We all have that fantasy, well, maybe not billionaires, but the rest of us think about the day that we win the Powerball, Mega-Millions, Cash-out-ya-ass, whatever it’s called by you. We think about it from time to time even if we don’t play. “When I win the lottery…” Then we go on to list our purchases:
A castle with a water slide from the third floor bedroom/tower to the pool that’s filled with chocolate pudding. An auto-generated breeze to keep your hair extensions blowing in the wind at all times. As you slide down to the pool, your butler would hand off a glass of champagne, or in my case, probably Vernors ginger ale. Then, as you hit the pudding, your herd of llamas will be waiting poolside with towels made from their wool. Your trained hawk flies down and gently puts your Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses on you (had to look that up), when you realize there is a lot of hair in the pool from the llama fur blowing in the fake breeze. The pudding is disgusting and starting to smell like chunky milk that’s been sitting in the, never-ending, 75 degree sun from your techno-dome. Your Vernors is warm and flat because the butler has been standing out there since nine-am and you didn’t get up ‘til noon because you’re a billionaire. A billionaire who is probably going to get food poisoning from the mixture of warm ginger ale and couple handfuls of curdled pudding you just crammed in your face. You jam your fingers down your throat as you try to wade to the side, but again, pudding. You’re drowning in your own wealth when your trained elephant pulls you out and performs CPR. Ever had CPR from an elephant? Well you have now, and it was worse than dying. But you live, sitting poolside, smelling vomit, rotten pudding, and elephant morning-breath as your wife zips over to you on a flying skateboard. (Do they have those yet?) “I told you the pool was a bad idea,” she says. You can barely understand her from the mouthful of cuban cigars she’s puffing. “And I told you the elephant was a good one,” you reply, as Slash plays the opening riff to “Sweet child o’ mine” from the drawbridge. Those would be my purchases. Comment what yours would be.
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AuthorScott writing the things that come into his head. Archives
January 2021
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