This Guy is Living My Dream

This is William Conrad. He's a friend of a friend, so we've never met. Like me, old Willie likes to drop some coin in Vegas. Unlike me, William wins. This photo op occurred on Bill's most recent excursion to the Devil's playground. The foam check in his happy clutches says $1.7 million dollars, with a capital "M." Dreams of cheddar like this have danced in my lazy head since I earned my first paycheck in 1975.

If I were as lucky as William Conrad, a lot of things would be different around here. For starters, I'd get a miniature dachshund. If the little nipper took a shit on my carpet, I'd pay someone to pick up the turd, then I'd pay someone to replace my flooring. Next I'd pay off my car. Then everyone else's car. Then… oh fuck it—new cars for everyone.

After playing loose with my newfound largess for a couple weeks, I'd get down to business. Not surprisingly, my current business would cease to exist. In it's place I'd create a conclave for bike builders, blacksmiths, strippers, nymphomaniacs and social drinkers. The Wreck Room would encourage creativity and free expression through viral marketing and carnal experiments. Illegal drug use would not be tolerated, and pants would be optional. Thursdays at The Wreck Room would be grudge night. All disagreements between individuals would be settled in the octagon, with combatants stating their case with tong foo sticks or Christmas stockings filled with naval oranges. The last guy standing drinks free all night—losers have to clean the kitchen.

After the novelty of new-car ownership and forced slavery wore off, I'd focus on philanthropy. One hundred grand in Apple stock should help Bill's kids with their collegiate aspirations. Next I'd lobby the Disney Network to get fisting in the X Games and open a trust for homeless hermaphrodites. The Coxenbox Coalition would do for transgender freaks what the Special Olympics has done for retards. That would sure make me feel a lot better.

This Guy is Living My Dream