I’m just a normal, average billionaire. If you prick me, do I not bleed the same virgin-transfused blood as any other billionaire?
I come from humble beginnings. My grandfather supervised the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, and he tragically lost much of his money and assets in the fire. I’m a child of two poor parents collectively barely worth hundreds of millions. I watched them struggle to overcome taxation, labor unions, and tipping. They inspired me to pull myself up by my own rhino-skin bootstraps made in a sweatshop that, guess what, I own.
I’ve worked hard for my billions of dollars, and I deserve all of it despite what the IRS may claim. Compared to a minimum wage worker—who, what, makes a hundred grand a year?—I work ten thousand times harder during my grueling twenty hour workweek. As a job creator, it is incredibly difficult to decide which friend’s child I should throw a few million at and watch them scramble to make me profit.
I’m not one of those out-of-touch billionaires. Like the common man, I care deeply about the environment and what natural resources it can offer me. For example, I’ve never used a plastic straw in my life. Instead, I drink exclusively from disposable golden chalices. And I’m not ostentatious when it comes to my transportation! In addition to my jetpack — which isn’t even made of gold — I only own two personal on-call luxury planes, only one of which is made of gold.
I too have watched some of my good friends face the prison system. Take for example, my good, poor friend Jeff who sadly died while in prison. “Why do the good always die young?” I ask my in-house medical team every day, as a threat.
Taking all this into consideration, please do not eat me. I beg of you. Take my infant instead. Trust me, newborns taste better.