Uncle Pennybags, re: Epstein

Dear Reader:

Last Friday, as I was taking tea in the penthouse of my luxury hotel on Boardwalk, I received notification via my trusty electronic fax machine that the latest tranche of Epstein emails had hit the proverbial wire.

Imagine my shock and dismay when I found out, from my trusted friends and colleagues no less, that my name appeared in the documents.

Oh the embarrassment! I was so upset - I damn near threw my pet dog Adam, a tiny tin scotty dog, clear across the parlor!

Ever since that moment I have endeavored to keep a low profile, barely leaving the building except for a quick trip down to Baltic Avenue for a big bowl of borscht. I travelled incognito - that is to say without the top hat - however the jackals at the press still managed to find me. And as these “journalists” continue to comb through more and more emails, I’ve begun to fear that there will be no Passing Go without first rounding the board so-to-speak.

Therefore, I may as well come out with it. 

Yes, my name appears in the files (Milburn Pennybags, for those of you in the hoi polloi who erroneously call me Mister Moneybags).

No, I did not molest anyone. Firstly, I am not a creep - I am simply an elderly man with beady black eyes and a perfectly non-suspicious white moustache in place of a mouth. Secondly, as a two dimensional creation of the Parker Brothers, I lack any sort of rendered genitalia.

I feel I should make clear that I barely knew Jeff. Honestly, I didn’t even like him that much. I mean, did you read any of this man’s emails? He had a Hungry Hippo’s grasp of the English tongue. The man wrote like he was smashing his testicles against the keyboard.

Brilliant financier - don’t get me wrong, he was ‘great with money’ and had stellar connections to all of the top perverts in the world - but functionally he had more in common with the creeping slime growing inside of a discarded leather shoe than he had with a human being. 

He was such a boor that we hardly spent any time together at all.

Now, did he help connect me to the Saudi Sovereign Wealth Fund to finance a new hotel on Park Place? Sure.

Did he manage to get me a one-on-one judo lesson with Vladimir Putin after I mentioned to Jeff how much I admired the Russian strongman at my great-niece’s fifteenth birthday party? Fine. You got me.

Did he ask me to collaborate on a conspiracy to ruin the internet and turn it into a cesspool of misinformation easily manipulated by the wealthy and powerful by appealing to disaffected young men? Look, no comment. And, honestly, I’m recording your IP address just for asking that question.

But so what? These are but a drop in the bucket compared to all the other heinous acts of depravity taking place around town. You want dirt on the two-dimensional wealthy set? Bruce Wayne is into feet - did you know that? Were you aware that Batman is a Quentin Tarantino-level footboi? I doubt you did. 

I have an entire dossier on Mr. Rich - Richie Rich’s dad - and no matter what you guess is in there, I promise you it’s much worse. 

I mean for chrissake Daddy Warbucks lives with an orphan girl and you’re coming after me?!

Look at Scrooge McDuck - he goes around with no pants on! You want to crucify me, your kindly old Uncle P-Bag, and meanwhile the miserly mallard with the weird corkscrewed penis gets a free pass to go skinny-dipping in a vault of literal doubloons? Why doesn’t anyone check his flightlogs, huh? Traipsing around the world with his three adolescent nephews? That’s not weird?

Why is everything such a "duck blur" in Duckberg, McDuck? Is it because you're in a perpetual k-hole?

Look: I’m tired, okay? I’m tired of this. I’m tired of the accusations and the jealousy. I’ve worked hard for my success. You think it was easy, stealing a board game that was originally created to demonstrate the evils of the rental economy and the virtues of Georgist tax policies and repackaging it as a pro-capitalist party favor? 

No, it was not easy. But I did it anyway, using nothing more than elbow grease and a righteous thirst for money - as well as the proceeds I gathered from occasionally raiding the community chest and also I may or may not have slipped myself a $500 bill every now and again from the bank. 

My point is, I deserve to be rewarded for my success. Rewarded with tax breaks and favors and the occasional backrub by an Eastern European woman - which to be clear, I never did and have no interest in doing ever.

For the love of Pete, what’s the point of being rich if you can’t get away with whatever you want? Honestly, why even do it? You’re making this no fun. You and your outrage and your desire for fairness and equity and respect and a puritanical abstinence from pedophilia are making this whole ‘being wealthy’ thing a huge bummer.

Listen, we all know we’re going to get away with this, right? This whole Epstein thing? We all know there will be no consequences for the rich and powerful. Remember the Panama Papers? No you don’t, and that’s my point.

So can we just forget it? Can we pretend like nothing ever happened? Let it go, and I promise - next time you order that large fry, maybe I’ll slip you a special game piece or two.

And with that I must leave you - Aunt Pennybags is suing me for divorce and I have to hop in the old tin race car and head over to my lawyers offices before the old lady steals half of my railroads.

Fond regards,

Rich Uncle Milburn Pennybags

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Love you, -Nat