Money is wasted on the wealthy: Part II

Maybe it's because we're getting ready to embark on a kitchen remodeling project, but I seem to be only writing about money this week. How gauche. Nonetheless, I came across this piece in Shouts & Murmurs (The New Yorker), and it really cracked me up.



My Mega Millions
by Larry Doyle

What am I going to do with my Mega Millions? Good question. Here’s a hundred dollars.


The truth is, I haven’t really thought about it. I mean, I suppose I’ll have to hire a lawyer to start preëmptively suing people who claim that I owe them money or fathered them or blinded them in a bar fight. And I’ll need bodyguards with double-0 clearance, for insurance purposes. And another lawyer to sue the first lawyer. But, beyond that, my life is going to stay pretty much the way it is, only with the Mega Millions.

Cheryl has been a good wife, financially supporting me all these years while I pursued my dream of winning the Mega Millions, and I’d like to keep her. She’s not really a Mega Millionaire’s wife, though, as she would be the first to admit. However, in light of all her years of loyal service, I’m going to give her first crack at the position.

Out of my own pocket, I’m advancing Cheryl up to three hundred thousand dollars for a series of upgrades. She has all sorts of complaints about her face that, frankly, I don’t see, but, fine, we’ll fix all that stuff. We’ll also be installing state-of-the-art breasts, right above the original ones, which we’ll keep around for old times’ sake to remind us where we came from. To go with her new Mega Millions looks, Cheryl will be getting extensive training in trophy-wiving from Melania Trump, on loan from my new friend Don, at a special discounted rate.

I do hope it all works out, because Cheryl was with me back when it all started. All those scratch-offs. All that black stuff all over the bed. She’s probably wishing that she hadn’t bitched so much about it now.

As for me, I can’t think of anything I want. Hair, maybe. Specifically, George Clooney’s. So far, he’s been unwilling to part with it at any price, but we’ll see how he feels about playing Khrushchev or Gorbachev or Blofeld or Mr. Clean in the new movie I’m financing. Plus, he travels a lot, often to countries where it’s possible to get what you want done done. You know what—that was off the record. Oh, and I forgot: here’s a thousand dollars for each of you.
Also, I may get a heart transplant, just as a precaution.

We’re going to keep the old house. We love the neighborhood, and we’ll love it even more without a lot of the neighbors. We’ll probably do some additions, preserving the original house as a centerpiece in the new living room, or maybe as a playhouse for all those grandkids we will no longer be denied. Cheryl’s going to be too busy pleasing me to take care of a house that large, so we’ll need some kind of staff: just a few French maids, one of those sinewy masseuses with Chinese tattoos, some house lawyers, a night masseuse, and a butler. A really good butler, from England.

Out back, I’d love to put in a small lake, where Mike McKenzie’s place is now. We’ll dock the yacht there, and copter it to whichever coast, as necessary. I haven’t decided what to stock the lake with, but I’ve been thinking a lot about the environment now that I’ll be owning so much of it. And it seems to me that the “greenest” thing to do would be to get a bunch of those Sports Illustrated swimsuit models, brush some scales on them with biodegradable body paint, strap each one in a helmet rigged with a giant eyehook or an industrial-strength magnet on top, and toss them in. Maybe. Like I said, I haven’t given it much thought. But I guess the short answer to your question is: I’m going to do a lot of fishing.