A Penny Saved Is A Dollar Spent

"How much money do I need to retire?"

I’m asked this question all the time. I was a CPA in a former life. I still am, I guess. It’s a curse that can’t be reversed. But I retired my blue suits and red ties at the age of 44. Actually, I didn’t retire; I quit.

The quitting plan was hatched in 1977, so I didn’t quit in a fit of "I’m not going to take it anymore" rage, although you could look at my 23 years in the workplace as one uninterrupted fit of rage. I’m inherently lazy, and I view work as an unwelcome intrusion upon my fucking-around time. In order to pull off The Biq Quit, I had to carefully assess my needs and wants. I wanted freedom, and I didn’t need to define my identity with a job. To achieve the want, I did need to pay myself first and amass the required Fuck You Money to make it happen.

"Okay. So how much money do I need to retire?"

I live a very minimalist life. I wear worn blue jeans, because they are comfortable. I continue to patch my 30-year-old cowboy boots, because they are comfortable. I drive an old, rusty truck, because it runs. Sometimes I sleep in my clothes, because it saves me the trouble of getting dressed in the morning. And it increases the mileage of a t-shirt. I enjoy the quizzical reactions of my acquaintances to my dumpster-divin’ ne’er-do-well appearance, because it’s fun. They think I must have a snootful of money, because I was once a member of The Briefcase Club, and the cognitive dissonance caused by my physical appearance makes their heads explode. That’s fun, too. And chicks dig the mystery.

"C’mon, enough of the life story. How much money do I need to retire?"

Poor working stiffs never ask me this question. They know exactly how much cash flow they need to exist. They know how many dollars they need to cover this month’s rent, groceries, and utilities, and they know there are months when they can’t cover the nut.

No, it’s not the poor working stiff who asks the question. The question comes from the "cosmetically affluent" class. The "cosmetically affluent" class is comprised of the guys who are transfused with ample cash flow, yet they are simultaneously bleeding it profusely. Cash is jettisoned through their ecosystem like shit through a goose with a spastic colon. They have no idea how much they’ll spend this month. They just pay their tithe to AMEX, VISA, MasterCard and the bank’s line of credit.

"Jezuz, already, so how much money do I need to retire?"

In the tradition of all Great Teachers, I will answer the question with more questions. Look into your soul, Cosmetically Affluent Grasshopper, and answer these questions to complete your journey to enlightenment:

How much does your country club need in dues and dining room minimums? How often do you need to lease a new sports car to quell your little-dick syndrome? How much does your 35-year-old kid need to continue his quest to find himself in the nightclubs of Aspen? How much does the Student Loan Association need before you have paid off the kid’s Master’s Degree in Sociology from Princeton? How much does Powdered Sphincter Golf Club need in greens fees? How much does your nanny need to raise the second family you started with the trophy wife who fell madly in love with your lifestyle? How much does aforementioned trophy wife need to fund her monthly shopping excursions to The City? How much does your housekeeper need to scrub the streaks out of your toilets? How much does your gardener need to mow your lawn? How much does your health club need to maintain your nameplate on the locker you haven’t visited in 6 years? How much does your trailer park of a yacht club need to provide a slip for your party barge?

Since you clearly need everything you want, and you want every shiny new toy in the window display, what you need to do is continue chasing ambulances, performing unnecessary surgeries, selling financial planning services (what?) or whatever the hell it is you do to pay your debts to the Temple of Ostentation until you die at your desk. You need to buy lots of life insurance so your wifey and offspring won’t miss a beat when their beloved benefactor and money tree wakes up dead.

Finally, you need to get your fleshy pink ass out of my way because my rusty old pickup truck needs an oil change, and I need to do it myself.

I hope our little chat helps you chart your course on the road to financial freedom.