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daydreams of a wannabe trillionaire

Well, I didn't win 110 million dollars in the mega-million drawing last night.

Too bad for you, because I was going to fly every one of you to my private island for a whole summer of hedonism. Maybe next time.

Justin and I were talking last night about what we would do with all that money (yes, minus taxes and such).

Most people would dream of vacations and new cars and college tuitions paid in full.

Not us. Instead, we dreamed up our mansion. Not really the whole mansion, just a wing of it.

The wing would consist of two rooms. The home theater/enertainment portion, which would be complete with an actual movie theater and a game room filled with all kinds of arcade games plus every gaming system known to man, each with its own large screen plasma television screen and, of course, an air hockey table.

The other portion would be under lock, key and armed guard at all time. There would be our sanctuary. Walls of bookshelves lined with comic books and graphic novels. Trophy cases filled with action figures (none of them in their original packaging, all of them available to be played with, like they were meant to be). A drawing table for Justin, a writing desk for me. Not suprisingly, it would be called our Fortress of Solitude.

None of this silly tax shelters and investments and buying land and stocks with my millions. I want to live while I'm still alive, thank you.

Daydreaming sure is nice.


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"Trophy cases filled with action figures (none of them in their original packaging, all of them available to be played with, like they were meant to be). "

I think I love you (in a Justin doesn't have to book the next flight to Florida and gang up with my wife to kick my ass kinda way)!

We dream about The Compound ™. Gated, heavily guarded, possibly even a moat. Room enough for family and friends-who-are-family, studios, darkrooms, greenhouses, etc. etc.

Could happen.

Heh - the gameroom, exactly like yours, has been a staple of my lottery dreaming for a decade...

Try reading Trillions for Dummies, or Idiot's Guide to Trillions or even Chicken Soup for the Trillions Deprived. With the world's population estimated at around 6 billion passengers on this globe, this works out to only a $160.00 donation-per- person to your tip-jar. This event's horizon is much lower than the odds of winning a multi-state lottery. Be sure to post your request on-line, soon. The fact is, there is only so much money you absolutely need for Buffalo wings and beer while watching your pro hockey team from the owner's booth. Beyond that amount of money, requires massive doses of mental Pepto Bismol and the wing you'll be staying in won't be in your private mansion or chateau but instead a psychiatric wing at a clinic that you once endowed when you still could recognize who you were simply by sneering at the unkept reflection in your K-Mart mirror. Take a good look at that very image in your vanity mirror before you go to bed tonight because if you collide tommorrow with a bag of money as the loot falls from an opened-ended Loomis truck on the freeway, that will be the last day your ears won't be permenently connected by the pair of your smiling lips. Besides putting $20 bills between two slices of bread in your peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, an excess of moola has no other purpose except catalizing suspicions among soulmates and generating all-out warfare with your royal family. Everyone you meet will try their utmost to make you feel comfortable in their presense by smooching with your pie hole as if you were the patron saint of the kissing walls. People from all walks of life will hit you up for cash like you're the biggest pigeon that they ever plucked and feel that they deserve to stick their palm out as compensation for waiting so politely, in a line of people, that stretched around the block pass porn shops and non Fortune 500's. Everyone you knew in your pre-trillionaire years will claim because they set next to you once on the subway train that, the synergy of their under-arm odor and your decency made you into the tycoon that in fact you are today, by concoctions that their pointed-ears is proof that they are in reality a leprechaun despite their fortitude of flees and goat-legs. But that's just one bloggee's personal opinion, on one day in June.

Ignore Ron. He just graduated summa cum laude from the Leon Trotsky School of Wealth Envy.

About your "fortress" room: I assume the leather outfits and such would be stored in the bedroom?

And I saw no mention of a Coke soda fountain...

Good grief, lady. If yer gonna dream, dream BIG.

And pay no attention to lottery grinches like Ron.