Sometimes I swear I'm turning in to my father. All the traits I saw in him I thought passed me by, mostly the military style of rising early, handyman skills, and keeping good records. I found these techniques boring and unimaginative, as I just inherently knew that I was different. I was far from all these traits, I always slept late, I couldn't even put a puzzle together if I tried, and my idea of keeping good records was my ever-growing collection of virtually unknown Swedish metal bands.

But over time, things started to change. I'm twenty-eight now, and I've noticed several aspects of life I've never known. For example, I just purchased a nose hair trimmer. I never needed one, but a while back, I noticed a cowlick protrude from a nostril. It stayed for a month, and in my typical procrastination fashion, I ignored it, expecting it to go away. I speculated that my nose would go bald as soon as it started to sprout. No dice.

What reminded me of my father in particular was that I saved the receipt for this purchase. Then I brought it home and placed it on my desk, and entered it into my Quicken software. This software laid dormant in the hearth of my hard drive for two years, and one day, out of the blue, it's egg cracked and I began to utilize it's functions. Armageddon be damned.

I knew something was up. I've never balanced my checkbook. Never really felt like it. I knew not to bounce checks, I knew where my checks were going, (credit cards) I knew where my cash was going, (strippers and booze), so why bother? I had a handle on things, but one day, around the same time my nose hair grew, I became curious about something boring to me once before…interest rates.

One Sunday following Shane Kinney's Comedy Showcase at The Comedy Connection, (shameless plug) I was asked to join fellow comics out for our 'ritual round' of about twelve blackout-inducing beers. I declined the offer, and it had appeared that my compatriots had already partaken in said activities, for their reaction was almost a complete pass out.

“Can't do it.” I said. “Got an appointment at the bank tomorrow. Gonna try to make my money go to work for me.”

Before they had a chance to recover and try to convince me otherwise, I darted to my car that is costing me roughly nineteen cents per gallon to run.

My idea of my money going to work for me up until then was tipping the DJ at a strip club to play “Stairway to heaven” so I could get a lengthier lap dance. At that rate, my time with the unfortunate dancer would skyrocket fifty six percent.

Slowly my brain developed into a human calculator. The calculator had always been there, as practiced by my good self by befriending local bartenders as means to develops drinks on the house, but now I was taking this dollar saved attitude out of the bars and onto the streets, where I could do some serious damage to my portfolio. That's right, look out world, I'm going to take over. How fortunate am I for taking advantage of appealing interest rates when they're at their lowest ever. After one month of these practices, I logged in to my online account to unveil the previous months earnings. I was trembling with desire to learn what I've earned. The results? One dollar and ten cents. Fuck me.

By staying away from watering holes, I earned interest into the intoxicating world of finance. I indulged, only to find out that the other interest I'll earn evens out to be about a buck a month. At least at the bars I could keep the demons at bay for a night, have a good story, and earn myself a good excuse to watch twelve reruns of “The Sopranos” the next day guilt free. I could have chili for breakfast, ice cream for lunch and a slim fast for dinner and treat it as customary. Now I make enough a month in interest to afford me about 4.2 cigarettes. (No, I haven't quit yet)

They it takes money to make money. Well, does anybody know where I can get some money? I'll be at the bar, saving twenty seven percent on gratuitous drinks. Don't mistake me for my father.