Who Wants To Depants A Gazillionaire?
I must issue a warning. My polite Midwesterner's proclivity towards not upsetting the audience must say this: I am about to rock your friggin' world, Janice.
(Note: This is not the first time I have imparted this same vague, yet ominous, warning. But I can assure you that what follows is of an entirely different context than that instance, and will probably involve less weeping. For both of us.)
There may exist, one day on this planet, a trillionaire.
A trillionaire. For reals. Think about that.
Sure, the rise of inflation means that we workaday suckers are up to our affordable, unpretentious collars in millionaires. Every city has at least a dozen, and these days, some small towns are even getting one or two. However, in most small towns, a millionaire is still required, by law, to change their name to "Old Man [last name here]," and to be pushed around in a brass wheelchair with a quilt folded in their withered lap. They then must engage in behavior which only furthers their quest to hold the entire town in their iron grip. A cigarette holder and a monocle are also involved, to varying degrees. Sometimes an orphan or a single mother with Broadway aspirations will come along, to melt Old Man Hastings' heart, but don't count on it.
When I was a kid, just the word "millionaire" carried some kind of cosmic weight. Granted, when I was a kid, the word "Frisch's" carried cosmic weight. But this shouldn't take anything away from having a million-plus dollars to spread around. I'm just pointing out that the times, they do a-change.
So there could be a millionaire within spitting distance from you right now. If you should ever need to single one out, possibly for whiskey-fueled public ridicule, or perhaps shameless favor-mongering disguised as overweening praise, here's a handy checklist to identify them:
1. Go to a major league baseball game, and look up in the skybox area. That sunburnt guy in the pastel polo shirt, constantly high-fiving his slightly embarrassed-looking buddies? Millionaire.
2. Go to a sponsored artsy event, like a play or a performance art piece or an installation of genitalia-shaped sculptures made entirely of uncooked rigatoni noodles. Look for a list of names in the event's pamphlet. Those people under "Cherished Patrons"? Them's millionaires.
3. Go to your bathroom. Look in the mirror. That person? Not a millionaire.
So we've got tons more millionaires. Heck, with a government which has adorably abandoned all attempts at breaking up monopolies, there's a good number of billionaires, too.
Being a billionaire -- of course, very impressive. And when you're a kid, impossible to grasp. That's a thousand millions. It can't conceivably be measured in Super Ropes at the Kettering Public Pool, so to an eight-year-old, it might as well be Martian money. When you get older, this type of unattainable wealth is a little more graspable, if only through the entirety of its unattainability.
Acute awareness of this level of financial security may appear to you, unexpectedly, just as you flick off the TV and lay in bed in the semi-darkness. You just need a scant few hours of shut-eye to rest your weary, middle-class bones. Then suddenly, dancing across your frontal lobe are visions of people who aren't in, say, crippling credit card debt. Ah, to be a billionaire! Then, as an added bonus, you remember that you've gotta get up forty-five minutes earlier tomorrow morning, so you can pick up bagels for the entire office. And you also remember that Randy will complain about the garlic bagels being nestled next to the cinnamon raisin ones. Well, at least these thoughts beat the usual bedtime buzz killer of Sudden, Panic-Inducing Awareness of One's Own Mortality. A close second.
To spot your own friendly neighborhood multi-billionaire, use this helpful primer:
1. They have horrendous, ill-advised, often inexplicable, haircuts.
2. They appear to us mortals, when they do at all, in publicity photos, in which they are positioned on a dias, with their latest product, or operating system, amply projected behind them. Said product or operating system is, nonetheless, usually overshadowed by the presence, front and center, of the aforementioned haircut.
3. They are not you. Or anyone you know.
Which brings us to the elusive trillionaire. I'll save you some time. A quick internet search says that there are not currently any trillionaires in existence. But the jerkasses over at Wired Magazine have surmised that Bill Gates could, conceivably, become one before he dies.
Of course, this assumes several things. Firstly, that Microsoft stock will continue to increase in value. Secondly, that Bill Gates will have the life span of the average, garden-variety human. (Most people are unaware that Bill Gates has his internal organs replaced on a four-month rotating schedule, and that his brain and eyes will eventually be installed into a three-story-tall robot that will live in an underwater cave beneath Seattle's Lake Washington. Said Gates-bot will be known, for reasons as yet unknown, as Gary, and will subsist entirely on the laughter of small children. So, clearly, Gates is angling for quadrillionaire status.) Thirdly, this statement also assumes that everyone working at Wired Magazine is a jerkass. I don't mean to offend. All I know is they get paid to write articles about virtual reality headsets, and probably get lots of free stuff at corporate-sponsored parties. Hence, their jerkassitude.
What will it mean to the world to have its first, honest-to-goodness trillionaire? Call me ignorant, but like, is there, you know, even that much money in the world? If there's a trillionaire, won't that mean a little less for everybody else? Isn't this the sort of thing that would make Karl Marx yell out, "Told ya so!" just as Thomas Jefferson shakes his head, pulls closed the drapes, and mutters, "Well, ain't that a kick in the dick"?
This stratospheric level of wealth raises all kinds of red flags. Granted, most of these red flags are planted firmly in the soft turf that is my general lack of knowledge about grown-up things -- international monetary balance, the gold standard, what to say when a three-year-old asks you about heaven. But I will wave these flags with much abandon.
I mean, 'cuz, uh... it's not like the earth just poops out money, right? It all, like, comes from somewhere, yes?
Example!
You work the third shift at Costco, restocking giant jars of kosher dill pickles, so you can get your paycheck, and be able to afford a pitcher of Red Dog at MacGuffey's. MacGuffey's pays their rent and orders more Red Dog, and that way, the good people at Red Dog continue producing fairly awful beer and, in turn, paying their employees. These are the same Red Dog employees who are working the graveyard shift loading up the truck so they can afford that giant jar of kosher dill pickles at Costco. This is America -- we all signed up for this. It's in the fine print at the bottom of the Constitution.
Doesn't a freshly minted trillionaire sorta disrupt all that? Isn't there some kind of time-space-money continuum in operation? And even if I am, personally, nestled squarely in one of the murkier corners of it, shouldn't we be worried about messing up this equilibrium? Call me fretful, call me a pinko -- but last time I checked, we specifically had equilibriums so as not to screw 'em up.
So, true believers, fear the trillionaires. Because once they have that much scratch, there will be nothing they cannot pay for, or do to you, or pay for someone to do to you (probably with implements of some kind.)
A trillionaire would have, by definition, a bo-friggin'-zillion dollars. And that means they could peer into a telescope, pick out a solar system, clap a scientist on the shoulder and say, "I like the green one. It matches my sweater."
A trillionaire could have an entire country. Scratch that, because I'm sure there's already a billionaire who has one. In fact, I can think of a half-assed millionaire who's got his own right now. And he could barely run a baseball team.
A trillionaire's got so much money, the land mass purchase could even be an impulse buy. "Wait... what? So, Greenland's the cold one, and Iceland is actually quite temperate and pleasant at most times of the year? Oh, well. I'll give it to the wife, she'll be tickled. She can keep her shoes on it or some shit."
We've all seen the movies where the billionaire has a private island, and hunts homeless people on it. Well, the trillionaire-to-be will have so much money to throw around, she or he will redefine the very limits of human decency and restraint. Think about it. A trillionaire could pay your parents enough money to hunt YOU on that island.
"Mom? MOM?!"
"Oh, simmer down. I just winged you, Jeremy. Now, Daddy and I will give you a running start. One... two..."
Virtually every newspaper, movie, TV show, or affordably priced chocolate candy will be owned by the trillionaire. And you best believe there will be statues. Big, gold statues on every airport tarmac on the planet. Virgin sacrifices on the hour, with a reunited Beatles -- don't ask me how, you really do not want to know -- playing live at each one. And, for the trillionaire's personal amusement, a Ryan's Steakhouse all-you-can-eat buffet that's open to the general public, only costs $7.95, and is positioned on a balsa wood bridge spanning an active volcano.
What to do, in a world where one day, you and everyone you love will actually, realistically, physically, be bought and sold? Where the worth of the minerals and trace amounts of gold and aluminum in your bodily fluids will be itemized and reported to you every Christmas morning? I guess you just can't dwell on it.
Besides, you better get to bed, champ. You've got work in the morning.
(Note: This is not the first time I have imparted this same vague, yet ominous, warning. But I can assure you that what follows is of an entirely different context than that instance, and will probably involve less weeping. For both of us.)
There may exist, one day on this planet, a trillionaire.
A trillionaire. For reals. Think about that.
Sure, the rise of inflation means that we workaday suckers are up to our affordable, unpretentious collars in millionaires. Every city has at least a dozen, and these days, some small towns are even getting one or two. However, in most small towns, a millionaire is still required, by law, to change their name to "Old Man [last name here]," and to be pushed around in a brass wheelchair with a quilt folded in their withered lap. They then must engage in behavior which only furthers their quest to hold the entire town in their iron grip. A cigarette holder and a monocle are also involved, to varying degrees. Sometimes an orphan or a single mother with Broadway aspirations will come along, to melt Old Man Hastings' heart, but don't count on it.
When I was a kid, just the word "millionaire" carried some kind of cosmic weight. Granted, when I was a kid, the word "Frisch's" carried cosmic weight. But this shouldn't take anything away from having a million-plus dollars to spread around. I'm just pointing out that the times, they do a-change.
So there could be a millionaire within spitting distance from you right now. If you should ever need to single one out, possibly for whiskey-fueled public ridicule, or perhaps shameless favor-mongering disguised as overweening praise, here's a handy checklist to identify them:
1. Go to a major league baseball game, and look up in the skybox area. That sunburnt guy in the pastel polo shirt, constantly high-fiving his slightly embarrassed-looking buddies? Millionaire.
2. Go to a sponsored artsy event, like a play or a performance art piece or an installation of genitalia-shaped sculptures made entirely of uncooked rigatoni noodles. Look for a list of names in the event's pamphlet. Those people under "Cherished Patrons"? Them's millionaires.
3. Go to your bathroom. Look in the mirror. That person? Not a millionaire.
So we've got tons more millionaires. Heck, with a government which has adorably abandoned all attempts at breaking up monopolies, there's a good number of billionaires, too.
Being a billionaire -- of course, very impressive. And when you're a kid, impossible to grasp. That's a thousand millions. It can't conceivably be measured in Super Ropes at the Kettering Public Pool, so to an eight-year-old, it might as well be Martian money. When you get older, this type of unattainable wealth is a little more graspable, if only through the entirety of its unattainability.
Acute awareness of this level of financial security may appear to you, unexpectedly, just as you flick off the TV and lay in bed in the semi-darkness. You just need a scant few hours of shut-eye to rest your weary, middle-class bones. Then suddenly, dancing across your frontal lobe are visions of people who aren't in, say, crippling credit card debt. Ah, to be a billionaire! Then, as an added bonus, you remember that you've gotta get up forty-five minutes earlier tomorrow morning, so you can pick up bagels for the entire office. And you also remember that Randy will complain about the garlic bagels being nestled next to the cinnamon raisin ones. Well, at least these thoughts beat the usual bedtime buzz killer of Sudden, Panic-Inducing Awareness of One's Own Mortality. A close second.
To spot your own friendly neighborhood multi-billionaire, use this helpful primer:
1. They have horrendous, ill-advised, often inexplicable, haircuts.
2. They appear to us mortals, when they do at all, in publicity photos, in which they are positioned on a dias, with their latest product, or operating system, amply projected behind them. Said product or operating system is, nonetheless, usually overshadowed by the presence, front and center, of the aforementioned haircut.
3. They are not you. Or anyone you know.
Which brings us to the elusive trillionaire. I'll save you some time. A quick internet search says that there are not currently any trillionaires in existence. But the jerkasses over at Wired Magazine have surmised that Bill Gates could, conceivably, become one before he dies.
Of course, this assumes several things. Firstly, that Microsoft stock will continue to increase in value. Secondly, that Bill Gates will have the life span of the average, garden-variety human. (Most people are unaware that Bill Gates has his internal organs replaced on a four-month rotating schedule, and that his brain and eyes will eventually be installed into a three-story-tall robot that will live in an underwater cave beneath Seattle's Lake Washington. Said Gates-bot will be known, for reasons as yet unknown, as Gary, and will subsist entirely on the laughter of small children. So, clearly, Gates is angling for quadrillionaire status.) Thirdly, this statement also assumes that everyone working at Wired Magazine is a jerkass. I don't mean to offend. All I know is they get paid to write articles about virtual reality headsets, and probably get lots of free stuff at corporate-sponsored parties. Hence, their jerkassitude.
What will it mean to the world to have its first, honest-to-goodness trillionaire? Call me ignorant, but like, is there, you know, even that much money in the world? If there's a trillionaire, won't that mean a little less for everybody else? Isn't this the sort of thing that would make Karl Marx yell out, "Told ya so!" just as Thomas Jefferson shakes his head, pulls closed the drapes, and mutters, "Well, ain't that a kick in the dick"?
This stratospheric level of wealth raises all kinds of red flags. Granted, most of these red flags are planted firmly in the soft turf that is my general lack of knowledge about grown-up things -- international monetary balance, the gold standard, what to say when a three-year-old asks you about heaven. But I will wave these flags with much abandon.
I mean, 'cuz, uh... it's not like the earth just poops out money, right? It all, like, comes from somewhere, yes?
Example!
You work the third shift at Costco, restocking giant jars of kosher dill pickles, so you can get your paycheck, and be able to afford a pitcher of Red Dog at MacGuffey's. MacGuffey's pays their rent and orders more Red Dog, and that way, the good people at Red Dog continue producing fairly awful beer and, in turn, paying their employees. These are the same Red Dog employees who are working the graveyard shift loading up the truck so they can afford that giant jar of kosher dill pickles at Costco. This is America -- we all signed up for this. It's in the fine print at the bottom of the Constitution.
Doesn't a freshly minted trillionaire sorta disrupt all that? Isn't there some kind of time-space-money continuum in operation? And even if I am, personally, nestled squarely in one of the murkier corners of it, shouldn't we be worried about messing up this equilibrium? Call me fretful, call me a pinko -- but last time I checked, we specifically had equilibriums so as not to screw 'em up.
So, true believers, fear the trillionaires. Because once they have that much scratch, there will be nothing they cannot pay for, or do to you, or pay for someone to do to you (probably with implements of some kind.)
A trillionaire would have, by definition, a bo-friggin'-zillion dollars. And that means they could peer into a telescope, pick out a solar system, clap a scientist on the shoulder and say, "I like the green one. It matches my sweater."
A trillionaire could have an entire country. Scratch that, because I'm sure there's already a billionaire who has one. In fact, I can think of a half-assed millionaire who's got his own right now. And he could barely run a baseball team.
A trillionaire's got so much money, the land mass purchase could even be an impulse buy. "Wait... what? So, Greenland's the cold one, and Iceland is actually quite temperate and pleasant at most times of the year? Oh, well. I'll give it to the wife, she'll be tickled. She can keep her shoes on it or some shit."
We've all seen the movies where the billionaire has a private island, and hunts homeless people on it. Well, the trillionaire-to-be will have so much money to throw around, she or he will redefine the very limits of human decency and restraint. Think about it. A trillionaire could pay your parents enough money to hunt YOU on that island.
"Mom? MOM?!"
"Oh, simmer down. I just winged you, Jeremy. Now, Daddy and I will give you a running start. One... two..."
Virtually every newspaper, movie, TV show, or affordably priced chocolate candy will be owned by the trillionaire. And you best believe there will be statues. Big, gold statues on every airport tarmac on the planet. Virgin sacrifices on the hour, with a reunited Beatles -- don't ask me how, you really do not want to know -- playing live at each one. And, for the trillionaire's personal amusement, a Ryan's Steakhouse all-you-can-eat buffet that's open to the general public, only costs $7.95, and is positioned on a balsa wood bridge spanning an active volcano.
What to do, in a world where one day, you and everyone you love will actually, realistically, physically, be bought and sold? Where the worth of the minerals and trace amounts of gold and aluminum in your bodily fluids will be itemized and reported to you every Christmas morning? I guess you just can't dwell on it.
Besides, you better get to bed, champ. You've got work in the morning.
posted by Brad Stevens at 7:50 PM
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