I want each of you to know that it’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance. We’ve had some good times and I will cherish those memories forever.

Or at least until I get to the airport, at which point I will discard those memories along with the bottles of shampoo, hair gel and other items that are not allowed on an airplane for fear that someone might groom in midair.

Arrivederci, people of Lewis Town and Ashburn. Hello, Malibu beach house, one of several I will purchase and then completely forget about. It ain’t going to be easy becoming super rich, but by God, I’ll do my best.

You’ll pardon this flight of fancy. I get this way every time a local lottery transcends mere millions and soars into snobbish wealth territory. We’re talking the kind of moolah necessary to look down upon the people you once admired — the doctors, the lawyers, the successful businessmen who busted their backs for decades to accumulate savings of, what? One measly million? A million and a half? How cute. After I collect my lottery dough, I’ll carry that much in my money clip, even if that requires a money clip the size of a Winnebago.

So, you have a winter home in Florida. How nice for you. I may just purchase houses on either side of yours and then rent them to rowdy teenagers who will keep you up all night with their hip hop music and earth-shaking video games. Why? Because I can, peon. Because I can.

You see how the money has changed me? I haven’t even received my first check and already I’ve become the kind of person you poor folk despise. While you struggle to put food on the table and oil in the tank, I’m using hundred dollar bills to swab my sweaty forehead as I float around Marina del Rey in a yacht three times the size of your house and almost half the size of my new ego.

But I’m sure your little fishing boat is nice, too.

So, here it is, Wednesday morning, and I haven’t even checked to confirm that I selected the winning numbers. I’m not worried because those numbers came to me in a dream. I was playing ping pong with Jim Morrison in the dream while a cyclops bunny served us drinks, but that doesn’t matter. I’m sure it’s legit and that the lottery commission will be calling at any moment now.

Which is kind of funny because when you get right down to it, I don’t even know how to play the lottery. On those rare occasions that I decide to give it a shot, I go into a store like Victor News and approach the clerk with my wrinkled dollar bills.

“I would like to buy a lottery ticket, please.”

Here the clerk generally rolls her eyes and snaps her gum with particular impatience. Which lottery would I like to play, she wants to know.

“The big one. The one with nine figures instead of just a paltry six.”

That helps narrow it down, but then the clerk fires off a bird-shot spray of questions that remind me of those pop quizzes back in high school. Do I want the power play? Do I wish to have my winnings spread out or in one lump sum? If two lottery tickets depart Cleveland at the same time, with one traveling 50 mph and the other traveling 70 mph, how much sooner will the second lottery ticket arrive in Omaha than the first?

The ticket always costs twice what I expected to pay and I stumble out of the store dazed, feeling like I just got swindled by a store clerk with hoop earrings and a mouthful of Juicy Fruit. The ticket goes into my pants pocket to be forgotten. It will go into the hamper and ultimately endured three or four wash cycles before I pull out this faded white block of paper six weeks later while fumbling for loose change.

“Oh, yeah!” I’ll declare to the laundry room. “I completely forgot that I’m stinking rich!”

To the best of my knowledge, the big money this week comes from Mega Millions, a lottery so entrenched, I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard of it. Back in my day, you had your Megabucks and you had your Tuesday night Bingo games at the armory. Those were the only ways to get money for nothing and if you weren’t willing to play, you had to go out and get a job or something stupid like that.

These days? You got your Mega Millions, you got your Powerball, you got your scratch off tickets you can attack with a coin right there at the store counter while dozens stand behind you waiting to pay for their milk and toilet paper. You got your Hot Lotto, your Lucky for Life and something called a Pick 3. There are so many ways to win millions these days, you’d be a fool to go out and work for your daily bread. I mean, how hard can it be to pick six or seven numbers, anyway? You’re practically guaranteed big money and if I were you, I’d start practicing your snobbery now.

But not this week, chump. This week that money is all mine and you can take that to the bank. By the time this column reaches your doorstep or computer monitor, I’ll be smoking fat cigars, wearing a monocle and checking the time on a pocket watch.

Why, you ask? Why do I want to look like that little man from the Monopoly board game?

Because I can, peons. Because I can.

Copy the Story Link