I would be a world renowned pianist, racing driver, restauranteur, club owner, real-estate tycoon, and professional golfer, enjoying only modest media attention and sponsorship deals reaching $5 billion per year. I'd have residences in Monaco, Hawaii, Japan, Florida, Southern California, Wyoming, Cabo San Lucas, Curacao, Spain, Italy, Belgium, France, and my own island in the Meditteranean. Michael Schumacher would be my chauffer, because he'd need the money. Luca de Montezemelo would wax the stable of Ferrari's - one of each model from each vintage - kept in a climate-controlled warehouse I convince the government to build for me at Fort Knox. I'd have a fleet of motor yachts, powerboats, and unique road-fairing vehicles like three-wheelers, Legends, Ariel Atoms, etc. I'd spend time being driven around the US by the Speed TV Formula 1 announce team, who would rotate through in 6 hour shifts, in a massive RV followed by 18-wheel rigs loaded with fun little race cars we'd take to small road courses across the country. I'd hire all of my close friends to do fun, unimportant jobs for loads of money - positions include BBQ chef, sushi chef, race seat filler, photo taker, skull cracker, drink mixer, etc. John Travolta would be lobotomized in a unique procedure that makes a person STFU while retaining vital communication skills and other talents, after which he would pilot my family and friends around in a customized 777 that would make Austin Powers blush. Of course, all my petrol would be free because I developed an innovative new refining technique and my own endless supply of the stuff (posthumously, the world would learn that the source of the fuel is the septic system beneath the DNC headquarters - who knew).
My estates would run the gamut between huge and palatial. Think castles. There would be huge theaters designed to satisfy my critical listening demands, affinity for live music performances, and an immense HD projection system. Hugh Hefner, Sting, and Rupert Murdoch would stop by regularly for inspiration, ultimately leaving sullen by the sheer insignificance of their own piddly hovels.
My day would be 80 hours long (while everyone else got 24), I'd never tire, never sleep, never get hung over or sick, and never age. My pecker would straighten out, I'd never put on a pound of fat, my dog would stop shedding, my son would always do the right thing cheerfully, and my friends & family would want for nothing. We'd be able to visit (or buy) any theme park and head straight to the front of every line. Dean Kamen would have been commissioned to develop a foldable self-expanding Segway that weighs 8 oz., fits in a pocket like a cell phone, and runs on a never-ending supply of tap water - we'd get the first 100 of them and dole them out to friends.
Bill Gates and Microsoft would collapse, and an amazingly easy one-click method would be found to convert any Win32 executable to full Linux or OS X binary compatibility. A 10Gbps wireless network with infinite capacity would replace our current cellular network, powered by a radical new form of quantum mechanics to circumvent the pesky speed-of-light thing, so that it no longer mattered "where" anybody was ever again.
The Moller flying car technology would be perfected, licensed, and sold nationwide as a cost-effective replacement for transportation (a la Ford Model "T"). The Air Traffic Control system would be revised to employ GPS technology globally, and vast thousand-passenger hypersonic transport systems the size of Rhode Island like moving mansions would be commonplace. The moon would be made inhabitable, so that we could round up all the assholes and ship them off for good. They'd be easy to spot - it'd be anybody who wishes they could round up all the assholes in the world and send them to another planet....er, except for me....
Oh, and Al Gore would publicly apologize in every country for "An Inconvenient Truth", apologizing for Clinton, and the whole 'internet' thing, because he was dead, dead wrong on each count. He would then impale himself rectally with a dismantled Russian ICBM, after having force-fed Tipper to himself.