How To Bumble Your Way To A Billion Dollars

My wife likes to buy lottery tickets. Not like as in an obsessive-compulsive habit, instead as a "I'm already in line here to get milk so gimme two of the 'Wazoo Wrangler Billion Dollar Scratch Offs,'" she'll tell the clerk.

Of course, the clerk turns to this literal WALL of tickets, scratch-offs, shiny foil colors, and all different dollar amounts and has no idea what the hell "Wazoo Wrangler" is but damn, my wife sure does. She directs his beady eyes and tiny hands two rows up, no, nope, one more up…now to the right… THAT'S IT, and he tears off ten bucks worth. Slides them across the grimy counter.

She wants soooo bad to grab a quarter from the bottom of her purse and scratch that SOB right there because THIS IS THE ONE, and since I'm already in line, the clerk can just pay me my fortune right this minute…but then she notices about four folks behind her, milk in their hand, promise in their eyes, so she drops them little pieces of hope into her purse.

She even has a special pocket for them.

You know, in case there's a stick-up, the burglar can take her wallet but damn it, they ain't gonna find that scratch off.

She starts to walk out, and the beady-eyed, small-handed clerk yells, "MAM!" You forgot your milk."

Yeah.

She left it on the counter.

I mean, if I was about to become scratch-off milli-or billi, I'da forgot the milk too.

Then she'll come home, and I'll razz her and poke her for spending that $12 (yeah, I know I said $10 before but taxes. Damn taxes. They always stick it to you) when she coulda grabbed a 12-pack of Stone IPA; and we'll have a fun little square off in the living room.

I argue that a 12-pack gives a homie way more bang for them bucks…

She says screw that, Wazoo Wrangler is the pinnacle of hope, and $10 ($12 with tax) is well-spent dough…

She'll scratch them and feign excitement as she gets a "5"…" another 5"…ANOTHER 5"…ahhhhhh hellllll….the last one is a 3.

We eyeball each other. It's all love, though.

Then trash.

She sees tiny scraps of chance that let her down, being dropped into the garbage…

I see her dumping a 12-pack…

Perception.

Go figure.

Anywho, it's almost dinnertime in our house now.

We didn't scratch-off or bumble our way to making the news as the latest milli or billi.

But Whitney Wolfe Herd did.

In case you hadn't heard, she's now the newest billionaire CEO, and she did it all at the Tinder age of 31. Yeah, I said Tinder. Kind of a play on words, and yes, I heard my English teacher telling me, "Ricky, it's T-E-N-D-E-R, not T-i-N-D-E-R "….and in my head, I reply "Look here, Mrs. Garfunkle, I'm not in 7th grade, and in the grown-up writing world we call this poetic license so go pick on Eddie. He has crib notes written on his palm."

Whitney, though… she's a billionaire at the tender or tinder young age of THIRTY-ONE. Suck on that faux pax Mrs. G-Funkle.

But I digress...

I'm talking about Bumble. It's the latest IPO that just made this young entrepreneur, mom, woman, power player…a billionaire.

And it's 100% based on hope, chance, and good old-fashioned luck.

(Sound familiar? My wife is tapping her fingers together now)

So let me break it down for you wicked fast and easy.

Bumble is a dating app. Yes, like Tinder or Match.com or Silver Singles or Dudes Who Like Burritos. You get the hint. And no, I'm not gonna go into what makes Bumble different (the chick makes the first move basically) or stuff about tech startups.

I'm not a tech junkie.

I'm a hope dealer.

So nah, this isn't about the nuances of tech startups or dating apps.

This is about lotsa money…

And chance…

And how my wife and Whitney are really two peas in a pod.

So lemme go a level deeper.

Dating apps.

There's no guarantee that they'll work for you. Meaning you sign up and give them maybe $10 a month, HOPING you'll hit paydirt. That paydirt, of course, being love.

Whether your thing is 63-year-old men, Christian burrito lovers, or Chicks Who Like Puppies, there's an app for you.

Kinda like that wall of colorful scratch-off tickets behind that beady-eyed, small-handed clerk.

There's something for everyone.

Are you picking up what I'm putting down?

So whether you choose to give your $10 a month ($12 with taxes) to the beady-eyed, small hands homie at the corner store…

Or Whitney…

THE ODDS ARE THE SAME.

Pause a sec and consider that.

The most profound truth of the truth is that it involves a ton of chance, hope, and luck either way.

It's all a matter of where you want that $10 ($12 with taxes) to go every month.

Me?

I'm happier than a pig in shyte that my wife gives that $10 ($12 with taxes) to that clerk.

At least I get a happy wife and milk with that deal.

And besides, we couldn't fit a Burrito Loving Christian in our bed. (Ok, that sounded weird, but you get the hint).

Chance.

Hope.

Luck.

I still would rather get that 12-pack of Stone IPA.