Welcome, neighbors, come on in. There’s plenty of room for everyone, aside from God. He has no place inside this well-ventilated, open-concept embodiment of runaway capitalism.
What you see before you is my 14,000-square-foot testament to taste, triumph, and unrepentant hubris. A five-bed, six-bath new-construction McMansion with a gaping spiritual wound that can never truly heal.
Let’s start in the foyer, which doubles as a waterpark and triples as a shrine to me. The marble floors are hand-cut from an Italian quarry that geologists begged us not to touch. The chandelier? They found it inside a meteor already shaped like that.
I spared no expense. Especially not on humility.
Over here is the living room. I’ve actually never been in here before. Vaulted ceilings that touch the second heaven, twelve Corinthian columns (structurally unnecessary, spiritually confrontational), and a roaring fireplace powered by a small but persistent coal fire deep within the earth. Is it environmentally sound? No. But is it efficient? Not really.
Now, please direct your gaze to the kitchen. Not for cooking, lord no! We have Postmates. But we do have a thirteen-burner Viking range, two walk-in fridges (both empty), and a spiral ham encased in resin. The island is so large that it has its own HOA. The countertops? Carved from pure astatine. Highly radioactive stuff. Could have fed an entire village for a year with how much I paid for that, FYI.
Follow me upstairs via the golden escalator. It’s just like the one Trump had, except five workers died making it. It’s haunted.
Also, the escalator only goes up, so you’ll have to slide down a bunch of silk scarves I had the help tie together. Very chic, very unsafe. OSHA has been here nine times.
Here is the primary bedroom, or as I like to call it, “The Throne of Flesh.” King bed? Please. That’s for plebeians. This is an emperor bed, thirteen feet wide, custom made from the bones of extinct forest creatures most have never even heard of. Mattress Firm will sell you this bad boy only if you have an Amex black card and a personal endorsement from the Illuminati. Above the bed is a mural of me riding a lion into battle against modesty. It glows at night. Not with electricity, but with spiritual discomfort. Unfortunately, it’s too bright for anyone to sleep in here. Still worth it.
Now, let’s step outside to the yard. The landscaping was designed to resemble Babylon, pre-fall, naturally, but with more water features and several nude models I hired as living statues. Please don’t feed them.
We installed a full-size Roman aqueduct even though we’re on city water. Just hoarding for the sake of hoarding! And yes, that’s a twenty-four-hour flamethrower fountain spelling out my name in cursive.
Over there’s the infinity pool, which literally mocks God by being both infinite and chlorinated.
And finally, the roof features a concrete and soapstone statue of me, standing an extremely petty six inches taller than that inferior Jesus the Redeemer statue in Brazil. It’s been struck by lightning twelve times!
Is it all a bit much? Well, perhaps. Am I technically violating forty-seven zoning laws? Who isn’t? Whatever, I can afford the fines. But if God wanted me to build modestly, He wouldn’t have given me generational wealth and a complete lack of internal regulation.
All I know for sure is that while this may not be the most structurally sound house around, it’s certainly the most lavish. And no act of God would ever befall it.
Anyway, thanks for the housewarming gift. You can just throw out the edible arrangement. I waste so much food.
Please feel free to worship the golden calf on the way out!
