High Finance is Paradise

You've just been accepted to Wharton. Shit. Your dream school was Bama, with ASU as a backup. Shit. Now your dad is making you go to Wharton, where you'll be surrounded by geeky broads instead of the hottest sorority girls at Bama. Shit. Your friends Brad, Thad and Preston all got accepted to Bama and they plan on rushing Theta Chi. You're mad as hell. You yell at dad, mom and sis and threaten to drop out and move to Miami if they don't let you go to Bama. Dad shuts you up by offering to buy you a Ferrari if you go to Wharton. "I can tolerate Pennslyvania for four years if it means I'll be driving a 'rari." you thought.

So after a summer of getting hammered and possibly spreading STIs around the state, you haul ass to Penn in the fall. You say goodbye to your 6 girlfriends. citing "Bro, long distance relationships never work out. Nice knowing ya." and hop on the morning flight after packing your multiple Juuls, your preworkout, your stringers and your "Saturday Are For The Boys" poster.

You land in Pennslyvania and you think to yourself "This place is cold as fuck, I should've brought a coat.". At first, you're cold, hungry and irritated, but you perk up at the first sight of a Penn State future sorority girl because you're Chad and girls are drawn to you like moths to a flame. "Hey, Penn State isn't so bad. I wonder why I hated this place so much.". Little did you know, your Chad brain cells thought you were going to Penn State instead of UPenn. You didn't find out until you followed that sorority rushee to Penn State and scrambled around campus for two days trying to find your dorm while sleeping on the floor of that girl's dorm, until you called your dad and raised hell, ranting about how Penn State is a maze and you've been homeless for two days. As soon as your old man heard "Penn State", he started laughing obnoxiously until he wheezed "Dumbass. You're going to University of Pennslyvania, not Penn State." 

WHAT?! You're shocked. "Why would they name two universities after the same damn state?". Apprehensively, you approach Penn after saying goodbye to your new, short-lived girlfriend at Penn State. You can smell the unshowered engineers and filthy computer scientists as you step foot on campus. You look around and see ugly, untanned, skinny women and fat, geeky, greasy guys. You thought to youself "How was I even accepted here? These kids have too many braincells. Dad must've made an 8 digit donation to get me in." 

The next four years are a blur. You rushed Pi Kappa Alpha and got a bid. You ran around having coffee with bankers, snacking on mediocre pastries while at networking events, attending white tie dinners and golfed with VPs and MDs around Pennslyvania and New York. You got hammered every weekend, whether at your own parties or driving 120 miles to Penn State's. You got a PWM internship first summer, followed by a ER internship at Merrill Lynch, then finally a PE internship at Blackstone. You graduated with a 4.0 and summa cum laude, elected to Phi Kappa Beta. Was that Wharton? Was that Trump, Buffett, Moelis and Musk's alma mater? The best business school under the sun! No way, right? That was easy. But you're Chad, everything comes easy for you. Women, money, fame, gains. 

You reluctantly start full time at Blackstone. Your bros at Kappa Sigma are green with envy. But fuck them, one of them slept with your 14th girlfriend in your junior year. You sign your offer, promising 230,000 base with "discretionary" bonuses targetted at 130%. What the fuck? You phone dad and absolutely lose it. "230,000 for 90 hours a week? Dad, these guys are treating me like a sweatshop worker in Bangladesh?". Your dad calmly replies "Even if 2007 happens again, you're getting your bonus in full. That "discretionary" was put in by their legal monkeys. You calmed down a bit and put down your ziploc baggie of cocaine. Life is good. You're Chad, living with two frat brothers in Murray Hill, on track to make over 500k this year. Your dad is a feared tycoon in the pharmaceutical industry, but most importantly, he's far away from you, down in North Carolina. 

The next three years are a blur. All you remembered was modelling, snorting cocaine, getting hammered at happy hour and dating a new Instagram model every month. Your dad tells you to apply to some prestigious scholarship to get another degree. You apply and interview to stop his nagging. 

Was that Blackstone? The world's biggest Private Equity firm? Where kings and heroes are made? That was easy. The entire office felt like one big frat house but with girls and balding guys. 

"I'm fucking tired of New York. It rains all the time, I can't bring females on my yacht and I don't have time to play golf. I'm going to get a MBA." you thought. So you decided to apply to some business schools that were also party schools. You wasted 4 years of your life surrounded by hardos at Wharton. You're going to a real party school this time around. You decide on USC. Decent school, great females, weather and city. It's in the middle of LA. "The girls will be a step up from NYC for sure", you thought. 

So you told some of the bankers above you to pull some strings and write some letters to get you into USC. They all laughed and brushed you off, saying "USC? You're at fucking Blackstone. You can get into HBS just based off our brand name. Just tell them you're at Blackstone and you'll be a shoo-in.". That hurt your feelings. "USC is great!", you protested. Fuck them. You're going to be in middle of LA while they're stuck in an office in New York. Sayonara.

You're jumping with excitement, calling your sister Candice to tell her you got accepted to USC and are finally going to a state with good weather. You're talking to her about her job at McKinsey until your dad yanked the phone away from you and say four dreadful words. "You got the scholarship." Shit. You forgot where the scholarship was even for. Your dad then tells you how proud he is that you're a Rhodes Scholar and how you're carrying on the family legacy. "Huh? Isn't Rhodes an island?", you thought while dad threw praises at you. "What the fuck is a Rhodes Scholar? Can I use this scholarship for USC?". Your dad then says six more dreaded words. "You're going to Oxford next month."

Turns out, the scholarship your dad told you to interview for was the Rhodes Scholarship. You're going to Oxford for a Masters in Economics. You tear up at the thought of losing California and its beaches, and turn red with anger at the thought of going to some castle in middle of foggy Britain. You already texted some sorority girls who knew your sister that were also at USC or UCLA for their MBA that you were going to USC and could go in time for yacht week. 

Again, you raise absolute hell to your dad. This is the second fucking time he sent me off to a different school full of ugly girls. I'm not taking his shit. I'm going to USC and partying in LA for two years.

You changed your mind and packed for Oxford when your dad said he would leave the pharmacy empire to your sister Candice instead, if you didn't go to Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar. 

You step foot on Oxford. Your college, Christ Church blew your away. "This isn't a university. This is a fortress straight out of Game of Thrones". You stop seething when you find out the girls at Oxford are hot. Like drop dead gorgeous. The guys aren't shabby either, but you don't swing tht way. After all, you're Chad and you wouldn't be caught dead in bed with a man. 

The next two years go by in a blur. You strutted around castles and manors studying economics. You made friends with dozens of fellow Brads, Thads and Tuckers, some who were Rhodes Scholars like you. None of them were in financé, they were all in politics or law. "What the hell? These guys are nice, but why aren't they making 2 million dollars a year at Blackstone like me?". You get hammered in London pubs with hot girls. You meet girls from UAL who brought you to Soho House. You play golf at Saint Andrews with your politician friends. 

You start recruiting for Investment Banking, which was easy since you're at Oxford. After you graduated with a first, you go to Barclays in Canary Wharf and start as an associate. Life is good. You're an associate. No more getting whipped by big boys. You are the big boy now. You spend the next two years whipping analysts under you and dating hot girls at BCG across the street. Life is good. You're in paradise.

Your paradise is shattered when you see on the news that one of your politician friends who's a senator is accused of insider trading. You're fucking mad. "What the fuck? This guy made 670 million dollars last year by insider trading? I'm in the wrong fucking profession.". You print out a letter of resignation with the Barclays letterhead, drop it off at your MD's desk and leave, fuck the vesting period. 

You call your friend Thad who's now the Prime Minister of England. He says "yeah, I'd make you Minister of Finance or some shit in a heartbeat, but you weren't born in the UK. Sorry bro, you gotta go across the pond and run there." Shit. You fly to Washington DC, meeting with your Rhodes Scholar friends, who all say they'll fund you if you run for senator in North Carolina.

Life is paradise. You've just won the election. Your dad funded your war chest with 17 million dollars. You're insider trading like a maniac. You've just made 230 million dollars and it's not even the end of the quarter yet. Life is paradise, you've found the hottest girl you've ever seen in your life in Monaco to marry. You're living in a Miami penthouse with her, while attending to your senatorial duties occasionally. You make some side change taking money from your old bosses in Investment Banking and Private Equity who need favorable regulations. Life is good. You're Chad, barely in your late 20s and crushing it.