When I woke up this morning and found out I hadn't won the big prize, nor any of the smaller consolation prizes, I must admit I was a bit flummoxed. Especially since I had already lined up millions of dollars for immediate expenditure upon receipt of the big, oversized check for which I had made room in the back of my car to haul to the bank.
In the midst of preparing for a move, I had gone online and made reservations for a group of colorfully dressed New-Zealanders to come to my home and help me pack my stuff, most of which I was going to haul to the desert and set on fire in a celebratory bonfire. The New Zealanders were going to treat all in attendance at the celebratory bonfire to a series of Maori tribal dances depicting fertility, the cycle of the harvest and, inexplicably, bulimia amongst fashion models. Sure, it was going to be pricey, but I thought it would be well worth the money spent - the Maori are fine dancers and can pack with the best.
I also planned on buying the house that I see on the hilltop above my apartment - the one whose lights shine into my bedroom window at night to remind me that there are those who get to live on hilltops - and I was going to mount the civil war-era cannon I found on e-bay on its back patio so I could fire recklessly upon the folks still unfortunate enough to live in the apartments into whose bedrooms my newly-acquired lights would shine. This includes my current neighbor and his little under-the-stairway cannon. I was going to show them all a thing or two about cannon-fire.
My Civil War-Era Cannon
I had planned to buy a jet pack and an aircraft carrier as well, for the establishment of Jerry World - this will have to be put on hold for now, while I sort out the impending lawsuits over unpaid deposits and promises of cash-filled treasure chests to be delivered to the warship-mongers.
After spending three and a half hours on the phone with a keen buzz last evening, I have had to turn away from my door today the following:
- Three angry strippers, equipped with a half-dozen changes of role-play costumes, and their pet rhesus monkey.
The strippers' rhesus monkey (photo of strippers not available)
- A set of legitimate conjoined-twin hookers and their sundry lotions, cute little conjoined-twin paddle-car and legal waiver. (photo of conjoined-twin hookers not available - apparently, they are sensitive to light and worried about arrest)
- The lucky Maserati salesman delivering my Granturismo.
- The lucky Bentley salesman delivering my vintage 1936 MY.
My damned Bentley
- The lucky salesman from Recordingstudiodesign, who apparently flew all the way from London.
My damned recording studio (stripper pole not pictured)
- The jet pack guy - though I merely had to tell him I would sic my rhesus monkey on him to send him packing.
My damned jet pack
- Raquel Welch. I must admit, she didn't look that disappointed. That breaks my heart. However, I did get an autographed set of fuzzy britches and copped a quick, accurate, precisely-timed feel when she gave me a hug goodbye and that eases the heartbreak a tad.
All I'm saying is that I think I was doing a fantastic job of financial planning with the winnings in mind. I believe I would be very good at being wealthy - like Arthur. It's simply a shame that it didn't fall into my lap this time around.
What does being King pay?