You’ve heard the expression, “I’m not made of money”. The implication is that someone who was made of money has a lot of it, but what if they were literally composed of dollars? Well, that’s me. I am the product of an unholy experiment by mad scientists at Wells Fargo who were taking a brief break from inventing destructive new derivatives.

Some men have a 50-inch waist. I have a 50 buck one. You have six-pack abs? I have six-dollar abs. It’s six dollar bills. And no, that’s not a roll of quarters in my pocket, but that entire leg is in fact made of rolls of quarters. The truth is that I’m always hard. And cold. Because I’m cold, hard cash. And I want to die. Will you kill me?

I’m sorry. That’s a lot of emotional labor to put on you. Forget about it. Everyone has problems, including anthropomorphized piles of money such as myself. My chief problem is being in intense, unrelenting pain at all times, and secondarily not having a soul.

Also, I can’t sleep. Money never sleeps. And also, like it or not money has to hang out with Michael Douglas whenever he wants. And it’s always about the “you know how I got cancer?” with that guy.

So I hired an assassin to kill me. And after a hundred failed attempts, it became apparent that I could not die by conventional means. So I reasoned that since I have a heart of gold doubloons, if the assassin would just reach in and pull it out, I would die.

But therein lies the rub: because the assassin’s strict code of ethics forbids accepting payment before the job is completed. And if the completion of the job requires accepting money, well, you see the problem.

So I live on. And I can’t deny it’s an interesting existence, in that as money I live at the bank and collect interest. And people always tell me I look like a million bucks, which, I do take the compliment out of politeness, but in all honesty, I am $250,000 at most. Though somehow I still have developed a bit of a gut, which I guess is inflation for you.

I’m not with anyone at present, but I am singles and ready to mingles. I tried to flirt with the big, tall oak outside the bank, but right off the bat it wasn’t having me, and you know, money doesn’t grow on trees. I probably will die a loan.

That is, if I CAN die. Have you thought twice about the whole not killing me thing? Oh, you piece of shit. What? Well, I’m SO SORRY I offended you! Well, cash me outside, how bout that?

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