You receive calls from creditors at all hours of the day and not one of them inquires as to whether you have any money stashed in an offshore tax haven or in a shell company.
You don’t have any money in an offshore tax haven. It was all stashed in the smoldering pile that was once your mattress.
You vow never to smoke in bed again and find it very doable now that you can no longer afford a pack of cigarettes and don’t own a bed.
Your eccentric uncle dies and bequeaths his Pepsi memorabilia collection to you.
Your normal uncle dies but doesn’t leave you his stake in a multi-billion-dollar pharmaceutical conglomerate.
You can’t afford to fly to Montana to pay him your respects.
You try to think of ways to become a real-life Tony Montana.
None of your close friends belong to a country club.
Your card was declined when you tried to join Sam’s Club.
You’re unable to donate large sums of money to prominent art museums.
You solicit small sums of money outside of prominent art museums.
You are not on a board of directors.
You will soon need room and board.
Your family name isn’t associated with a nationwide public health crisis.
Your family name can be linked to Pepsi memorabilia at pawn shops all over your city.
You once left a tip that was more than your bill and didn’t feel financially irresponsible.
You would feel responsible if something you sold caused untold pain and suffering.
You can’t afford to hire a team of lawyers or invite them to a country club.
You are assigned a lawyer free of charge to help you file for Chapter 7 bankruptcy.
You want to give him a token of appreciation but decide on a free thank-you hug.
You finally succumb to depression and find yourself hooked on dangerous painkillers.
You wait for your portion of the opioid settlement and realize it could be worse.
You tell yourself, hey, at least my last name isn’t Sackler. It really could be worse.
You wonder, why does Sackler sound like some sort of hat you put on your testicles?