I’m real obsessed with the Gold Rush and the wild wild West. Growing up, I told my Momma all I wanted to be was a gold miner. She told me “Sonny, that’s ain’t a thing no more.”
So I, Sonny Chump, became a Wall Street trader instead. And I’m successful, I make a good amount of money, and I’ve got a Manhattan penthouse. But I’ve spent my whole damn life just aching to roll up my sleeves and crack at the dirt like it’s 1849 and my wife and kids are dying of scurvy, longing to dig dig dig through muck until I find a glimmer or streak of gold and scream “Eureka!” WHOO! Just thinking of it always gets me. God, I want to be a gold miner so bad.
That’s why I go to high-end restaurants exclusively to order their gold leaf-topped pizzas and 24k squid ink pasta. People think I’m flashy and high-balling and whatnot, but please understand, I’m just waiting for the next 6 to 8 hours to pass so I can dig at my shit.