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The HuffPost Guide To Blowing Your $500 Million Fortune

You're young or Viagra-fueled, a Master of the Universe, and all that cash is burning a hole in your Brioni pocket. So let's adopt my brother's psyche.
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When the four Bledin spawn entered the world, my parents marked the respective occasions by establishing what they called our "secret accounts." These accounts accumulated various cashflows -- bar-mitzvah checks, birthday presents, the occasional grandparental contribution -- until the age of 22, when we received the money and could put it toward whatever we pleased: a downpayment on a studio apartment, a post-graduate degree, a zippy little Mazda.

While having lunch with my younger brother last week, he confessed to having blown through his entire secret account -- not an insignificant sum -- over the two months after he gained access to it last summer. Not recalling any cars or apartments or anything remotely permanent, I asked him what the hell he spent it on, and he shrugged, "I don't really remember most of it. I know I used to take all of my friends out to the Four Seasons for brunch every Sunday. There was one night of bottle service that came to $3,000. And I really liked these Pumas, so I bought them in every color. Twelve pairs. Oh, and the plasma television that fell off the wall. And Baby (an untrained Pomeranian-Chihuahua mix, a small bundle of fur that ricochets off his apartment walls and shits all over the place)." I shook my head, both bewildered and in awe of such immense financial irresponsibility, and asked, "Don't you feel guilty that you blew through all that money and don't have anything to show for it?" My brother laughed this off and went back to his chicken fingers, "You don't get it, Dave. For those two months, I was the king of the world."

King of the world. It's an interesting thought. The Dow is still at 13,000, those Google shares are on the up and up, and that hedge fund venture is working its nefarious black magic. You're young or Viagra-fueled, a Master of the Universe, and all that cash is burning a hole in your Brioni pocket. So let's adopt my brother's psyche. None of this I'm-going-to-drive-a-Lincoln-Town-Car-like-Warren-Buffett-because-it-makes-me-a-humble-person nonsense. Let's leave the plight of those poor Bangladeshi orphans to somebody with a higher conscience.

Here's the HuffPost Guide To Blowing Your $500 Million Fortune:

Wake up, roll over, fumble for your cellphone, buy Spain. OK, maybe not the real Spain, but something close enough ($25,000,000)

Next up:

Beverly Hills mansion previously owned by Willian Randolph Hearst, includes 29 bedrooms, three swimming pools, tennis courts, cinema, nightclub, ghost haunting the premises whispering "Rooosebud, Rooosebud" ($165,000,000)

Underground sex lair upgrade ($30,000,000)

Magnetic floating bed ($1,600,000)

Magnetic floating first-class escort ($25,000 per week)

Bugatti Veyron($1,700,000)

Tour de l'Ile, Vacheron Constantin watch ($1,500,000)

Kiton K50 suit, exclusively tailored by Senor D'Orsi ($50,000)

All of your conspicuous consumption must have worked up quite the appetite:

Lunch at Masa ($350 per person for the omakaze), with a bottle of Number 1Dom. Romane Conti 1997 ($1,500)

Big Mac extra-value meal at McDonald's, because those slivers of foie gras shabu-shabu didn't come close to filling you up ($3.99, an extra $0.50 for the large-size)

Chocopologie by Knipschildt chocolates for the wife ($2,600 per pound)

"Enchante" Perla nightgown for the mistress ($335)

No. 5, 1948, by Jackson Pollock, which will look perfect next to your two-year-old's Spaghetti-O splatter painting you have framed above the mantelpiece ($142,700,000)

Boeing Business Jet 2 ($55,500,000)

Private jet custom retrofit, with mink fur lining the toilet seat ($2,000,000)

Tally, so far = $425,000,000. Not too shabby; we're almost there. And then it dawns on you: the yacht. The yacht. How could we have forgotten the yacht? What sort of dinky vessel can you buy for a mere $75 million? We'll have to settle for the 197-foot Alfa Four with its counter-current Jacuzzi swimming pool and aft panoramic gym ($69,000,000). While this doesn't compete with Paul Allen's 414-foot Octopus, it will have to suffice.

We've done it. We've frittered it all away. So much for curing the world of AIDS or absolving the debt of multiple third world nations. Put your feet up on your teak wood desk, light a 1937 La Corona ($1,000), take a nip of Dalmore 62 ($55,000 per bottle), and bask in the knowledge that you've just blown through $500 million dollars, all over a standard workday.

As my brother would say, it's good to be king.

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