I blame it all on cartoons.

As a small child, I would spend hours in front of the television catching the hi-jinx of the Hanna-Barbera shows. Grape Ape, Touché Turtle and Hong Kong Phooey were among my favorites. But I think that the world’s richest 12-year old, Richie Rich sunk into my being more than the others. I mean, sure there could be a giant purple gorilla out there someplace. I wasn’t around back in the 17th century, a fencing turtle is still a stretch of the imagination, but a Kung Foo trained dog that masquerades as the mild mannered janitor working at the local police station is downright unbelievable.

However, the worlds richest 12-year old was someone in which I could believe. The mansions, the cars, the airplanes and the vault were all things I could touch, see and hear. My senses never let me down before so how could this not be real? Richard Rich Sr. was a self made man and he taught Richie Jr. the inner workings of wealth, how to treat people, share and other things the money-set of today’s America no longer comprehend. Forbes magazine ranked Richie Rich as the second richest on the Forbes Fictional Fifteen list (just below Santa Claus) with a net-worth above $17 billion.

All of this proved to my eager young mind that money was ample in the world and all you had to do was throw it around and it would come back to you ten fold. Share and it would be returned. It wasn’t until just yesterday that I realized, while shopping for extremely high-end furniture at the Merchandise Mart’s Sample Sale that Richie Rich led me astray.

I don’t have the bank roll of Richie’s father; I don’t have the mansion, the robot maid, or the crazy scientist working in a basement laboratory. No fleet of cars, planes, or boats fully staffed and covered in precious metals and gems. There is no vault filled with currency and bullion that I can swim in when I’m bored. No Limousine ever dropped me off at school or picked me up from band practice. The president never called me asking for financial advice (though maybe he should have called and asked someone) and I doubt the police will look to me and my vast fortune (and creepy scientist- in a child molesting way- working in the basement) to solve their missing children and/or stolen goods cases.

No. Money for me, I now understand, will be a constant struggle to amass. Budgeting and hard work are the only paths open to me (unless my new bf somehow decides to amass a fortune and offers me the coveted house-husband position I’ve dreamt of).

Thank you Richie Rich for destroying my life and for leading me in the wrong direction. I trusted you. I believed in the stories you told, the web of lies you wove and the sparkle of riches you made me believed were as easy to get as a glass of water.

At least with Johnny Quest, I knew that gay love was something to be quietly proud of. Dr. Quest and Race Bannon’s love for each other was silent but proud. They knew they could count on each other when there was danger, they could rejoice in each other when the cases had been solved and they showed it at the end of every episode when they would look into the other’s eye and know they were in love. The love of Race and Dr. Quest re-enforced that I wasn’t sick or wrong, their love gave me hope for my future and you gave me lies and deceit Richie. LIES AND DECEIT!

So I reject you and your capitalist views on life Richie Rich. You had me tricked for some 30 years (I never claimed to be intelligent) but no more.