Sometimes when I have a tough day at work, I like to go around the corner to Old Town Bar and grab a pint of Guinness. If it’s been a particularly hectic day, I might opt for whiskey. That got me thinking. How would I drown my work sorrows if I’d just gotten busted for jacking, say, $50 billion from pretty much half New York plus (literally) their moms? I’m not gonna lie: I do admire this man’s Ponzi-schemin’ hustle. And that’s why I’m here to help a brother out. Bernie, if you’re reading this, here’s a step-by-step plan to get you off the couch, make you stop sulking, and kickstart your dormant social life! Cause you’re never gonna feel better if you just lounge around watching Nickelodeon all day.
● You’re under house arrest. It’s not so tough in your luxurious Upper East Side penthouse…but…you get lonely up there all by yourself. And your family isn’t really feeling you these days. (In fact, you would’ve gotten away with it had it not been for those meddlesome kids). Maybe a dozen lithe, vapid hotties will distract you for a bit. Don’t go the Elliot Spitzer, high-priced call girl route, which turns out is fraught with danger. Instead, hire one of New York’s finest model-wrangling promoters to throw you a hottie-packed jam at your crib. A giant pillow fight with a gaggle of Estonian girls would probably take your mind off the fact that all of your golf buddies want to beat you down. Bonus: the girls don’t speak English and won’t know you from Rupert Murdoch or Dave Thomas, founder of Wendy’s.
● Turns out one of the Russian model chicks is pretty crafty and knows how to ditch the pesky ankle bracelet the law requires you wear at all times. Once Natasha has freed you from your electronic monitoring device using only a safety pin and lube, it’s time to get dressed. Before hitting the streets, you need a disguise. Select a cozy, season-appropriate Santa outfit. This get-up will keep you both incognito and toasty warm. The party beckons.
● It’s late afternoon and the Upper East Side is a snow-tinged, winter wonderland. Sleigh ride in Central Park? Hell no, you need to drink. Start at classic upper crust haunt Swifty’s. You gingerly enter, expecting to get ice-grilled by blue-blooded New Yorkers like Muffie Potter Aston or one of the Bancroft-ladies-who-lunch, but instead find the joint eerily empty. Manuel the Guatemalan busboy shrugs and informs you that the silver foxes were last spotted on the bus heading down to the Subway Inn. You shuffle out wondering if you’re somehow responsible.
● Strolling over to Le Bilboquet, you catch a haggard Steven Spielberg a few doors down lugging a cardboard box and ringing Ron Perlman’s buzzer frantically. Perlman – one of the few people in the neighborhood who never dropped a cent in your pyramid scheme – isn’t coming to the door. You cross the street and are about to enter the tiny bistro when you notice one of the execs from Ponzi-victim BNP Paribas drinking tap water with a dejected Mort Zuckerman, another of your marks. Maybe French isn’t such a hot idea.
● Next stop: Nello. As you walk into Nello’s and whip off your fake Santa beard, you immediately get a knowing wink from another Bernie who’s been embroiled in a major New York scandal of his own: Bernie Kerick, the former police commish and a regular at the posh Madison Ave. eatery. Things are looking up for the Bern-meister! Just as you’re starting to believe everything is gonna be OK, you spot a tableful of billionaires-cum-paltry-millionaires having a lunch of mac-n-cheese and water at the coveted round table. All glare in your direction. Ouch. You duck downstairs to use to restroom and run into another scandal-loving Nello regular, Al Sharpton, waiting to use the john. He gives you a bear hug and commends you for “sticking it to the Man.” You’re overjoyed by the warmth, but then you think, “Wait, aren’t I supposed to be the Man?” This will take some getting used to.
● Perhaps you truly are a man of the people now, a modern day Robin Hood, stealing from the rich and…well, nevermind. You embrace the role regardless. Head over to Bloomingdale’s, still done up in your Santa suit, and locate a sad, preppy looking tyke. You sit him on your lap with a jovial ho-ho-ho, then ask the boy his name and what he wants for Christmas. The kid turns out to be Fred Wilpon’s nephew, so you quickly scribble an “I.O.U. for One Toy Truck and $512 million” and tell him to hand it to his uncle Freddie when’s he’s sitting down.
● As you leave Bloomie’s, you scurry past the nearby Subway Inn in case one of the down-and-out Swifty’s socialites should stumble out. It’s getting dark – time for a proper cocktail. You summon the Slavic models to the Bar Mark. It looks sort of like the well-appointed cabin of your luxury yacht, which is anchored somewhere in the Mediterranean. After four Martinis you start calculating how fast a discreet jet would take you to your boat. As you mull your getaway, one of the Latvian girls amuses herself by tossing those delicious bar nuts into your fedora. Ahh, to be so young and carefree. ● It’s midnight and time to turn in. Heading home you spot fired-up society chronicler David Patrick Columbia lurking near your building, looking for a scoop. You duck down a side street, only to be recognized by a wild-haired homeless dude brandishing a cup who yells out, “Yo Ponzi dude, all I’m asking for is some change to get a pack of smokes.” You reach into your pocket and open your wallet. Next to the 50 crisp, $1 billion bills, you find a few fives and stuff them into the wild-eyed man’s cup.The bum thanks you profusely for the generosity. It’s a positive note to end the night on, so you congenially mutter something back about being a “huge E.T. fan” and smile as Spielberg shuffles off into the darkness whistling Indy’s theme.