Zimbler0, you’re adorable. You talk about your dividend checks like they’re fan mail from the universe, the kind that says, “To my hero, the man who saved his employer by turning its computers off and on three times a day.”
You say, “I worked hard to get them!” Sure you did, champ. You spent thirty years wrestling with newspaper computers that froze more often than an Alaskan outhouse. Now you sit on the porch like a man waiting for his Nobel Prize in Heroic Ctrl‑Alt‑Deleting. At this point, even the dividend checks probably show up saluting you, thanking you for your lifetime service in rebooting.
I wonder, when the next check hits, will you at least pump a fist, or will you just nod slowly like a wise old monk who’s found his financial enlightenment?
As for the direct deposit thing? That’s perfect for you. Even your dividends know better than to make you stand up. They’re like, “No, no, don’t get up, Zimbler0, we’ll come to you. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your busy schedule of sitting there breathing.”
You’ve got the whole routine down, too. Porch chair angled just right. Coffee mug that hasn’t held coffee since 2008. That thousand-yard stare like you’re watching the horizon for the next quarterly payout to crest over the treeline. If Lewis and Clark had your dedication, they’d have discovered the front yard and called it a day.
And girlfriend? God bless her. She’s probably inside shaking her head, wondering how she ended up married to a man who treats a dividend like it’s the winning lottery ticket and a walk to the mailbox like it’s the Bataan Death March.
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