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RICH

22 July 2015, 15:19

Being bloody, filthy, obscenely rich is just about everybody’s fantasy. I’ll admit, I have wondered about it. I’ve spent precious time, detailing where all my money would go, should I win the lottery. More time than I should have. More time that I should have used to, say, trim toenails or contemplate the meaning of life and why my tomatoes have things living in them.

I’ve seen many stories of how Billy Bob won 5 million dollars, and after blowing it all on Mudder Trucks, giant houses, newly found relatives and remote control drones that can carry and deliver a six pack anywhere in the neighborhood, he’s destitute and now has to get his job back at UPS because he can’t pay his light bill. Indeed, many of these newly christened millionaires, say the money ruined their lives.

Well. I would be different if I were to get a booty load of money. Stop laughing. I would.

First of all, I’m WAY to OLD and SET in my EL CHEAPO ways to change.

If I had a gazillion bucks, I would STILL buy Beefaroni (though I’d probably buy it by the case). And the Dollar Tree faux-sprite? Yup, I’d still get that, because it taste pretty dang good, it’s only 50 calories a glass and you can get a water tower full of it for a $1.

I think I’d still built a little compound with 15 ft. high fences, planting the testicle tearing thorn bushes around the perimeter and gun turrets at the corners, but I’d get puppies. I’d be bring van loads of poor, unwanted dogs home, boxes of abandoned kittens, and maybe a monkey.

I’d still pay Canada’s Mike Holmes to build me a house, but it would be about 900 square ft., and designed to be totally stain proof. I’d scotch guard everything within an inch of its life (you know, because of the dogs and monkey). Because as I’ve gotten older, FUCK CLEANING. So sick of cleaning, I’m looking at HOARDERS on A&E and considering that as maybe alternate lifestyle. Except for the poop mountain. Some poor wretched crazy lady had a poop mountain going in her non-functional toilet, and I nearly lost my cookies. I MAYBE could understand a bowl full as an eventuality when your water doesn’t work, but when it got to about two foot high, I couldn’t fathom HOW it even got that high since you can’t really sit atop it to add another layer. My only thought is she is building it like some disgusting fecal Jenga game.

I am on the fence about using my pretend fortune to suck the fat out of my fluffy parts. My OCD chides me for that because it would be cheating, because if only I would exercise and eat right, my fluffy parts could organically be contained within the confines of my personal space and not spill over into international waters like extra voluptuous Jabba the Hutt rolls. So me and my pretend accountant who helps me with my pretend millions agreed building a running track so that I may work off the poundage to a point where it can’t be worked off anymore, THEN I would shell out pretend coin for a nice little body altering session.

The giant bunches of my pretend money would go to charities I like – ASPCA, food banks, ACLU, the Anyone-But-Trump presidential campaign…

I figure that all the pretend money that I would ever need to live my life the way I want – paying off bills, traveling, volunteering for causes, eating and watching TV – would add up to about 4 million bucks. Yeah. People in hell want ice water, it don’t necessarily mean they get it.