AC360° Associate Producer
President Obama is fuming. And who can blame him after learning that Wall Street executives gave themselves more than $18 billion in bonuses last year as the economy tanked and they begged for taxpayer bailouts. Seriously, how many pedicures and pinky rings do they need?
I’ve decided that, if I worked on Wall Street, I could scrape by on a mere $1 billion. Granted, I wouldn’t be able to invest in as many Ponzi schemes as I’d like, but it’d be enough that my dog, Sammy, could enroll in that yoga class she’s been talking about.
It would be difficult to know where to begin, but I think my first indulgence after receiving my modest bonus would be to buy a new home. I would put in a bid for an Upper East Side penthouse but, of course, would be rejected by the pretentious co-op board, jealous of my new friendships with Puff Daddy and Susan Lucci.
Disheartened with Manhattan, I would buy a mansion in Connecticut. Where I would be closer to my Wall Street brethren and where my cadre of helper monkeys dressed like hotel bellmen would be free to roam the grounds.
I would need, of course, a proper butler. His name would be Winston. He would be just like Alfred from Batman, except he would be from New Jersey and would speak with Madonna’s British accent.
Winston would, obviously, be the one who answered my phone. “I’m sorry, President Obama, Mr. Gray is unavailable right now. He’s in a meeting.” Which would be code for “He’s drinking Bud Light in the Jacuzzi.”
I would need a car, to be sure. Nothing ostentatious. Just something simple and understated to get me from Point A to Point B. Any yellow Bentley convertible would do just fine.
I suppose I’d need a boat, too. Well, not a boat, exactly. More like a yacht. But a small yacht. Because, really, in this economy, who needs more than two helipads?
And, before you say anything, yes, I would buy gifts for my family. I would anxiously anticipate the look on my grandfather’s face when I presented him with a toupee made from the hair of Arabian horses.
All would be going swimmingly – lavish parties with my Wall Street colleagues, a caviar vending machine in my bedroom – until late one night, when Winston would find me sobbing on my Corinthian leather sofa. “My billion dollar bonus has not brought me the happiness I had hoped for,” I would tell him as I blew my nose into a hundred dollar bill.
“Maybe that’s because,” Winston would suggest, as he handed me a lobster and sherry smoothie, “you feel guilty for sponging off hardworking American taxpayers.”
And then we would both burst out laughing.
Because Winston would always know how to cheer me up.
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