Greetings filthy masses, this is Edmunton Rofflebottom the 3rd Esquire. I have been instructed by my famous psychiatrist to write about my feelings about being rich.
Why, it’s spectacular my dear boy. I assume boy because ladies shouldn’t not cross the steps of sitting room, the board room, or the internet, should it eventually have steps. Which it will if I finish my personalized rich-people internet I’ve been planning for some time. It will contain a great deal of spanish marble, but beyond that I leave it to the drones to figure out. It seems I’m off topic.
I’m VERY rich. I thought you should know this. My wife Henrietta Worcester of the “Worcester Sauce Fortune” brought roughly 2.8 billion dollars to my assets, which I promptly blew on a single horse race which turned out to be a re-broadcast of a 1909 Kentucky Derby footage. I still paid the tweed-plastered swindler because a deal is a deal my good sir. But I bring up one of my very few failings to point out that this has affected my overall fortune to such a small percentage that it hardly bears mentioning. As I lay here, dictating to my personal stenographer, uncomfortably perched on a victorian sofa once used by up to THREE Kings of Spain (and possibly Miley Cyrus) it occurs to me that it is sometimes hard being insanely wealthy.
For example the aforementioned uncomfortable couch is simply hideous, to top that I once paid a wall-street lawyer to sue it for incompetence, which was acquitted by those fools in parliament. But I simply MUST own this couch. Why? Because it’s upkeep alone single-handedly keeps a furniture restoration factory in wales active and running, and my neighbor (300 miles) nearby only has a victorian sofa owned by 2 kings, some of which may have been named Tomas or some such nonsense. You see, to be the absolute creme-de-la-creme of the financial elite, certain liberties have to be taken.
The other weekend I was driving in my custom baby-seal lined Bentley, driving through the shopping mall with hordes of flashing lights and low -income workers diving and leaping out of the way, it occured to me what a filthy and unwashed world we live in, full of noise and people screaming “You can’t drive here” and “OH god you’ve killed my child” or some such. To be fair I usually sit in the sound-proofed back chamber to listen to vinyl recordings of my personal troupe of tibetan hymn monks. But that weekend of all weekends I wanted to experience life like the little people.
What a mistake it was! My esteemed colleague Tristan Merriweather Mizanthopeland once said to me “Edumunton, it’s not enough to simply lord over people, it’s important to sometimes let them know that you directly own them, and that they are your dirty unwanted property” so my security task force and I extricated ourselves from the “Juice Shack” where the bentley’s monstrous engine had finally given way and exploded. After that we walked around, scuffing our shoes, buying small franchises and leaving 200 dollar silk handkerchiefs, just like Joe America, or whomever the poor people refer to themselves as. I quickly became bored and had the mall demolished.
Can you imagine? Becoming bored… Walking! Using SILK hankerchiefs of all things? It was like camping in the damned andes and not a bit of good did it do my delicate health. Still a gold-gilded slave scrubbing took away most of the stress and one of my many mistresses offered to learn a new way to humiliate herself, which I’m keenly looking forward to. So all is well that ends well. At least I feel that I’ve adventured, seen the world for what it is, and abandoned my shellacked cave of eternal fortune, if only for a minute. To see through the myopic eyes of the less-than-billionaires. It’s terrible mind you, just terrible.
However, I simply must run, the Pope is coming over to give his opinion of my cribbage piece collection and then we’re going to take turns deciding on small countries to gamble for tomorrows round of darts.
Stay filthy and unwashed and if any of you cretins managed to read this, remember, I am VERY rich.