I don't need bling. I just want to be rich like a Kenyan. Rolling with my cell phone. Spending disaster relief aid money like its never gonna rain

Not every American is as rich as Angelina Jolie or as handsome as Brad Pitt. Take me for instance. I look more like the New Leave it to Beaver than a movie star.

I am not working much right now. But I still have to support my drinking habit. Good thing Circle K offers RC cola at 99 cents for a 2 liter. I don't mind RC cola. But I don't always think of RC as soda. Sometimes I just shut my eyes and pretend its dark acidic goodness is the foamy leftovers spilled out from Paris Hilton's yeasty vagina .

The clerk at the Circle K I buy my RC from wished me a nice night and "fun drinking." The clerk at the Circle K is fat. But not soft fat. Strong fat. She rises over her cash register like a tidal wave of kinetic energy.

She assumes since I walked here that I am taking both 2 liters of RC and 7lbs of ice home so I can get drunk. Because people without cars are usually drunks. But I can't get drunk, because I can't afford alcohol. That's why I stick to mixers only. Plus my liver is too tired to face Jack Daniels anyway. My liver faxed me a warning yesterday warning me if it had to form "anymore yellow bile or green turds" it would "go on strike."

My own liver. On Strike. My liver is such a bitch that it prefers to communicate with me via fax. You know, like some pissed off insurance agent. Rather than in person like a real man/liver should.

My cashier informs me that my purchase total comes to $3.63. Good thing. My payday from last nights poker haul was just 4 dollars. I dig in my pockets for 3 bills and 65 cents. I even had enough to "donate" my change to breast cancer or maybe some home for retards. I figured I owed the retards as much since I was gonna go ahead and make a joke at their expense.

"Did you know that a third of all Kenyans have cell phones?"

The cashier didn't. "And I bet a significant majority of them earn more than 4 dollars a day." My cashier did not appear to be at all interested in my white man's burden pity party. Instead she just kept clobbering away at the cash register with her fists.

"I need to do this." She says. She wants to reassure me. She'd like me to believe that the operation of the cash register required punching it with all her might. But her efforts at convincing me are in vain. I nearly ran out of the building after witnessing the shear power of her punches. "And don't rob me." She adds still punching away at the machine.

"You look too tuff!" I told her. "To rob."

"It wouldn't be tough to rob me." She insisted.

"Tuff's got nothing to do with. If I robbed you, it's just about biddness." My comment provoked laughter from the line of people behind me, so I repeated the word. "Biddness."

People who stand in line behind me at ghetto convenience stores love to hear white people use slum in their vernacular. Which gives me another good idea. I think I am going to take a digital recorder around and start recording my entire life. And all my sarcastic observations.

I can't tell the difference between the two.