Fun Coupons! How Five Finance Execs Are Spending Their Bonuses

Despite having helped Jho Low swindle the Malaysian people of a couple of billion dollars, my firm rewarded me with a pretty nice bonus this year, ensuring that I keep my mouth shut and not take any of my bosses down with me when the Feds come knocking. 
 

My first order of business will be to hit the Richard Mille store on 57th street, where I will be told that nothing is available for purchase except if it has diamonds on it. I will then walk across the street to Audemars Piguet where they will say the exact same thing to me, offering me a pastel-colored diver for my troubles. The Patek salon at Tiffany will be next, where they will say, "No, we don't have any," before I even open my mouth to ask.
 

With all this blood money burning a hole in my pocket, I meander over to Cellini on Park Avenue and plunk down $140K on an independent watch that I can’t pronounce, and that will lose 60% of its value the minute I wear it. Tax write off for the year now complete, I head over to the Garden with my high-end escort in tow, and watch the shittiest team in sports, the New York Knicks, from my expensed courtside seats. Guess I'll be maxing out my 401K contribution again this year.
 

Well, hookers of course – that pretty much goes without saying but thought I might as well be clear about it.
 

Things are going great right now, but you can never tell when the Apocalypse might be at hand. And as it’s pretty well established that the only things that will survive a nuclear holocaust are cockroaches and Goldman Sachs, I’m going to be prepared. As a start, I think something like a Soviet-era T54 Main Battle Tank should come in pretty handy for getting Uptown.
 

It looks like science hasn't solved the crucial challenge of long-term preservation of caviar and truffles, so we'll have to go with a big supply of emergency rations – the ones with the 25-year shelf life.

And hookers. I mentioned them, right? Ok, well, moving on.
 

As for portable stores of wealth, I'm thinking that even after most of the inhabitants of the Earth have been blown away, there will be a shortage of steel Rolexes, so I'm going to buy several steel Daytonas and Pepsis – and maybe even a few of the new Batgirls. Of course, I'm fully prepared to pay double retail.
 

It’s that time of the year again where birds are singing, flowers are blooming, and I start feeling like Scrooge McDuck as my yearly bonus finally hits my private bank account (that my husband doesn’t know about).
 

Somehow, my husband still believes that we are in an imaginary recession and my private equity firm had to tighten its belt. Yet another year where I need to find a clever little lie for my husband so I can tell him that we can't afford that ridiculous sports car he’s been dreaming about. After all, I’m the one wearing the pants, and I need to finance my lifestyle with parties at hotels, supposedly “working late” while he takes care of the kids and their constant need for attention.
 

Unlike my colleagues that will probably spend it in luxury escorts so they will look appealing and "cool," I'd rather give the green bills for a good bottle of Dom Perignon and treat myself to a luxury watch. That is all part of my attire when I'm "working late," gotta look the part. Judging by what I’ve seen on the news and specialized blogs, I probably won't have any luck with a popular Rolex or Patek unless I buy four gold ones, trade a few favors, and wait a couple of years. I’ll be luckier to head straight to the infamous 47th street in my black Prada jacket and get my hands on a Rainbow Daytona. My husband wouldn’t notice it, would he? I don’t think so! It doesn’t matter, and I’ll never tell him how much it costs anyway.