I want to be a billionaire so my tackiness can be unbound.
The very first things I'd buy would be a Craftmatic Adjustable Bed and The Clapper, the epitome of billionaire bedroom cool. The night stands by the bed? Those will be coolers because those of us with really bad taste cannot be too far from our Budweiser at any time. Or our SunnyD, we need to think of our health.
My library/office (where I'd write romance novels as a hobby) would be a real museum-type library. I'd spend hundreds of thousands of dollars looking for and buying every single Harlequin Presents and Loveswept ever written. On the walls would be Solie, Paul and Gignilliat originals paintings so that I can tell the other snobs (once you become a billionaire there’s a club of snobs you are forced to join) that I have Solie, Paul and Gignilliat originals, only I won’t tell the snobs that the oils are the originals of romance novel covers. Over the fireplace, in the place of honor, a portrait of Dame Cartlandt in all of her fluffy pink glory will hang. No, not by the neck.
I'd like to have fun in my Art Room. There'd be a Benniton color coalition of gigantic-headed, sad-eyed children paintings on the wall plus display cases full of castles and chess sets. Two tier display cases tastefully scattered in path-blocking disorder; on tier of each case would have a miniature castles and the other tier, chess sets. I'd have a case for sand castles and chest sets, wood castle and chest sets-- crystal, pewter, gold, silver. . .. When visitors scream for relief from the gaudiness I'd usher them into the Artifact Room. In here there'd be nothing but pre-Colombian, pre-Colonial fertility figurines. The unifying theme would be exaggerated genitalia. Big, club-like penises and women with 35 breasts. Asses out to here and scrotums down to there all tastefully lit and displayed with the respect ancient artifacts deserve. I'll have my guest begging for the sad-eyed, big-headed urchins.
And now that I've accidentally reminded myself of Michael Jackson, I don't care that he's a melted-faced pedophile, having an amusement park in you backyard is cool!
The final touch, the creme de la creme, the ultimate in my tacky paradise will be the bathroom. The Jungle Bathroom. The whole room would be one, gigantic steam room. Ferns and potted palms would surround the sunken tub. Vines would fall gracefully from the ceiling. You’d be able to swing on them.
Excuse me, I have to go now. Lotto is calling and my little piece of paradise in Brooklyn is waiting for me to hit it big.