Friday, July 23, 2010

It's like that "Fiddler on the Roof" song about being rich

The other day my roommate was watching a documentary about lottery winners, and it got me to thinking. Unlike the other losers who blew their loads early, spending a fortune on Nascars and Jimmy Buffet lap dances, I would do awesome stuff! So, I've written an entreaty of why I should receive, though don't actually deserve, hundreds of thousands of millions of dollars.
**The alternative title for this post was "Sometimes you lose it because it's Friday and you're stuck at work."

A person is only as good as the home she lives in. Mine would be a lodge right out of Cabin Life Magazine, which is an actual thing that my mom reads. Cosmopolitan that I am, I would plant that sucker in the Ramble by Bethesda Fountain. As I sat in a sequined rocking chair on the wraparound porch, I would sip my Grey Goose (told you it was fancy) martini and ruminate the diamond ice cubes. Oh dear, not Lennon's birthday again. With a jaunty clap of my hands, Zombie John Belushi would begin his lumbering descent toward Strawberry Fields and disperse the gathering hippies with a smash and clatter of acoustic guitars. Batting my peacock feather eyelashes with fatigue, I would retire to the inner domicile.

Chalmers, stout and stern with a duke's bearing, would release the lever to the drawbridge made of baby femurs. Skirting the moat of quicksilver, I would scoop up my butler, groundskeeper, and maid with a lavish curtsy. "Where would she acquire such diminutive employees?" you ask. Never being one for Oompa Loompas, all my servants would be pugs! Little Beatrice in her finest impression of a French maid, bulbous eyes shining at the promise of more table scraps, danced beneath the mahogany chairs. Creme brulee and wild boar for dinner? Chef had outdone herself. Still, I must remember to remind her to smoke the meat chandelier for Thursday's gala....

A quick stop at the champagne fountain would provide opportunity to comment, "I used to drink Cristal, them fuckers racist." High fiving Jay-Z, I'd make my way across the sea shell gravel to the waiting tub. Yes, it will be as painful as in Cape Cod, but at least twice as lustrous. As I'd slide off my zebra skin bathrobe and into my emerald-lined jacuzzi the shape of Bill Murray's face, I would have to commend myself on hiring Bowie as a consultant.

Also I'd be a mermaid. FIN

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