I make bank. By make I mean build. I get out my tool belt and go to Home Depot and buy supplies and go to Fifth Avenue because that's a good address for a bank and I take off my shirt because I always build things with my shirt off but it's winter and freezing cold so I put my shirt back on and I build a bank. It's not that big, only four feet by four feet. But it's still a bank. I put money in my bank. I'm on first-name basis with my teller, who is a homeless man living in my bank. I'd like to be a millionaire, I tell the teller. The teller adds a few zeros to my checking account balance. Can I get a raise? he says. Ask the bank manager, I say. The bank manager is a mouse who also lives in the bank. He's a good manager: tough but fair. He likes to count the money. Sometimes he nibbles on it but mostly he counts it. Later I found out he was embezzling money from the bank to support a cocaine habit that developed when he was a test mouse in the lab. He went to mouse rehab and he's living in Florida now, married with 132 kids. I donate to his charity he started for recovering mouse addicts. I can do that because I'm a millionaire. Cha-ching.