Parting is such sweet sorrow. I’m pretty sure that this is the last column I’ll ever write. You see, as I write this, it’s Wednesday night and in an hour, the Powerball lottery numbers are going to be announced, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be a billionaire. My wife bought some tickets the other day. This is probably the fifth or sixth time she’s played, so I’m sure that we’re due for a win. It was nice knowing you.
Combine these winnings, which are in the area of $1.5 billion, with all of my family’s Beanie Babies fortune which soon will be rolling in, and I’ll practically be Trump-like. I don’t know if I can get what’s left of my hair to do the Donald swoosh, but I’ll sure try.
I often ask myself, “What am I going to do with all that money?” To be honest with you, I’m really not sure. I asked my 10-year-old daughter what she would do if she won a billion dollars. She told me that the first thing she would do is to make sure that the taxes on her winnings are paid. Fiscal responsibility must skip a generation.
I’m sure I’ll probably do the regular thing like build a new house with a few simple, practical amenities, you know ... like ... a moat. A moat filled with Doberman Pinschers wearing wet suits and scuba tanks. And if you’re going to have a moat, it would seem silly to not have a tower from which I can dump boiling oil onto unsuspecting door-to-door salesman. You can’t be too careful when you’re loaded.
As far as the interior of the house goes, I’ll need the normal stuff like three to four bedrooms, a kitchen with cool new appliances, 32 bathrooms with toilets and bidets made of gold, and a large, subterranean cave located under the stately manor from which I can base my future crime-fighting efforts. Even us rich guys need a hobby.
I think that I would also like a fully-staffed, major name sandwich shop franchise located outside of my IMAX theater room. If I’m going to be a billionaire, I’ll need 24-hour access to 6-inch cold cut combos on wheat with lettuce, tomatoes, banana peppers and yellow mustard — un-toasted. With chips and a medium lemonade.
I’ll probably also need to upgrade my modes of transportation. I think Wednesdays will be my Porsche days. Red in the morning, grey in the afternoon. The Lamborghinis and Ferraris will be strictly for the weekend. No need to constantly flaunt my good luck to the commoners.
Possibly the one major life change I am looking forward to enjoying more than anything else is that I will never wear a pair of socks more than once. No one from the house of Wallace will ever have to fold socks again. It’s very sad that this is one of my champagne wishes.
As far as this newspaper column goes, I’ll probably hire somebody to ghost-write these for me. Maybe Stephen King or J.K. Rowling or possibly even George Lucas will be interested. It seems like they could probably use the work. Even though I’ll be filthy rich, I’ll try to help those who are less fortunate.
I’m a simple man. As you can see, my life won’t change all that much. Once I win the lottery I’ll still be putting on my unicorn-skin pants one leg at a time, just like Trump. We’ll practically be twins.
And speaking of the lottery, I’m going to have to stop writing now because they’re getting ready to announce the winning numbers. Here we go. The first number is ...
... I guess I’ll talk to you again in a couple of weeks.
You can contact Wallace at firstname.lastname@example.org. You can follow him on his blog at http://gregwallaceink.blogspot.com.