Hah, while you have been scurrying about, night and day, trying to get your crops planted, I have been agonizing over the color of the Porsche convertible I will be ordering. Shortly.
And that's just my Saturday/Sunday car. For weekdays, I'm thinking of a Mercedes. You know, the BIG one. The one with little windshield wipers on the headlights (which of course will be the new, trés çhic, brilliant white lights that blind all the everyday people who have only ordinary lamps on their cars and SUVs). Plus, a fancy GPS system that will help me effortlessly navigate to only the finest restaurants. And my private banker.
I have also been spending a good deal of time trying to decide whether I'd prefer my winter villa somewhere on the Mediterranean coast or perhaps in the South Pacific. Fiji, maybe. Or Bora Bora. No more nasty, bone-chilling Delta winters for me. It's gonna be warm sun, sparkling beaches, and stunning turquoise water. I had momentarily thought of a place in the South of France. But well, things being the way they are between Mr. Bush and France these days, I guess not. He may well invade them and outlaw snails in garlic wine sauce as weapons of mass heartburn. Then where would I be?
For my summers, perhaps a modest-but-elegant 12-room, custom-designed lodge somewhere on one of the incredibly blue mountain lakes of the Great Northwest, where the days are long, the breezes pleasant, the skies cloudless, and the colors of grass and flowers so intense it takes your breath away.
Oh, I almost forgot: The jet. I'm torn between one of the deluxe Learjets and a Gulfstream. No more airport waiting for me. No more surly airline employees. No more peanuts and pretzels. No more tubercular seatmates coughing on me, or shrieking babies.
Just hop aboard and away I go, munching the array of gourmet goodies prepared by my personal chef. To my villa in Fiji. Or Bora Bora. Or the modest-but-elegant lodge in the Great Northwest.
Ah, I can see that you're skeptical. I can sense your disbelief. I can hear you mentally asking (with more than a trace of envy, I can't help but notice) how this can be. How can one who — sans rich uncles or lottery jackpots — having toiled a lifetime in the unglamorous milieu of the Fourth Estate, now ascend to the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous?
Well, I can't give too much away, but here's a hint. E-mail.
There it was, lurking in the queue of offers for mortgage refinancing, term life insurance, unmentionable male/female products, DisneyWorld vacations, and other electronic junk mail — an earnest plea from Dr. Guis Obaseki, who obtained my name from the Nigerian Chamber of Commerce and Industry (I didn't even know they knew me!). Because I have such a sterling, upright reputation, Dr. Obaseki asks me to assist in transferring US$35,600,000.00 from a dormant bank account in his country to the U.S. For my assistance, he will give me 25 percent! All he needs is my bank account number, Social Security number, and a bit of other personal info, and I can score an easy $8 mill and change. Is that a deal, or what?
But wait. It gets better. Two days later (Dr. Obaseki obviously having told others of my reputation and superb business acumen), an e-mail from Ms. Nanda Kutanda implored that I assist her in transferring and selling gemstones worth at least USD$12.5 million, for which she will give me a generous percentage.
Next day, Eng. Samuel Zuma of the South African Ministry of Energy and Mineral Resources, sought my assistance in moving US$14.3 million, for which I will “be entitled to 30 percent of the money.”
And this very morning, Mrs. Margaret Fofana, “wife to the late Chief Vincent Fofana from Sierra Leone,” asks my help in transferring $25 million USD “in trunk boxes deposited and declared as precious stones by my late husband.” For which I will receive 20 percent! Ka-chung, ka-chung.
Then, in one day, similar requests from Mr. Dada Guei, David Dakosa, Mobuta Ada James, and Mr. Emmanuel Stevens, all wanting to share their millions with me.
In the mere space of one week, these desperate-but-rich African people have shown me the road to riches.
As I expect my cuts from their generosity will be more than sufficient to support my new lifestyle for whatever years I have remaining, I will not be greedy. Since I am one in whom the African desperately wealthy class has obviously placed great trust, I expect other offers to be forthcoming — which I will be willing to share with YOU.
Just e-mail me your bank account number(s) and…