Originally published at: https://boingboing.net/2019/02/17/find-your-perfect-side-hustle.html
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Can I just have a job that pays me enough for my meager lifestyle so I don’t have to have a side hustle?
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The Ultimate Side Hustle Bundle: Amazon FBA & Freelancing
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The best side hustle ever and for all time generally starts something How I made a Bam Gazillion dollars working out of my grandmothers old converted outhouse working only 3 hours a week. Now I’m Stinking Rich and for whatever reason I want to share this idea with you, some unknown smuck who might be dumb enough to send me $15.95 + Shipping and Handling. Hurry! How many outhouse have you seen lately just sitting around? If it helps I will have Jezuuz or some other biggie sign around the portal of your choice. Send cash, Bitcoin, dental gold, or whatever but don’t hesitate…this shit won’t last forever.
Send to Lasped Primate, 2016 N Main, Bunkum, Ill 0U812
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The best and most effective side hustle is growing weed in your spare room. There. Now where’s my consultancy fee?
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I used to want to freelance. The more and more how I hear it’s the thing everyone wants to do, the more and more I appreciate my job that allows me to not do it. Then again renting real estate I guess is a side hustle that I’ve fallen into since moving.
“Side hustle.” Now, why am I made nervous by both parts of that phrase? (Maybe because I spent three decades as a freelance writer.)
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Do you know why estate agents don’t look out of the window in the mornings?
So they still have something to do in the afternoon…
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You are supposed to tell them how much your time costs (at an hourly or daily rate), then get your money before you tell them what the side hustle is.
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Dammit. Well, use soil with bat poop in it. you can have that one for free.
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Maybe you could set up a side hustle telling people how to make sure their side hustle actually gets them paid…
Actually, fuck that - that’s my day job.
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The best way is to test, test, test. As long as it shows you how.
Everyone knows the big money is in earthworm farms. At least that is what a guy told me at a bar once.
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Double your worms…in minutes.
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My first wife decided to make extra money selling cutco in the early 90’s. Her first party was a huge success. She badgered every friend, family and ex-coworker to show up. She did great on the presentation and made many sales (I don’t think she broke even though).
Of course for the second party she had exhausted the pool of people she knew and no strangers cared to go to some person’s house to get hard sold on some brand of knife they had never heard of (or had already heard about).
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Chicken farming.
Love among the Chickens, P. G. Wodehouse
“Laddie,” said Ukridge impressively, “we are going to keep fowls.”
He shifted himself farther on to the table and upset the ink-pot.
“Never mind,” he said, “it’ll soak in. It’s good for the texture. Or am I thinking of tobacco-ash on the carpet? Well, never mind. Listen to me! When I said that we were going to keep fowls, I didn’t mean in a small, piffling sort of way—two cocks and a couple of hens and a golf-ball for a nest-egg. We are going to do it on a large scale. We are going to run a chicken farm!”
“A chicken farm,” echoed Mrs. Ukridge with an affectionate and admiring glance at her husband.
“Ah,” I said, feeling my responsibilities as chorus. “A chicken farm.”
“I’ve thought it all over, laddie, and it’s as clear as mud. No expenses, large profits, quick returns. Chickens, eggs, and the money streaming in faster than you can bank it. Winter and summer underclothing, my bonny boy, lined with crackling Bradbury’s. It’s the idea of a lifetime. Now listen to me for a moment. You get your hen—”
“One hen?”
“Call it one for the sake of argument. It makes my calculations clearer. Very well, then. Harriet the hen—you get her. Do you follow me so far?”
“Yes. You get a hen.”
“I told you Garnet was a dashed bright fellow,” said Ukridge approvingly to his attentive wife. “Notice the way he keeps right after one’s ideas? Like a bloodhound. Well, where was I?”
“You’d just got a hen.”
“Exactly. The hen. Pricilla the pullet. Well, it lays an egg every day of the week. You sell the eggs, six for half a crown. Keep of hen costs nothing. Profit—at least a couple of bob on every dozen eggs. What do you think of that?”
“I think I’d like to overhaul the figures in case of error.”
“Error!” shouted Ukridge, pounding the table till it groaned. “Error? Not a bit of it. Can’t you follow a simple calculation like that? Oh, I forgot to say that you get—and here is the nub of the thing—you get your first hen on tick. Anybody will be glad to let you have the hen on tick. Well, then, you let this hen—this first, original hen, this on-tick-hen—you let it set and hatch chickens. Now follow me closely. Suppose you have a dozen hens. Very well, then. When each of the dozen has a dozen chickens, you send the old hens back to the chappies you borrowed them from, with thanks for kind loan; and there you are, starting business with a hundred and forty-four free chickens to your name. And after a bit, when the chickens grow up and begin to lay, all you have to do is to sit back in your chair and endorse the big cheques. Isn’t that so, Millie?”
“Yes, dear.”
“We’ve fixed it all up. Do you know Combe Regis, in Dorsetshire? On the borders of Devon. Bathing. Sea-air. Splendid scenery. Just the place for a chicken farm. A friend of Millie’s—girl she knew at school—has lent us a topping old house, with large grounds. All we’ve got to do is to get in the fowls. I’ve ordered the first lot. We shall find them waiting for us when we arrive.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m sure I wish you luck. Mind you let me know how you get on.”
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It’s hard to argue with math like that. 
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