Hi, my name’s Max Zuckerberg, and boy am I mad.
I mean, jeez, just a few hundred million dollars left. Dad’s gone and given away 30 billion dollars to charity, the goddam selfish schmuck.
My parents might as well have swanned off to Vegas and left me under a bridge with a cardboard box for a house, with a sign round my neck saying ABANDONED BABY. NOT REALLY DOING IT FOR US. BORED NOW. HELP YOURSELF.
It’s enough to make me do an extra doo-doo in my diamond-studded diaper and chuck up all over one of my 12 nannies. Why would dad go and do such a thing? Pissing away 99% of my rightful inheritance. It’s tantamount to negligence. I’m getting my chauffeur to put a call in to my lawyers this morning.
“If I’m only to grow up with a few hundred million, I’ll have to interact with poor unwashed people like the Beckhams”
It’s not like Pop’s stupid. He made an absolute fortune by inventing this thing where everyone gets to pretend they’re staying in touch instead of actually having to get off their backside and see each other face to face. I don’t understand it fully, being a drooling, crapping, bawling, ruddy-faced infant, but it seems that’s exactly what the world wanted.
But that’s not much help to me if I’m only to grow up with a mere few hundred million. I’ll probably have to interact with poor unwashed people like the Beckhams and the Kardashians. Such an indignity for a kid who should be buying shares in the Pope with Bono.
Mom and Pop say they’re doing it “to advance human potential and promote equality for all children in the next generation”. What fucking use is that to me? On my pittance, how am I supposed to start my own exciting new rival to Apple and Google by the time I’m five?
I keep reading their insulting, sanctimonious statement over and over. “Your mother and I don’t yet have the words to describe the hope you give us for the future.” I bet you don’t. Because I am bereft of hope. I am the emblem of the downtrodden, the exploited, the oppressed. The future? Pah! I have a future of hard graft and blackened lungs as I descend into the coal mines.
“You’ve already given us a reason to reflect on the world we hope you live in”, they say. Yeah you’d better reflect, tightwads. The world I will live in, if I even make it to my teenage years after the consumption and tuberculosis, is a world ruled by properly rich Qatari dudes who throw 2020s gala events at the Branson And will.i.am Moon Hotel, where entertainment is provided by respected novelist Willow Smith and Dame Adele of Emirates.com England. Now that sounds utterly fabulous, but I will be cleaning the toilets.
The Chan Zuckerberg Initiative, they call it. Well your skint, poverty-ravaged daughter’s about to show some initiative, you heartless thieves. Check out what’s in my diaper this time.
Loaded freelance reporter Chris Roberts has written extensively about music, film, literature and TV. He is also the author of around a dozen books.