My pseudonym was T.H. Pennybags, and I claimed to have made my fortune in real estate, buying my first hotel on Baltic Avenue in aught-three. I spoke in this bulbous, snooty accent, full of harrumphs and “pip pips!”, something like a horse simultaneously afflicted with both bronchitis and Tourette’s. It got a lot of laughs, and I spent much of the evening handing out Monopoly money (which Hasbro helpfully provides in PDF format).
This afternoon while putting things away and generally cleaning up, I pulled a crumpled wad of paper from the pocket of my jacket. It was a hastily scribbled Prescription Form for Medicinal Liquor, made out to T.H. Pennysocks, Esq., for the ailment of “thirsty,” with the prescribed remedy “anything alcoholic.” I had forgotten, but the scratched scrip brought the memory rushing back: I paid a gentleman dressed as a doctor - stethoscope and all - a total of $1500 in Monopoly money for the prescription.
I’d say it was a good buy, although maybe it would have been good to check to see if there was an expiration date.