JimFormation

Money can’t buy you happiness, but it can buy you marshmallows. And that’s kind of like happiness.

Money can’t buy you love, but it can rent it by the hour from a big-tittied whore off Craigslist.

Money can’t buy you happiness, but I wouldn’t mind being known as the melancholy guy who drives a Lamborghini.

Twenty or twenty-five years ago my friends and I were drinking in Joe’s basement. We were probably playing quarters — you know the game, you bounce a quarter into a cup and make someone drink a half-a-glass of beer. In our enlightened (read: drunken) state, we asked the age old question:

What would you do for a million dollars?

Everyone tip-toed up to their lines.

• Some lines were sexual: Would you bang Mimi Kay (you don’t know Mimi Kay)? Would you have gay sex?
• Some lines were physical: Would you cut off a finger? A hand?
• Some lines were action: Would you kill a person? Would you leave your family?

Those types of things.

Joe, however, was quiet. He wasn’t participating in the conversation. He was just sitting there.

Joe was kinda-sorta the leader of our group. The alpha dog. Our Slip Mahoney. He was always dispassionate, stoic. We looked to him for guidance — you know, what drinking game are we going to play? What album are we going to listen too? What movie are we going to rent? Important stuff.

I looked to Joe, “Hey, Joe. You’re not saying anything. What would you do for a million dollars?”

His eyes turned toward mine without moving his body. He reached down, took a drink, and monotoned, “I can’t think of anything I WOULDN’T do for a million dollars.”

Which leads me to what I would do if I had a billion dollars. It’s a one word answer:

Gymnasium

Of course I would do what every other rational person would do. I’d quit my job, buy a new car and house, college and trust funds, bolt-ons for the Wife-Beast, blah, blah, blah … typical crap. But what I would do with the new house is attach a hardwood floor, grade school style gymnasium to it.

The gymnasium would be the hub of the house. There would be a stage at one end, full court regulation crank down basketball nets long-wise and dunk nets the other way. It would have that center divider that accordions out. Hell, there’d be locker rooms.

I’d have mats for gymnastics and wrestling, and a long ceiling-to-floor net to hit baseballs and golf balls into. I’d have hockey nets you could pull out and ropes you could climb to the ceiling. A ping pong table.

And there’d be a huge closet stocked with every gosh-darned, grade-school gym item you could think of. Balls of all sizes from marbles to medicine balls; that stupid parachute; shuffle board stuff; those silly scooters you crab-walk on. Anything you can think of and extras in case something breaks.

Oh, there’d be adult exercise equipment: treadmills, free weights, universal weight machines and such. But who’s going to use them when you can set up an obstacle course or have a shuttle race?

The stage would be the real thing too; with stage lights and curtains and a backstage area. The kids could put on plays or I could get the band back together (I was never in a band but the term “get the band back together” has its romance).

But the stage will really function as the family room. It’ll have the big screen television and couches and chairs and pillows. Probably a big table in the back. Video games.

If I had a billion dollars, my house would have a gymnasium.

Everybody sing: