Hi, rich guy here. Let me tell you all the ways you and I are the same.
I put my pants on just like everybody else—aided by a pair of robotic butlers who ease me into the pants both legs at once.
Then it’s time to deal with the kids. There’s no “rich person shortcut” to being a great dad. And I have a huge family because I consider my money to be my children. So I do spend a good deal of quality time with it; I like to spend a few minutes with the cash pyramid in the living room. But if the money is acting up? I will scream at it.
What can I say, rich people love junk food too. Naturally, I consider anything “junk” that isn’t a powdered smoothie made of electrolytes and some of the more protein-packed husks. McDonald’s, Panda Express, Chick-fil-A, you name it, I’ve had my chefs whip up something similar but healthier, tastier, and served to me on something fancy, like a dolphin fin or a chunk of marble that used to be a statue.
And just like you, I have a sweet tooth. Only difference is, I had my sweet tooth removed by an exiled North Korean dental surgeon living in Monte Carlo who replaced the tooth with a combo GPS tracker/suicide capsule in case I get kidnapped.
I’m not immune to traffic snarls. When I don’t feel like taking my chopper (helicopter), chopper (motorcycle), or chopper (uprising-proof SUV covered in axes), I’ll drive my boring ol’ Tesla to work. And, brother man, sometimes when the car is idling on the freeway, I want to leave the ol’ junker right there and walk to work. So I do! I just leave the car. I don’t even know what happens to it. Then, a little while down the freeway, I usually spot an employee and get in the back of their car. Us working stiffs gotta look out for each other.
Then, at work, I’m on my feet for twelve hours a day! Luckily, I wear custom-fit massage shoes that apply gentle shiatsu throughout the day. Also, I can sit down whenever I want. I don’t have to stand, like some asshole. And if I get angry about something, I can yell at the cash pyramid I have in my office.
I’m a down-home type of fella, really. I love to hunt! There’s nothing I love more than cocking my rifle, handing it to my hunting assistant, yelling “Shoot, goddamn it!” as loud as I can, and then watching him pull the trigger and turning life into death. And no, I don’t hunt anything exotic. Mostly all-ages clones of myself—if you haven’t tracked yourself down, murdered yourself, and then wondered if you’re just another clone, then, my friend, you have not hunted.
I don’t vacation on some “rich person island.” First off, it’s an archipelago, and, second, you don’t even have to be that rich to travel to it. Anyone with access to their own cartographer should be able to find the ’pelago and charter a pleasure submarine there.
And, sure, I do tend to stay in a nice hotel room—the Caesar Suite, the Presidential Suite, the God-Emperor Suite—but really the only difference between those rooms and the standard rooms is that they give you a big bouquet of flowers, and instead of a complimentary newspaper, you get a complimentary copy of The Matrix on Blu-Ray—but this version of the movie stars you.
Elon Musk pays me and everyone else who knew him in 1996 a million bucks a year not to tell anyone about his hair plugs.
I hope to live forever through my philanthropy and also by transferring my consciousness onto a hard drive that future generations will be able to turn into a self-aware hologram.
Money isn’t everything. You’re probably rich in some way that I’m not. Maybe you’re rich in time, or rich in family, or rich in some other thing that’s worth less than money. Maybe you even keep this valuable commodity in a series of acrylic pyramids so you can scream at it? I honestly don’t know!
Sure, the American Dream says you can be rich just like me, but we’re already so similar, why bother?
