Okay, so the megamillions lotto is at a ridiculously high $355 million. It reminds me of several stories of shallow-enders collecting big paydays at the expense of the rest of us. My friend NOLAGUY used to work in a high-end steakhouse, where a band of yokels gathered to celebrate the winnings. The sister of the winner (think Carol Burnett in Mama’s Family), wanted to know what wine they were drinking and “how much is it?” She was informed that it was roughly $150 a bottle. A bit later, my friend caught her drinking the dregs from other people’s glasses. Nice.
My other favorite is the young lady who was a bartender at a VFW hall. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, it’s usually an old airplane hangar or barn where old alcoholics convene to share/slur war stories. Anyhoo, the young lass had made nary a tip all this Saturday night, when, to her extreme excitement, her numbers matched the winners. She promptly walked off the job, RENTED A CADILLAC and drove to Austin to collect her winnings. Only to discover that the lottery offices were closed until Monday. I’m sure she slept in the Cadillac. Probably not the first time she’d been in the backseat of a nice car, waiting for a payout.
I share all of this because tomorrow, my loyal readers, I will join the ranks of the white trash winners. I’m sure of it. I feel it. I have a ticket. And I’ve reserved a Cadillac.
You see, I’m one of those scary people who actually has a plan for my lotto winnings. Big, fabulous plans. I wouldn’t piss it away like some West Virginian coal miner investing in a canary aviary. No, I’d be like Madeline Kahn in High Anxiety, with my Louis Vuitton jumpsuit getting out of my Louis Vuitton logo-covered Cadillac. (If you haven’t seen this Mel Brooks classic, rent it right away. It is Madeline Kahn at her funniest.) I’d wear caftans and way too much jewelry and hit on the mailman. My beloved would slap my hand, then hand me a bourbon to take the sting away. We’d drink and laugh. Mostly at the “little people.” I’d get shiny veneers that were too big for my mouth, making it look like they’d been badly photoshopped onto me and I’d have a back waxer on the payroll.
In the words of Ludacris (via Fergie), “lifestyle so rich and famous Robin Leach would get jealous.” I’d be glamour on a stick. The old gay version of Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen (the grown up fashionistas, not the cloying child stars/stunt doubles).
So, of course, chances are I’ll wake up tomorrow and NOT be $355 million richer. I wonder if I can swing a caftan and the bourbon on a blogger’s salary?