WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE RICH . . . I’M GUESSING – Mark Magark – Medium
WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE RICH . . . I’M GUESSING
7 A.M.: You wake up on a mattress of gold bullion. It doesn’t feel great, but you’ll be damned if it isn’t luxurious. Your butler, Klemberton, presents an espresso from your very own espresso machine, which you have in your house. Breakfast awaits.
8:30 A.M.: Stuffed from two-and-a-half Beluga sturgeon caviar omelets, you bid Klemberton adieu and clamber onto a moving conveyor belt. Gentle machines shower you with purified water from the Euphrates and spritz youth serum into your armpits. Woodland creatures clothe you in gorgeous attire sewn from Vicuna wool. A cornucopia of legumes and fruits are available for the woodland creatures, yet they continue to demand a basic living wage.
9 A.M.: Suddenly feeling ill (poisoned?!), you rip off your priceless clothing and fling yourself down on the chaise. Two magnificent artists, Griswold Gearf and the other one whose name you can never remember, take advantage of the opportunity to paint your nude portrait.
11 A.M.: Recovered, though still a bit groggy, you chastise yourself for suspecting your trusted butler of poisoning you. Klemberton nervously fetches another espresso from your very own espresso machine, which you have — again — in your house. Is it just your imagination, or is his mustache looking especially menacing today?
12 P.M.: It’s time to meet with your bankers, who are also hot models. According to the sexy bankers, you’ve made another billion dollars!
1 P.M. Feeling light-headed, you decide to have some lunch. Your private jet takes you to The Four Seasons, in Paris, where you meet the world’s greatest basketball player. This isn’t just a lunch, it’s a chance to work on your passion project: attempting to convince LeBron James that you are his equal.
3 P.M.: Upon your request, the owner of The Four Seasons personally attaches one of those over-the-door basketball hoops. “Watch this, LeBron!” you demand, as he stoically observes you doing many, many earnest slam dunks with that little purple plush ball.
4 P.M.: LeBron insists on taking your private jet home, alone. Probably to have time to reflect on your slam dunk technique. Lots to process. When he’s airborne, you deftly deploy the top-secret teleportation device that only you and Oprah know about. You’re home in seconds.
5 P.M.: Without delay, you open your vault to gaze lovingly upon your piles of gold coins. In one particularly shiny doubloon, you spot the reflection of Klemberton, standing silently behind you, twirling his mustache. He hates that mustache, but it’s in the contract. Sorry, Klemby!
7 P.M.: The Obamas arrive for a dinner party. Barack presents you with a bottle of Armand de Brignac Brut Gold Champagne. “Will you do the honor of popping the cork?” he asks. It sprays everywhere. Barry, you prankster, you shook it up!
9:30 P.M.: After dinner, the party retires to your quaint personal movie theater, to lounge on reclining chairs in front of the 11,350 ft. screen. Klemberton fills your bowls with ruby-encrusted popcorn and caramel-covered Tahitian pearls. As the Obamas enjoy Hitch, you can’t help but notice Klemberton’s silhouette behind the screen. Is he sharpening an ax?
11:30 P.M.: Goodbye, Obamas! They drowsily board your private suborbital rocket. Part of you wants to show them the top-secret teleportation device, but you decide it’s not worth breaking Oprah’s trust. You remember what happened last time.
12 A.M.: Your attempts at sleep are futile, probably because you’re full of espressos from your very own espresso machine, which you have — and I can’t stress this enough — in your house. Plus, your mattress is made of solid gold and you tire of the sleep bruises.
1 A.M.: You try to pass the time with Klemberton, but he is acting peculiar. He keeps demanding to look at your pupils. To get some space, you go for a ride on your yacht. Luckily, you happen upon an exclusive celebrity party on a private island.
5:00 A.M. You dance ecstatically with Bradley Cooper until everything goes black. The poison finally defeats you. When you pass out, Gwyneth Paltrow uses $300 activated charcoal to draw a penis on your face. She does not realize you have ceased to breathe.
6:00 A.M.: A bell tolls as the sun rises on your former estate. Inside, the sexy bankers and the woodland creatures toast to your demise. The architect behind your murder, Klemberton — newly mustacheless — joyously distributes sacks of cash to his accomplices. With sirens rising in the distance, the group quickly dematerializes, courtesy of your top secret teleportation device. Oprah is not going to be happy about this.