craigslist and a post to Myspace soon filled the inbox with papers to write for college students, and once again, more money came from essays than a shitty full-time job.

I would love to tell you I walked into work and told them, “I quit.” Not doing this, I instead pushed all the buttons to piss them off which resulted in a firing and the victory of proudly collecting unemployment alongside fellow pieces of shit. In a stroke of luck, the Great Recession began and unemployment extended providing a bonus to paper writing. Life was good again.

Once established as an author of term papers, a search embarked for new ways to enterprise on laziness and ignorance. Betty’s voice echoed from the past, “If you want to make money writing, then give them what they want — smut.”

Searching the internet for ways to earn money writing about sex quickly unveiled the porn market that needed writing to gain traffic from search engines, and so began the writing of smut in substantive content article after article,

How to pick up any hot woman.
Gain three inches in three weeks.
Blonde threesomes made easy.
Your Girlfriend is Cheating, but you secretly like it.
Don’t be fooled! Bigger is better.

The blueprint for success finally actualized. Read more than Shakespeare, Sophocles, and all the great masters combined, smut readership stood a juggernaut doppelganger to fine literature that held no interest for the masses wanting to read about oversized objects jammed in asses. Once again, the world of hack writing opened and welcomed me to that dreamy place where there’s no boss, no work schedule, and money comes as easy as the desperate, socially moronic men jerking off to porn stories. Soon, a bodacious eighteen-year-old blond entered life as if to reward me for drinking, fucking, and reveling in laziness. People pointed fingers, sneered, whispered of ethics, warned of karma, and other bullshit. Well, if karma is having sex with beautiful women, working less, and making more money, I will take what I have coming.

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