Lucky is in the eye of the beholder. (1/2006; ultra short)
Four snores and seven dreams ago, I was poor. Not any more. You see, I won the Mega Interstate Lottery. $425 million.
Actually, I took the one-time payout, which was “only” $250 million. I bought myself an all-you-can-eat lobster dinner and then placed the rest on green double zero against everyone’s angry objections. Unfortunately, I won. Now I’m worth something north of $6 billion. And I own the casino that couldn’t pay up.
Being poor was so much better. No, that’s not quite right. It was so much easier. Fewer choices. Fewer decisions. Less pressure. Nobody rubbing up next to me, wanting to be my new bestest buddy.
Dinner used to be a can of spam or a bologna sandwich (on white bread with mayo, of course). Now, dinners have too many forks and knives and spoons and plates. How stupid rich people are.
Fun used to be a day at my local fishing hole. I’d toss a line in and then pull my hat down over my eyes and snooze until I felt the line tug. Now, I have to get my tux dry cleaned every day and I have to hang out with these boring, snooty, rich people.
Anonymity—that’s the right word; I looked it up—was something I used to take for granted. Now, I’m on TV every night and in the tabloid newspapers every day, I can’t walk down the street without people mobbing me.
They call me the luckiest person in the world. Little do they know.
And so I’ve decided. My wife supports me, Lord knows why. I don’t deserve her! Everyone else things I’m nuts. I guess I can understand why they’d say that.
I put half away to pay my tax bill. Happy Frickin’ Birthday, Uncle Sam! Don’t expect me to pay any more for a while. The rest, well, let’s just say my friends, family, and favorite charities are all getting really nice Christmas presents this year.
And me, then I’ll deserve to be called the luckiest guy in the world.