Ugh, rich people. They’re always making us regular Joes feel so goddamn… poor. They drive around in their fancy-schmancy white stretch limos, eating caviar and endangered, baby mammals with their pinky sticking out, all while perpetually drowning in a sea of diamonds and mink stoles (paws still attached, of course).

Dickens might have described my younger self as “a young gentleman with the particular misfortune of having been born bereft of any expectations at all.” On the other hand, all of my friends would have garnered expectations up the wazoo. You see, I grew up with rich kids and while

The natural enemy of the broke-ass is the rich person. Not just any millionaire, the super-rich. The kind of rich that automatically turns you into a super villain. And this time of year is a rich person’s favorite. They leave their tropically heated condos, and as their doormen unleash them