This morning on the radio I heard the hundredth interview with someone who lost his fortune to Bernie Madoff. The man complained viciously that now, after years of careful planning, he might be forced to work.

I tried to be sympathetic. Let’s say you had a baby bunny rabbit and kept it for years on your plush red velour couch, and fed it only milk and bon-bons its whole life. Then suddenly you cast it into the woods to fend for itself. Something like that.

(My friend has a huge, red, circular velour couch that his Siamese cats nest on. I can’t get it out of my mind. It looks like it was made from Muppet hide.)

The more the interviewer listened, the more Mr. Bunny ranted an raged. After wishing death by starvation upon Mr. Madoff and his family, he began to blame the U.S. Government, demanding reimbursement. I suppose that’s because Madoff doesn’t have any money, and the government does. And after all, they seem to be reimbursing a lot of people lately. Mr. Bunny’s voice was rising to the range where only bats could hear him as he sprayed spittle on microphone.

She asked if he had ever met Mr. Madoff. He said no, and now he doesn’t want to. He had never set eyes on the man, but still gave him $250 million dollars.

According to my investment history, I could do better with your money than Bernie. If I could get a complete stranger to give me $250 mil, I would only lose half of it.

Here’s the part I can’t get over: if I had $250 million dollars, and I lost $249 million, I’d still have one million dollars.

I understand Mr. Bunny not wanting to get a job. I’ve been unemployed for over a month now, and I’ve never been happier. I know people get rich without jobs, so I went to The Internet to find out how I could do that. I looked up the keywords Get Rich No Job. It looks like most opportunities are in telemarketing and envelope stuffing.

I was accidentally invited to a prominent lawyer’s dinner party. An attractive young drunk woman in a sequined dress, which was trying to slip away from her like everyone else, drug herself up to me and gurgled, “Are you rich?”

“Sorry, no. I’m Michael.”

Nice,” she slurred as she raised her champagne glass at my face and slithered away.