Selling Shovels to Miners is Always a Winning Strategy

Scratchy black vinyl rasps a forgotten blues dirge as you stare into the roach-mottled motel mirror. Another gig economy hustle, another city bled dry. This time it’s pickaxes, not poems. Steel gleams under the flickering neon, each one a promise, a chimera – fortunes forged in the sweat of strangers or another dead end.

The miners, wired on hope and desperation, shuffle through your makeshift storefront, faces etched with a thousand broken dreams. They don’t see shovels, man. They see El Dorado at their fingertips, a shimmering mirage in the desert of their ambition. You push the polished chrome, the unyielding wood, each one a conduit to their fantasy.

A million info-hucksters crawl from the woodwork, greasy with self-help snake oil. “Content is king,” they screech, their voices hoarse from recycled motivational tapes. “Build your brand! Monetize your hustle!” They peddle courses on “How to Be a YouTube Guru in 12 Easy Steps” and “The 7 Secrets to Viral Tweets That’ll Make You a Millionaire.”

It’s a word virus, man, replicating faster than a Kardashian wardrobe change. The creators become the created, their dreams alchemized into clickbait headlines and SEO-stuffed blog posts. They chase the algorithms, slaves to the machine gods, pumping out content like hamsters on a digital wheel.

But the clink of coins in the metal bucket is a hollow symphony. These picks ain’t magic wands. They’re just tools, cogs in a machine that chews up dreams and spits out dust. You’re a cog too, a middleman in the marketplace of delusion. The real gold, it ain’t in the nuggets they scrape from the earth. It’s in the relentless hunger, the blind faith that keeps them digging even when the only treasure they find is another empty day.

Shovelin’ Dreams in the Gold Rush of Bullshit

Shovel. Steel serpent, chrome fang. Biting into the earth-flesh, unearthing the greasy gold-veins. Miners, gaunt cowboys of industry, hollow-eyed with the promise of nuggets. But who holds the pickaxe?

Not you, product. Not you. You clutch the shovel, the cold metal a familiar extension. A middleman in the gold rush, a ghost in the machine. They scramble for the dream metal, the miners, a million scratching, desperate fingers. But you,

You see the bigger picture, insectoid eyes peering from behind mirrored shades. The gold rush, a feeding frenzy, a million wallets fattening. Not with gold, no. With the coin of desperation, the clink of shovels against rock.

The gold gleams, a mirage in the heat-warped vision. But the real score ain’t in the diggin’, man. It’s in the sellin’ of the shovels. The shovel sellers. They scoff at the gold rush, seein’ the desperation in the miners’ eyes. They ain’t peddlin’ dreams, they’re peddlin’ tools. Tools that might, just might, pan a few flakes out of the content stream.

These cats, they understand the game. They sling analytics dashboards and engagement hacks, whispering secrets of virality in smoke-filled backrooms. They ain’t purveyors of passion, they’re architects of manipulation.

The creators, strung out on the dopamine drip of likes and shares, become their unwitting pawns. The system feeds on itself, a ouroboros of content creation, fuelled by the desperate scramble for attention.

And the shovel sellers? They watch it all unfold, cool and detached, counting their stacks of cold, hard cash. The gold rush might be a fool’s game, but sellin’ the picks and shovels? Now that’s a strategy with some legs.

You take a drag from your crumpled cigarette, the smoke curling into the greasy air. Maybe this ain’t selling shovels, maybe it’s selling hope. Bottled, diluted, with a money-back guarantee (satisfaction not included). A cruel joke, a neon sign in the wasteland, forever beckoning towards a horizon that never arrives.

The blues moan on, a soundtrack to this desolate ballet. 90% of the miners strike out, their dreams dissolving into dust motes dancing in the dying light. The other 10%? They might find a nugget, a fleeting glimmer of success. But even they’ll cough up blood and broken dreams in the end. This ain’t a winning strategy, man. It’s just the way the game is rigged.

But wait. A tremor. The gold dries up. The miners, hollow-eyed now with despair, their picks clattering uselessly. The market convulses, the beast coughs and sputters.

But the shovel? The shovel remains. A universal tool, a carrion crow circling the gold rush’s carcass. It digs not just for gold, but for roads, foundations, the bones of civilization itself.

The miners scatter, dreams broken. But you, you adapt, the serpent sheds its skin. The market hungers anew, a different glint in its eye. Crypto? Cannabis? The names flicker, a kaleidoscope of desires.

Shovel in hand, you stand amidst the wreckage, a grim reaper of industry. The gold rush may end, but the digging never does.

Cut-up. Rewind. Replay. The miners, the market, the dance of hunger. A million shoveled dreams, a symphony of clanging steel. You are the conductor, maestro of the endless dig.

Shovel. Not a pickaxe, not a golden nugget. But the cold, hard key to the kingdom of getting paid.


Deadbeats of the Soul: A Cut-Up Manifesto

They crawl out of the fetid alleys of existence, these word-slingers, these paint-drenched maniacs. Society calls them deadbeats, wasters, men and women with holes in their shoes and existential dread clinging to their trench coats like yesterday’s smog. But burrow deeper, past the pawn shop trinkets and ramen noodle stains, and you’ll find the raw, churning engine of creation.

The Curse of the Unmarketable:

They crawl out of the psychic gutter, these real ones, the unwashed darlings of the Moloched Muse. Forget your “creators,” your self-congratulatory Michelangelos. These are the word-bleeders, the canvas-convulsers, hacking out their visions in flickering neon dens.

Society, that bloated gasbag, wants to label them “deadbeats,” these tattered vessels of chaotic beauty. But the label sticks like a leech to a corpse, meaningless in the face of the hungry ghost that drives them. They are possessed, you see, by the Bleed.

The Bleed, a psychic hemorrhage from the raw underbelly of existence. It spills through them, a torrent of fractured visions and forbidden colors. They can’t not create, not spew this chaotic ichor onto any scrap of canvas, page, or flickering screen they can find.

Money? Ha! A laughable abstraction. They barter with scraps of meaning, fleeting moments of connection in the cold, digitized wasteland. Anerkennung, recognition? A fleeting chimera. Validation is a bullet they dodged long ago.

They are the fallout of a fractured world, the broken mirrors reflecting the grotesque reality corporations try to peddle. Their art? A scream into the void, a desperate attempt to find some semblance of order in the maelstrom.

So call them deadbeats, if you must. But know this: when the chrome flakes from the empire and the false gods come crashing down, their art will remain. Scrawled messages on the peeling walls of a burned-out world, a testament to the unbowed human spirit clawing for meaning in the face of oblivion.

Creator drips with Bourgeois Productivity

“Creator?” scoffs the jazz-soaked poet, smoke curling from a Lucky Strike dangling from his lips. “Creator? That’s for marketing whores who churn out pop pablum for the boob tube. We are alchemists, goddamn it! We traffic in stolen moments, slivers of eternity wrestled from the void. We translate the screams of the subconscious into a language that tears at the edges of sanity.”

They are not creators, these deadbeats of the soul. They are vessels, leaky faucets spewing forth the chaotic overflow of the universe. They are antennae trembling in the cosmic static, desperately trying to capture a shred of the ineffable.

For the true artist is not a creator, a sterile architect of pre-packaged realities. They are a conduit, a raw nerve ending exposed to the screaming void. They are the starvers, the bleeders, the uncalled – and their art, a testament to the beautiful, terrible truth.

The Bleed sputters a fax machine, spewing out a sheet of paper in a jittery stream

They dangle the carrot of “creator,” a title dripping with bourgeois productivity. But the true artist, the one who has glimpsed the writhing chaos behind the facade, knows better. Creation? A laughable illusion. We are not marionette masters, yanking order from the void. We are cockroaches scuttling across the linoleum of existence, picking at the fetid crumbs of the ineffable.

The Word flickers on a neon sign, distorting and bending

“Deadbeat” – now that has a certain ring to it. It captures the essence of existence, teetering on the tightrope strung between genius and madness. We are the unwashed, the unkempt, the ones who have seen too far behind the veil. We are the chronic voyeurs of the psychic gutter, transmuting the rancid effluvia of the subconscious into grotesque beauty.

The Flesh a grainy photograph develops in a chemical bath, revealing a distorted human form

Society, that bloated tick gorging on conformity, seeks to categorize, to label. “Creator” – a sterile term, fit for the assembly line drones who churn out milquetoast depictions of a reality they’ve never even smelled. We, the deadbeats, we traffic in the contraband nightmares, the psychic hemorrhages they dare not acknowledge. We are the bad touch in the sterilized supermarket of normality.

The Void a black hole sigil pulsates on a cracked mirror

So let them call us deadbeats. Let them scoff at our tattered clothes and bloodshot eyes. We wear our dishevelment like a badge of honor, a testament to our nightly wrestles with the howling demons from beyond the veil. For in the crucible of our deadbeat existence, we forge the raw, pulsating heart of true art, a grotesque hymn that echoes in the hollowness of their manufactured reality.

fax machine whirs to a stop, the paper sheet curling slightly at the edges