Money: How I'd Spend It (Evil)

I've been thinking about fuck you money. You know, Howard Stern money: having enough of it to do whatever you want, whenever you want, wherever you want, jobs and bosses and responsibilities and whatnot be damned.

Fuck you money also allows for the possibility of exacting a particularly fun sort of revenge against slights both real and perceived, and that's where my mind takes me the most when I find myself an imaginary billionaire.

I love my job, and I lovingly cling to the illusion that what I do matters in its own little way, so I don't find myself dreaming of quitting my job and living a leisurely life. (Okay, I have legit writerly aspirations that take me outta town quicker than a Springsteen song, but that's neither here nor there for now.) What happens instead is I spend a gross amount of time thinking about ways to spend my F.U.$. on everyone who's ever gotten in my illbegotten way.

To Wit:

• I would see to it that my high school library (The Steve E. Memorial Wing) be stocked full of awesome books and subscriptions to McSweeney's and Harper's and other mags high school kids don't care about. I would buy Amazon Prime lifetime memberships for my former teach's, and I'd set up a full-ride scholarship (The Steve E. Memorial Grant) for the most gangly, bepimpled booknerd with humorless taste in music produced by each year's outgoing class. I would make the English teacher lounge the nicest breakroom on school property, and all the English teachers would have unlimited access to its many laptops, archivists, rare book rooms and platinum bookmarks. All except Ms. V., who accused me of plagiarizing my 11th grade Scarlet Letter essay from a college student. She has got to be in her eighties by now, she made me hate books for six whole weeks, she tried to actually stop me from taking AP English my senior year, and she can fuck right off and can continue to do so for the foreseeable future. (The above split infinitive in intentional, and I hope she reads it and winces.)
• I'd track down the c. 1996 Circuit City assistant manager who incessantly badgered me into buying an extended warranty on my stereo, and I'd force him to give me my $60 back because I never wanted that fucking thing in the first place. I'd force him to do so by making him listen to that very stereo, which still graces my living room today, with nary a blip or a problematical quirk, with a scorpion on his face. I imagine this would involve both a scorpion wrangler and the complicity of somebody in Circuit City's HR department.
• There was a really popular girl back in college who was really pretty and really not all that interested in gangly, bepimpled booknerds with humorless tastes in music, and one Sunday I went to lunch at the campus center with my favorite du-rag on. (It was years ago, and I had not only hair but long hair, so shut up.) As fate would have it, it was also the day of the Powder Puff game, and this girl was waiting in line for bean burgers behind me, and she tapped me on the shoulder and asked if she could borrow my du-rag for the big game. I gave her the du-rag right off my head, because I guess I expected her gratitude for such a selfless act to extend itself somehow into arenas both sexual and awesome. Long story short: I'm light one du-rag and one done solid, so I'd pay her double her husband's salary to write me a three page essay about what it's like to sit at home and raise kids all day. I also get to grade the essay. With a red pen.
• I'd pay Zach Braff's personal appearance fee to come to Ohio and apologize to me. He knows why.
• I'd find the world's foremost DNA expert, and I'd have him or her take a swab of Stirfry's saliva (good luck), and I'd pay him or her enough to track down Stirf's lineage to the extent that I could locate the undergrads who adopted him, snipped his nuts, and abandoned him on the streets of Our Fair City. Then I would pay a UFC fighter to put those frat boys--forgive me, in my mind it's always frat boys for some reason--in a hold or a lock or whatever that ultimately results in wrists and ankles being broken. If it ends up being sorority girls, same deal, cept with lady UFC'ers. Point is: fuck them for leaving my precious little baby puddy puddy kitty kitty baby Stirfry puss puss to fend for himself.

Okay, I have many more, but I'm going to stop writing now because I'm an ugly, ugly human being.

How might you spend fuck you money?