A question I’ve heard too many times this past week is, “what would you do with $600 million?” when the Mega Millions lottery sweepstakes swept the nation.
I would flush a toilet 600 million times. I would invest in a multimedia department for The Oakland Post that actually did its job. I would buy my place of employment and immediately close it. I would pay to have your vocal chords ripped out if you utter that question to me once more.
While the $654 million Mega Millions jackpot has been decided, I didn’t buy into the hype like so many contemporaries of mine — money is an immortal corrupter. I know this firsthand.
When I was 16, I had a great-grandparent pass away. Instead of giving a crap about her death, all I cared about was the enchanting $2,000 I was bestowed.
I didn’t care that I was a soulless rotten boy. I threw money at my friends like I was king and frolicked in my newly instituted wealth.
Until my back account over-drafted two weeks later and daddy kindly bailed me out.
Friday night revealed three winners scattered across America in Maryland, Kansas and a little town in the middle of Illinois.
Luckily for the winners residing in Maryland and Kansas, they can remain silent and stash their $218 million cut quietly. The tiny town of Red Bud, however, is currently in cahoots and newsfeeds alike, as state laws do not condone anonymous winners of lottery tickets and the winner has yet to cash in his or her chips.
The townspeople are staked out with pitchforks and torches ready to rob this sucker if he or she comes forward waving the golden ticket.
If I were this winner, I would think long and hard before revealing my identity. Money brings out desperation and severe douchebaggery.
When I had my two grand baller status initiated, I foolishly offered money to any woman who would accept dollars from my pudgy palms, in exchange they graced my presence in public for 90 seconds. So long as I had green, most overlooked the fact of my mutilated face and let me shower them in rainbow-sprinkled cookies in the cafeteria.
I can’t sustain the potential damage of having 100,000 times my dismal disintegrated amount now.
People long forgotten would emerge in zombified hoards with dollar signs for eye sockets, clawing and grasping every Benjamin in my butt pocket.
Family members who have written me off as a foolhardy wordsmith would surely be enraged if not treated like they don’t exist, which is essentially what I do now.
As much fun as being a puppet master might be, I don’t think the government should force that option on any lucky person.
Anonymity is essential to at least cling to a shard of normal life. If you turn your life into luxuries and suddenly speed up in a shiny Lamborghini with a Skeletor-looking model, some will suspect you were a Mega Millions winner, or have murdered Donald Trump, stealing his money and hot daughter.
When your name gets printed in the papers as the winner, there’s sure to be a price on your head; every criminal is gunning for your house more than ever. Investing in security personnel and fleets of rabid Doberman Pinschers.
Congratulations to your new lavish life, shell-shocked Illinois resident.
I wouldn’t regret burning that ticket and keeping a normal ramen noodle-stocked life in order to cling onto shards of sanity.
That’s just my opinion, though. Pay me 50 bucks and I’ll shut my big mouth. Please — the fridge still needs milk.
Contact Multimedia Reporter Brian Figurski via email at email@example.com or follow him on Twitter @WhatDidBeefSay