I won the lottery last week. $363 million dollars after taxes. This is including the deduction of $750 for the broken window and the work laptop I tossed through it upon realizing my good fortune. The look on my boss’s face when I informed him that, effective immediately, he would be down an employee was priceless. Nothing against him, but I work to live, despite telling him the opposite during the interview process. Since I don’t need to work to live anymore: Peace out, fellow employees. Peace. Out.
It’s a foregone conclusion that I will never tuck another annoying shirt into a pair of annoying business casual pants—not ever again. Loose-fitting shirts and pants with elastic waistbands are all the rich people rage these days anyway.
Trading in my 2012 SUV for a vehicle with no back seats and only an optional top, and buying wine that was so expensive it came with a holographic sommelier, I went home and informed my wife and kids that we were going to the steakhouse, despite the fact that we are Pescatarians. Who cares about the health impacts that come from eating too much red meat? We are too wealthy to die. Obviously, we’d need to take my wife’s car, because she still has room for the kids.
“Can we get a pool?” asked my daughter.
“Yeah,” said my son.
“No,” I said. “Let’s get two.” After all, they should each have their own pools. Kids might be better adjusted if they didn’t have to swim in Olympic-sized pools next to other children.
My cat seems indifferent to the whole thing, but I suspect she’ll realize something is going on when she gets top notch catnip, imported from Egypt. Apparently, Egypt makes the best catnip.
It would behoove me to buy a plane—and a pilot who can live in my shed. After all, it’s important that he be at my beck and call.
“Where to, sir?” he’ll say from the tarmac of the airport I own.
“Not Cleveland” I’ll say. We’ll both laugh: I because what I said was funny and he because I am paying him an exorbitant amount of money to do so.
It would also behoove me to say “behoove” more often. After all, rich people always use words that don’t make sense to regular people. Things like “hedge fund,” “cotillion,” and “regatta.”
Time to buy one of those refrigerators that can actually text the grocery list to my phone. Well, not my phone. The phone of the person I hire to do my grocery shopping. No way I’m waiting in a line with regular people anymore.
I’ll buy my own highway, too. I’ll call it “Interstate Mine,” and anyone caught driving on it will be deported to far off places, like Paraguay or Arkansas.
Don’t get me wrong: it’s not my intention to be a pretentious ass. Actually, that’s exactly what my intention is. Since you have no money to sue me for being this way, you’ll just need to deal with it—and not drive on my highway.
It stands to reason that I will be changing my name to a richer-sounding one. “Josh” just doesn’t seem to signal “wealth.” I’m thinking “Kent Fillmore Rockefeller IV” has a much richer sounding ring to it.
I really like peanut butter and crackers, so I won’t be giving that up. Rich people still eat peanut butter and crackers, right?