Before we even get into the fact that Fifty Shades of Grey did so well that everyone at the publishing company got a $5000 bonus, let’s talk about how I’m feeling right now.
Jealous, real jealous. Mostly of E.L James. As you read this blog, she’s literally bathing in cash, in a bathtub made out of cash. Then when she’s done washing herself down with a handmade cash loofah, she’ll ask her chef (who goes by the name of Johnny Cash) to whip her up an egg-white omelette with a side of cash — cooked up nice and crispy, just the way she likes it.
You know how I know that? Because if Random House is giving away this much money to employees, it’s because they made even more money than they know what to do with. So you can only imagine what E.L James’ bank account looks like now.
Damn you E.L James and damn your billions. If only I’d obsessed over Twilight in such a fanatical way that I felt compelled to turn my sexually fantasies into the world’s best-selling book ever, I’d be the author wearing a pantsuits made of dollar bills. But alas, I did not read Twilight and instantly think “handcuffs! whips! gags!”
So while E.L James drives her car made of gold bars and rare state quarters and Random House employees wear their suits made of dollar coins, I’ll continue blogging from an upside-down trash can under an overpass, wearing nothing but a pair of tattered pajama jeans. I mean, who wants a $5000 bonus anyways. I don’t even know what I’d buy with that money anyways. Besides a slumber party with Amy Poehler. But other than that, I don’t know. It seems excessive.