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If I Was a Billionaire

If I was a billionaire, I’d give everyone a chance to get thunderous applause from a stadium packed with fans. I’d make a list of people that I met who were particularly helpful, friendly, and just generally nice. I’d also take letters nominating people as particularly helpful, friendly, and just generally nice.

Then, each month I’d rent out a large stadium and invite or hire thousands — tens of thousands — of people to attend. I’d hire a grand host who would read the name of each “helpful, friendly, and just generally nice” person to introduce them to the assembled crowd.

The named person then would walk out onto the stage (alone or with moral support) and get incredible, personal, and wonderful applause for 30 seconds. Everyone should be able to stand on a stage and see throngs of people looking up at them, clapping, cheering, whistling, and loving them.

Everyone should get the chance to have that feeling of glory, that sensation of pure approval, even if only for half a minute. Such moments shouldn’t be reserved just for persons with some entertainment talent.

The honored person would then step off the stage to make way for the next person. There would, of course, be a commemorative photo, video, and plaque for each person, so they can see their face at the moment of applause.

Then at the end of the list of people to be introduced and applauded, I’d pick one random person from the audience — someone who voluntarily came to cheer, not someone who was hired to show up — to walk out on stage and get the last cheer of the night. I believe that someone who gives of their own time to enthusiastically support a stranger in this way deserves a chance to get the same adulation, themselves.


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If I Was a Billionaire

If I was a billionaire, I’d teach jerks and idiots what can happen when they take up two parking spaces. Or park on the line. Or otherwise make finding parking spaces a pain in the butt. Especially at malls during the Christmas shopping season.

I’d spend a few days a week cruising through parking lots looking for cars/trucks parked in impolite ways. You know, that hot little sports car that the owner things is too special to allow anyone to get near — the one parked diagonal across two spaces. I’d drive my own car right into one of the spaces, smashing and scraping up on the jackhole’s car. It might take a few tries, pulling in — CRASH — pulling back out — SCRAPE — driving in again — GRIND.

Then I’d turn off the car, get out, lock the doors, and go in the store. I’d go to the customer service desk and tell them to announce, “The owner of the hot little sports car parked in two spaces, your car has been damaged.”

I’d go ahead and call the police myself, because I’d love to hear the idiot explain to the cops how this situation came about — after all, my car would be properly parked in one space.

I would, of course, own up to the collision (after the jerk got all worked up), and pay whatever expenses were required. It’s not the money, it’s the moral. If your car is so special that you want to hog an extra space in the parking lot for it, don’t drive it to the store.

The rule is: one space to one car. If you break the rule, expect a chance that your car gets broken.

If this plan turns out to be criminal (punishment more than money), I’d use a tow truck. I’d still cruise the parking lots looking for cars parked stupid, but instead of smashing them, I’d carefully hook up the cable from the truck to the car. I’d then easily just slide the offending car over into just one space.

Then I’d wait in the parking lot, with my tow truck, for the jerk to come out of the store. I’d explain what I had to do, and I’d hand the owner a [very high] bill for the service (with a due date and a collection agency’s address). I’d get in my truck and drive away.

Of course, I’d never expect or pursue payment for the service (billionaire, you know). But maybe it would make the idiot think a bit about how he’s being an annoyance to the general public.


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If I Was a Billionaire

If I was a billionaire, I’d produce an action movie starring me. Bad guys would be after me, but with wits and wiles, I’d stay one step ahead of them. Occasionally I’d let a couple or ten thugs catch up with me, and then I’d kick their asses. I’d dodge bullets, I’d leap away from explosions, I’d drive a car through a building, I’d snap off cool one-liners.

I’d hire a bunch of Hollywood action stars to play cameos just to state how badass I am.

Bruce Willis would say, “That, fellas, is Bullgrit. You guys might want to let him go.”

Jason Statham would say, “I’ll hold your coat, Mr. Grit, so you don’t get their blood on it.”

Daniel Craig would say, “His name is Grit. Bull Grit.”

Keanu Reeves would say, “Whoa.”

Lucy Liu would say, “Mmmm.”

Samuel L. Jackson would say . . . something I shouldn’t put in this family friendly web site. The movie would have to be rated NC-17.

I’d get a personal trainer to get me in shape for the gratuitous shirtless scene. I’d burn through more ammunition than Delta Force does in a month of training. I’d wreck 13 cars. I’d buy a building just to blow it up.

I’d start teaser trailers a year before the movie is to be released. I’d pay critics to just keep their damn mouths shut.

Released at the same time as the movie would be an “unofficial” biography of me that supports everything shown in the movie as being fact. (The beginning of the movie would state, “Based on true events.”) I’d hire a cosmetic surgeon to add a couple of knife and bullet scars to my body. A bullet scar on the shoulder, small blade scar at the eyebrow — just enough to give me “character” and show how tough I am (and support the “truth” of the movie and book).


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If I Was a Billionaire

If I was a billionaire, I’d open a auto shop that specialized in customizing normal cars into real-life Hot Wheels. A car owner could bring his or her car into the shop, show us his favorite Hot Wheels car (based on his stock car), and in a couple weeks, the shop would give him back the real-world version of his toy.

The full-size vehicle would be fully functional, but style and replication would trump street legality.

The shop would charge for the customization only as much as the base stock car sold for new. But the contract for the work would include a clause that required the owner of the car to always allow any child to get in or on the car, at any time.

If the owner can’t bring himself to accept that stipulation, then my shop just won’t make his fantasy car. No kid should ever be denied a chance to touch, climb on, or ride in a real-life Hot Wheels toy.


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