I suppose that if I'm to become disgustingly rich some day (only a matter of time, really), I have to understand the poor to rich ratio. I mean, if you're exceedingly poor, I'm talking the cutting up a bean three-ways for you and your hobo friends poor, isn't rich really just a step up to middle-class?
We also must examine the blurred line between the actual poor and rich spoiled kids who act and dress like they are. There are people who actually cannot afford shoes; then we have the suburbanite neo-hippy brats who drive Saabs and refuse to wear shoes, or shower, for that matter. How are we to know who should actually get our pocket change when these kids are un-evening the playing field for the destitute?
Will I give to charity when I'm so rich I'm carried from room to room in my palatial...duplex? I still envision myself living in a nice duplex, because I like duplexes. Will I lose my modesty amid the transition from powerless to self-imposed power?
One thing I've always wanted, if I'm to become rich and eccentric, is my own interpretive dance squad. I would like a group of four guys who follow me around, dressed in the same outfit as myself, with the addition of capes and top hats. They would follow me in a V- formation, with two to each side behind me. Whenever I do something, like wave to someone and say "How's it Goin?", the squad would sping into action, exaggerating my movements, maybe throw in a spin, and say, "Hhhhhow's it goinnnnnnnnn?". It's easier to explain visually than in words, but it would never not be funny to me. I think that's the greatest advantage to being rich; instead of being "weird" and "creepy" you are given the single adjective, "eccentric". Well, maybe it would still be "creepy" but in an eccentric way.
So, until the day my solitary life is filled with new adjectives, dance squads, and less footwear, I have nothing but time to perfect in writing what will certainly be the single greatest waste of one's fortune in the history of tycoonery. I know I will still put my change in that Salvation Army can every Christmas, help that drunk guy that advances in his serpentine fashion towards me in the parking lot with buying "more coffee", and buy more and more cans of popcorn from those cub scouts, even though I've already amassed a collection of tin popping corn to last through three world wars in my concrete bunker of love. I think that, no matter how well-to-do I may or may not become, I can never lose the urge to lend a hand to those even slightly less well-to-do than myself, even if my assistance is only monetary. I'm sorry, but I'm just not masculine enough to lend a hand in building a house, like in that beer commercial.
