How I Generate $2M a Month in Income Just by Sleeping

John Levin
Tales of Improbable Magic
4 min readMay 3, 2024
Fine Wind, Clear Morning, from the series 36 Views of Mt. Fuji, by Katsushika Hokusai, c. 1830–32, Public Domain

It’s true. Every night when I go to bed, I listen to at least 12 old Joe Cocker songs. Why, you might ask? Well, that’s how many songs it takes to hook my brain into the Outer Space Home Depot. Elon Musk, you see, has already built one in a hidden crater on Mars. It’s hidden under a big brown tarp that says “Tune In, Get Lost, and Fuck a Martian.” It says all of this in cuneiform, and all the satellites mapping Mars from orbit have misinterpreted it as just some weird sand dunes.

Elon himself told me about this when I called him at his office one day to complain that my Tesla Model 3 was telling me to “Go fuck Joe Cocker” every time I tried to turn on the Autopilot.

“Why are you calling me here?” he angrily demanded.

“I forgot your email address.” I’m not perfect, you know. At least that’s what my girlfriend says. She also is always invited backstage to be with Taylor Swift.

“How did you meet Taylor Swift?” I asked her one day after we had had some really great Tantric Sex for 49 1/2 straight hours after Elon gave us both some of his Martian Mungo Wah weed, which the native Martians taught him how to grow in that secret crater under the Babylonian tarp.

That’s why it says “Tune In, Get Lost, and Fuck a Martian.” He really means it, and I guess he’s right. Anyway, that’s how Lucinda met Taylor Swift. They didn’t even know how to write music then! Taylor’s mom had seen an article on MySpace (It was that long ago) that said you could learn how to write great lyrics that stick it to all your ex-boyfriends at the Martian Mega Magic Dope Town Songwriting Academy, and she got Taylor a ticket for a high school graduation gift. Lucinda was in the same songwriting class, and they became buds. I don’t believe everything that Lucinda tells me, but, really, what the fuck do I know? If you yourself think about it, the truth is stranger than our limited imaginations can generally accept. I mean the 49 1/2 straight hours, do you want to tell me I was just imagining that?

So, anyway, back to me and Elon.

“Elon, bud,” I tell him, “thanks for the weed, and I really do apologize for calling you at work, but my Model 3 is talking back to me, and I’m getting sweaty. I think its Autopilot has developed real AGI (Artificial General Intelligence.) I thought you should know. I really don’t mind, but I just had to ask you, what does my car have against Joe Cocker?”

“Model 3s are equipped with Advanced Hazard Detection, but to keep reporters off our tail, we refer to it as “Joe Cocker.” Damn, John, if it’s complaining all on its own “Go fuck Joe Cocker” maybe it is sentient!”

Shit, guys! And that’s why he gave me a ticket to go to Mars and talk to his R&D team who secretly work under the Babylonian tarp on AGI and, of course, smoke prodigious amounts of that weed that the Martians give them for free.

“Why do they just give it to you?” I asked as soon as I got there.

“There’s not much else to do on goddamned Mars. And, besides, the Martians like watching us fuck.”

“49 1/2 hours?”

“Yeah, easy. But Mars only has a third of Earth’s gravity, so we have to use bungee cords so we don’t fly apart.”

And that’s why there’s a Home Depot on Mars.


You’re probably mad at me, maybe even worse than Elon. Here I gave you the clickbait about making $2M a month by being a lazy shit and sleeping, but I wasn’t lying, you know. Lucinda, after we had fucked for the 49 1/2 hours, said “John, get some rest!” Well, I certainly did. I was out like a light, and that’s when Joe Cocker came to me in a dream.

“John, I am your father,” he said.

“Jeez,” I told him, “my name ain’t Luke, and what the fuck are you doing in outer space, anyway?”

“Well, John, people always thought I was on something, but…”

“They didn’t know it was Martian Mungo Wah.”

“You’re perceptive. But anyway, how can I help you?”

“How can I get rich and continue being the lazy fuck I actually am?”

“Well, just move to Mars and grow weed!”

“It’s that simple?”

“Sure, I did. I built a recording studio that I run on my iPhone. I blow weed smoke into it, and then it sings back to me! I don’t even need any AGI.”

“But, Joe, they weren’t even thinking of AGI in 1969, and besides, you died like 10 years ago, so how the hell am I even talking to you?”

“Just listen to the song,” he told me.

So that’s how I met Joe Cocker.

“John,” he told me, “if you listen to 12 of my songs before going to sleep at night, your poor brain will be immediately transported to Mars (where I live now) and you won’t have to take one of Elon’s Starships (which are dangerous, you know) for a 6 month cruise and feel like you’re on some outer space Gilligan’s Island thing.

Well, hell, just the thought of being stuck on a 6 month cruise with Gilligan, the Skipper, and Mary Ann did scare me, so I took him up on the 12 songs idea, and now every night — every night, guys! — I astral travel to go have a laugh with Joe and grow weed!

And yes, I do pull in 2 mill a month.

And you can, too.

Take your own bungee cords, though. They really can’t keep enough in stock.


© “John” Lesly Levin 2024



John Levin
Tales of Improbable Magic

Scientist. Writer. Meditator. Blue Tantrika. Mystical Rabbi. Climate & Human Rights Activist. I’m a man of few words, except when I open my mouth.