People are always asking me, “Mike, what would you do if you were rich?”
To which I usually respond, “What makes you think I’m not rich?”
To which they often say, “Your broken-down house, piece-of-shit car, and the cheap-ass clothes you buy off the 80-percent-discount rack at Kohl’s.”
To which I say, “Fuck off, cocksucker.”
Gutter talk like that is not a good way to make or keep friends—especially polite rich friends, of course. I’d much prefer to blast those daft pricks with a gentlemanly string of twenty-dollar words instead. But I can’t afford twenty-dollar words. I’m not rich. I never have been, and I doubt I ever will be.
I wouldn’t mind being rich, though.
Wise men—or maybe it’s the ruling class pretending to be wise men so they can continue skull-fucking the bourgeois and proletariat classes—often point out that money can’t buy happiness. I agree with that in principal, but I still believe that unhappy rich people are happier than unhappy poor people, and I’d rather be unhappy and rich than unhappy and poor any day.
The way I see it, you’re automatically better off if you’re rich and something bad happens. Let’s say your car breaks down on the way to work, for example. Yes, for a few minutes, you’re just as miserable about it as somebody who’s poor. But you handle your sadness differently.
A poor guy misses work, gets fired and uses what little cash he has left in his wallet to get shitfaced that night because his life is ruined. If things go really bad, and they often do, he gets into a fistfight with his equally shitfaced brother and they both end up in jail with a fat guy wearing bright red stiletto heels and a black-sequined party dress.
A rich dude uses a sick day to go out and buy a new car. Unhappily, sure, because a decent Bentley can run him up to $280,000 and nobody likes to throw good money away on a set of new wheels if he doesn’t have to.
But at least he can get to work the next day. Or maybe a week or two after that, depending on when he’s scheduled to take that luxury cruise of the French Riviera with his wife and her Tibetan Mastiffs.
There are some things rich people can’t totally avoid, though.
Poor people, for instance.
Consider the case of the social-networking website called www.asmallworld.net. It was started in 2004 by Swedish Count Erik Wachtmeister to help well-heeled people meet other well-heeled people who desire to live a lavish lifestyle. Got a million-dollar Bugatti Veyron to sell? You can do it in the site’s classified ads. Need to find the best skiing in Gstaad? Look no further.
But you can only join the site if you’re invited by another member, and only certain members are given that privilege.
“This community is characterized by inter-connected, well-travelled, interesting, educated, and accomplished people who tend to seek each other out for company and as a resource for trusted information,” Wachtmeister says.
In other words, you’re not invited, douchbag.
Neither are the hairy butt-cracks you call friends.
But some members of asmallworld.net are unhappy because the site has been infiltrated by poor people who lied about their wealth, as good-for-nothing poor people are prone to do when they have too much free time on their hands. Like when a guy’s sitting in jail with nothing to do but surf the Internet while he awaits trial for getting drunk, punching his brother in the face and using lighter fluid to set his neighbor’s 1977 Gremlin on fire.
“In the real world, we are each discerning about who we make friends with,” member Eva Morin complained in a post on the site. “There is no reason why, when we come online, we should have to socialize with truck drivers from hick parts of the U.S.A.”
Here, here, Eva!
I don’t like America’s hick parts, either.
Cover them up, Uncle Sam. And please stop scratching them in public, you perv.
Who wants to hang out with sweaty, foul-mouthed truck drivers from Wal-Mart—even online—when you could direct your manservant to buy you everything in a Wal-Mart with the bankroll you keep tucked in your Gucci handbag if you wanted to?
No wonder rich people like being rich.
No wonder I’d like to be rich.
But I’m not.
Probably never will be.
Don’t bother me about it, though. Because if you do, I might tell you to fuck off.
Poor people are like that.