I don't know about you, but my money troubles are finally over.  After years of scraping by on a writer's salary, I'm about to join the Trump's, Rockefeller's, and Gates' of this world.  In fact, by the time you read this, I'll probably be halfway across the Pacific, sunning on the deck of my luxury cabin cruiser, drinking margaritas and listening to Jimmy Buffet - not on the stereo, but in person, a private concert for an audience of one (if you don't count the bevy of former Playboy bunnies I'll have hired on as deck-hands by then).

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor will be there, too, assuming she doesn't have a problem with my choice of deck-hands.  Considering how low-down, stinking, filthy rich I'm going to be, I think she'll be amenable to the bunnies.

How is all this going to come about, you may ask?  Lemme tell ya.

In just a few days, I'll be entering into a business relationship with Mark Yaya.  OK, I didn't know who Mark Yaya was, either, until he e-mailed me late last week.

Mark Yaya, it seems, is the son of Mr. and Mrs. Adama Yaya, wealthy farmers and cocoa merchants from ... uh ... well, the letter doesn't make it entirely clear where they're from, but they're really, really wealthy, and that's all that matters to a shrewd businessman like me.

Mark Yaya's e-mail starts out with the salutation: "My Dearest One."  I'll admit I'm usually uncomfortable dealing with men who call me "dearest."  I have a few gay friends, and I ran the "dearest" thing past them.  Even they think it's a little fruity.

Still, Mark Yaya is rich and wants to make me rich, too.  He can call me "sugar-pie, honey-bun" if he wants to, as long as the checks keep rolling in.

Of course, Mark Yaya isn't going to just give me the money.  He's no fool, after all!  I'm going to have to earn it by helping him out with a little financial trouble he's gotten into.

Apparently, Mark Yaya's mother died a while back - of natural causes, which I understand is kind of unusual in Mark Yaya's country, whatever that might be - and his father was poisoned to death last month by business associates.

OK. I know what you're thinking.  Do I really want to get mixed up with business people who poison each other?  I mean, I've had a few bosses in my time I would liked to have poisoned, but I never actually did it (despite certain court documents indicating otherwise).

What you have to understand is that in whatever country Mark Yaya is from, poisoning business associates is an accepted practice.  Probably.

Anyway, with the death of Mr. Adama Yaya, Mark Yaya was left with a bank account containing $10.7 million, American.  That's a lotta millions, brother!  Enough to keep me in beer and burritos for the rest of my life.

The problem is, poor Mark Yaya needs my help to transfer those millions from his country (whatever it is) to the United States.  My help!  What are the odds?

I don't know why Mark Yaya needs my help, and frankly, I don't care.  All I care about is that sweet, sweet money!

To get that, all I have to do is send Mark Yaya all my banking information; account numbers, access codes, stuff like that.  Ordinarily, I'd be a little nervous giving out that information to a stranger, but, c'mon, Mark Yaya's worth over $10 million!  Why would he be interested in the paltry sums in my meager accounts?  Besides, can anyone who calls you his "dearest one," really be considered a stranger?

As soon as Mark Yaya has my banking information, he promises to deposit the entire $10.7 million into my checking account.  This is going to come as a big surprise to Tim, who manages the credit union where I bank.  Until now, the largest deposit into my account was last May, when I put in $237.42, all at once.  Imagine Tim's surprise when my balance suddenly rockets to $10,700,237.42.  Maybe I'll get a free toaster.

Once the money's in my account - in my name, no less - Mark Yaya will get in touch with me and we'll decide how to split it up.  All I can say is, Mark Yaya is one trusting guy!  I'm sure we're going to be great friends.

Maybe I'll even invite him to spend some time on my yacht, assuming they like Jimmy Buffet music in ... um ... whatever country he's from.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or investment opportunities that seem - at first glace - to be too good to be true, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.