Hello Mom and Dad,
It's me, your "Poor Little Rich Boy." Well, I'm not so little any more. But I am still rich. I'm 30 years old sitting on a 10-figure trust fund just itching to be spent. And guess what: I do what I want, when I want. Just like I always said I would.
No parents. No rules. No consequences. $50 billion buys a lot of freedom, Dad. The kind of freedom I never knew in that Nazi regime you called a mansion. I've been living off a diet of cookie dough and Ring Pops for the last two months, and I've never felt more alive.
Sure, 80 percent of my teeth have rotted to the nerve, but who cares? It's not like I'm going to the dentist ever again. Or the doctor. In fact, I've bought the First Presbyterian Hospital and next week I'm blowing that needle-filled hell hole to the ground.
So screw you, Dad. I'm living out every fantasy I've ever had. Last week I finally built that wrestling ring in my bedroom. I pay bums 10 dollars to let me give them Stone Cold Stunners. Turns out you were right about one thing though, Dad: It can break your neck.
And Mom, remember that time you caught me watching Die Hard and gave me some bullshit lecture on how dangerous guns could be? Remember? Now I own two unregistered AK-47s. And I use them. A lot. Fair warning, Bitchie Bitch: You are not off limits.
So Die Hard was too violent for me, huh? I'd hate to break it to you, but that shit looks like a fucking Disney film compared to the hardcore snuff I'm watching now. What kind of 16mm film do you think costs $2 million and is smuggled into the country via cargo vessel? I've seen genres you didn't even know existed, Mom. All of them erotic. None of them legal. Most of them Asian.
Anything goes at Rich mansion now. Anything. Say goodbye to those three years of potty training you wasted on me. Today I keep jars of my urine in a room bigger than most people's fucking houses. Yup, life's one big orgy of punishment-free manslaughter, illegal firearms, Eastern European women and, best of all, all the pancakes I can eat!