Then, when the snobby salesman asks for your driver’s license, pull out that wallet, rip open that Velcro, and just barely flash some of those funky bills. Wait till he kinda frowns, then laugh and casually say, “I really gotta start separating my yen from my rubles, you know?”

He’ll be so impressed by what a legit international player you are, he won’t even notice that colossally shitty address of yours. You’re welcome.

11. The Moment of Truth

By now, you and the posh slick sales dude should be walking toward your diamond-black-on-steel-black 2021 Lamborghini Aventador SVJ.

You are on the verge of having an experience of divine religious bliss without equal in your life.

Your heart is pounding like an ancient Druid warrior on a ceremonial drum. Your armpit sweat is gushing like the mighty tributaries of the Amazon. The neurons in your brain are firing like a nine-volt Duracell.

You’re about to reach a whole new level of smoke and thunder and speed and MORE SMOKE!

Your posh slick sales guy, on the other hand, is about to enter a whole new world of bleeding out.

His nasal passages are starting to feel a little crackly. There’s a slight tickle behind his eyeballs, right in a spot he can’t quite scratch unless he wants to pierce his retina. He’s feeling a warm, sticky mess of goopy red fluid build in his sinuses and start to work its way down his nose.

That goopy red fluid, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, is blood.

And the posh sales dude is looking at you, and he’s taking you in. He’s taking in your black ribbed T-shirt and your pure-gold-plated medallion. He’s taking in your normally flabby yet recently toned physique. He’s taking in your mullet and your mustache and your obvious mental imbalance and the fact that you had a bunch of what looked like Monopoly money stuffed in your middle-school wallet.

And he’s thinking, “Can I really trust this absolute tool bag with my precious, irreplaceable, literally million-dollar vehicle?”

And before he can say no fucking way, the dam breaks and an eruption of blood bursts from his sinuses. He’s trying to stop the flow by stuffing a fancy silk handkerchief up his nostrils, followed by deli napkins, gum wrappers, important legal documents, and crumpled paper from the garbage can, because now this is a fucking gusher. He looks at the precious, perfect Lambo and realizes the horror of even one drop of his blood touching that fine black Corinthian-leather interior. He screams, “DEAR GOD NO!” and just before he runs away sobbing and crying, in one world-shifting, timeline-twisting moment of truth—he drops the keys in slow motion. Right into your waiting hand.

And just like that, that Lambo is all yours. For at least five minutes, after which he will call every cop in the state to bust your ass.