Prophets, Profits, and Predatory Pyramids

TL;DR: MLMs are a predatory plague that feast on women's insecurities and social lives. Utah is the giant, culty heart of this scam, where missionary tactics are repurposed to sell overpriced essential oils and ugly leggings.

The Pink Tax of Shilling

These MLMs love to wrap themselves in a "feminist" flag, but they are just soul-sucking parasites. They go straight for the jugular of stay-at-home moms with some seriously manipulative bullshit:

* The Work from Home Lie: They promise you can "be a CEO" while wiping a toddler’s ass. It is a trap that plays on the guilt of motherhood while draining the family bank account. 

* Weaponized Friendship: This is the part that really pisses me off. They teach women to treat every friend like a goddamn mark. It turns "coffee with a girlfriend" into a predatory sales pitch, and when the business inevitably tanks, the friendships are already dead.

* Lifestyle Gaslighting: These assholes tell you to "fake it till you make it." So you have women posting about their "blessed" lives on Instagram while they are actually drowning in credit card debt and a garage full of inventory they can't move.

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The "Mormon Connection"

It’s no accident that Utah is the world headquarters for this garbage. The link between the LDS Church and these pyramid schemes is a match made in hell:

1. The Utah Hub

You have companies like doTERRA, Young Living, and LuLaRoe all huddled together in Utah. It is a goddamn breeding ground for every "get rich quick" scheme known to man.

2. From Missions to Markets

Imagine taking 19-year-olds and training them to handle constant rejection and door-to-door proselytizing for two years. Once they get home, they are the perfect little soldiers for recruitment. They already know how to "close" a deal on someone who isn't interested.

3. The Prosperity Gospel Bullshit

There is this gross cultural idea that if you’re rich, God loves you more. This makes it way too easy for some predatory asshole to frame a scam as a "divine blessing" for your hard work and faith.

4. The Built-in Downline

MLMs thrive on trust, and LDS communities are tight. When a "sister" from the ward tells you this magic juice cured her kid’s cold, you’re supposed to believe her. It’s a goldmine for recruiters who don't mind burning through their congregation for a few extra bucks.

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The Expensive Lesson

I've been through the ringer with these vultures, cycling through everything from the old-school heavy hitters like Amway, Shaklee, Mary Kay, and Avon to the newer waves like Jamberry, and Paparazzi. Over the years, I watched thousands of my hard-earned dollars vanish into the pockets of the assholes at the top of the pyramid. I was sold a dream, but I ended up paying a massive "membership fee" to a club that only ever wanted my money and my contacts. It feels like I spent a lifetime furthering their reach, and quite frankly, the world deserves an apology for the tiny bit of oxygen I gave these dumpster fires while I was just trying to keep my head above water.

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The Bottom Line

The numbers don't lie, even if the "Boss Babes" do. Roughly 99% of people who join an MLM lose money. The only people getting rich are the assholes at the top of the pyramid in Utah, while everyone else is left holding the bag. Don't be stupid. Save your money in an interest bearing savings account. If you are at a traditional brick-and-mortar giant (like Chase or BofA), you are likely seeing a pathetic 0.01%. At that rate, you'd earn about $1 a year on a $10,000 balance. Trust me, you'll earn more money this way than with the latest MLM.

This is who I am

I’m a proud, raging liberal democrat and a fierce LGBT+ ally who raised three amazing fucking kids while navigating a world that usually needs to get its shit together.

I’m elfi, and along with being a 61-year-old artist with a house full of animals, I’m a proud, raging liberal democrat. I’ve lived through enough history to know that standing up for people matters, so being a dedicated LGBT+ ally isn't a choice; it’s just who I am.

I spend my time designing Zentangle patterns like Infinite Eights and putting together The Eclectic Freak Manifesto because I’m a fucking artist, not some hobbyist.

I’m also the mother of three amazing fucking kids (Lis, Ian, and Ava). They’re the best things I’ve ever done, even if the rest of the world is a goddamn mess. I spent my time moving from Boston to San Francisco to Texas, and honestly, only finishing the 8th grade gave me more common sense than most people with a PhD.

The elfi Essentials:

The Music: I worship at the "Holy Trinity" (James Taylor, Joni Mitchell, and Carole King). But don't get it twisted; I’ve got enough punk in me to run a Ramones fanzine.

The Diet: Get those goddamn fries away from me. I want the burger, an Arby’s gyro, and a white birch beer. That’s it.

The Vibe: I watch Bob Ross to stay "relaxed," which is a miracle considering I’m currently stuck using a laptop while waiting for a friend to send me a new computer.

I’m one step at a time, simple solutions only, and for the love of god, stop assuming you know what I’m thinking. 

Penny for your thoughts

When I was ten, I made my artist grandmother a cross for her wall by cutting a couple of chopsticks into shorter pieces with a steak knife, using a leather bootlace to bind them together, and then I used Elmer's glue to attach pennies up and down the stake and the crosspiece.

I remember having to prop the pennies so they would stay still and let the glue dry properly.

Gramma Mary hung that cross on her wall in Chicago, and then took it to California when she moved there when I was about 20. It was still hanging on her wall when she passed away, about twenty years after I made it for her.

It was kind of gimpy, but she loved it, and loved that I had spent time and effort making it for her.

I miss you, Gramma.

Auntie Elfi's Fables: The Schoolyard Bully

As the days stretched on, the bright colors of the playground seemed to fade under the shadow of the big kids’ rules. They didn’t just play on the slide; they decided how fast you were allowed to go down, and you had to pay them a polished pebble for the privilege. They set up "sandbox shifts," where anyone from the far side of the woods could only dig for a minute at a time. The seesaw was declared "out of order" indefinitely, though everyone saw the big kids using it as a private bench to plot their next move.

Yet, a strange thing happened. The "lousy babies," as the big kids called them, didn't break. In fact, the harder the bullies pushed, the tighter the others held together. They didn't shout back; they fought with a quiet, polite resistance that drove the big kids toward madness.

When they were told they couldn't use the swings, they simply stood in a long, calm line, waiting with patient smiles that suggested they had all the time in the world. When the sandbox whistle blew, they handed over their shovels with a kindness that felt like a challenge. They weren't looking for a fight; they just wanted to be treated decently. That simple, immovable demand made them impossible to defeat. 

Eventually, the big kids began to wear themselves out with their own anger. They gritted their teeth every day, forced to allow those "lousy babies" to move about the playground without fear. It burned them to see the smaller kids sharing the equipment fairly, ignoring the big kids’ self-appointed authority as if it were nothing more than a passing breeze. And fairly meant that they gave the big kids fair turns at games and swings, because the other kids were Decent human beings who did not commit the sin of "Treating people like things."

The bullies watched from the sidelines, fuming because there was absolutely nothing they could do about it. The more they tried to grab the ball and go home, the more they realized the other kids had learned to play their own games without needing that ball at all. The playground didn't belong to the loudest anymore; it belonged to everyone.

Okay, you've read it. Now swap the words Republican and school yard bully/ies. And Other/Little kids and Liberals/Democrats. Now reread it.

Kinda makes ya think, huh?

RFK Jr's "Weird" relatives

 

“I was standing in front of my parked car on I-684 cutting the penis out of a road killed raccoon, thinking about how weird some of my family members have turned out to be.” RFK Jr

Makes you wonder what kind of stuff he considers weird.

I'm thinking it's stuff like: wearing clothes, sleeping in a bed, and eating regular meals, and not cutting cocks off road kill or beheading whales.

My Private Sanctuary of Ink and Paper

When the four walls of my home start to feel less like a shelter and more like a boundary, my creative rituals become my doorway. Being housebound can easily make a person feel adrift, but for me, passing the time isn't about killing hours; it is about reclaiming my soul and keeping my sanity intact.

The Great Migration: A Cycle of Hope, Hardware, and Hoarding

There is no high quite like the "Order Confirmed" screen. In that moment, you aren't just buying a refurbished HP ProDesk with a solid-state heart; you are buying a version of yourself that is organized and efficient. You tell yourself that this machine will be the one. This is the setup where the art flows, the zines practically layout themselves, and the 32GB of RAM acts as a velvet rope to keep the "system lag" riff-raff out of your creative club.

The Legend of Old Yam Tits

 

Old Yam Tits was a man of great greed,
With a pocket for every dishonest deed.
He’d sell you the sun or a bridge in the bay,
Then vanish like smoke at the end of the day.

He wore a bad suit made of cheap woolen thread,
With dreams of a swindle inside of his head.
He’d promise you gold from a mine in the sky,
While looking at you with a plot in his eye.

"Just twenty gold pieces!" he’d bark with a grin,
While hiding a deck with the aces tucked in.
He grifted the baker, he swindled the cook,
He stole every page from the 'Honesty' book.

But Yam was a bumbler, a criminal joke,
His schemes always ended in mirrors and smoke.
He tried to sell water to fish in the sea,
And ended up trapped in his own lunacy.

If you see Yam Tits with his file full of lies,
Just look at the grifter with piggley eyes.
For though he is shifty and looking for loot,
He’s only hot air in a cheap, ugly suit.

And if you see him and are willing and able,

make sure that, toward him, you flip a table,

get grime and dirt on that tacky suit,

and then swing your leg and give him the boot.

(Final stanza by Dan Kupka. Don't forget to tip your waiter.)

Death Watch

Being on death watch sucks.

Sam called Ginger's husband and gave the husband his number for updates.

As of right now, there is no change. She is still comatose, and is likely to stay that way until she leaves us.

Jesus fuck, I miss her already.

G and I met 26 years ago, because we were both part of a rosary maker's guild. We were paired up on a swap to send our partner a kit we had put together to make a rosary (beads, eye pins, cross, centerpiece) and we both went kind of overboard. She sent me four kits, I sent her three. She included her phone number in her package, and I called her to thank her and tell her how much I loved what she'd sent. 

We ended up talking for 2.5 hours that evening, and a friendship was born. We were soul sisters from the get-go. 

Four months later she announced she was coming to visit me. That was the first of four face to face visits we were able to accomplish, every one of them rich and warm and funny. She even came for my son's wedding, and insisted on paying for half of the food for the buffet as her gift.

When my second husband tried to walk away without giving me any closure, she called him and ripped him a new asshole, as did my other bestie, Debb, which prompted him to come to the psych ward I was in after my suicide attempt and work out details of spousal support and what have you. That settled things for me, and I was able then to heal enough to go home. Without Debb and G stepping in, I might still be sitting in the hospital, fingerpainting.

When I moved to Texas and we had NOTHING, G made Christmas happen for our entire family. She sent an artificial tree, ornaments, gifts, and a Walmart gift card so we could buy dinner fixings. For the next 24 years, G sent a huge Christmas box for us, until I finally told her to stop, the kids didn't come home any more for the holidays.

If I needed an ear, G was there. If I wanted to laugh, G had a joke. 

I feel like I am losing one of my anchors, and I am flailing.

G's other best friend, Karen, is going to be a total wreck. From what G has told me over the years, Karen is a wet mess and depends on G to keep her stable and afloat. I don't know what she will do now. I hope she will be okay.

I will be okay, but there will be a big huge hole in my life and heart. This loss is deep and painful, and I'm not coping very well right at the moment, but I am strong, or so they tell me, so I will get through this. I will never get OVER it, but I will get through it.

Sigh. Tonight, I will grab the job's tear rosary that G made for me and pray one for her peaceful passing.

Godforsaken Bastards and Why They Suck Ass

The Opening: A Season in the Shade

We have entered the era of the Godforsaken Bastard. It is a time defined not by leadership, but by the violent curation of chaos. A period where the traditional guardrails of decency haven't just been ignored, they’ve been sold for scrap. This is the portrait of a collective that thrives on the friction of a world in collapse, a rogue’s gallery of the high-born and the low-lived who have mistaken their cruelty for courage and their greed for a mandate. They move through our culture like a virus in a designer suit, insulated by billions and emboldened by a mob that has been taught to love the sound of breaking glass. This zine is the shadow to the saints; it is a jagged, unwashed look at the architects of our current misery, the enforcers of our fear, and the loud-mouthed parasites who provide the soundtrack to the demolition of the common good. Welcome to the wreckage.