How rich people really get their kids into college. I hang out with rich people, exclusive rich edition. By Darryl Smurten.
Ever since the recent scandal in which some “rich” people got their kids into “elite” schools through bribery and faking test scores, the Intergalactic Business Report has been begging me to write an article about it. They say, “Oh, Darryl, you have intimate relationships with super, ultra-wealthy people. Why don’t you find out how they get their kids into college?” They say they want an article from me that’s “relevant” and “newsworthy” instead of “scary” and “unsettling.” Here it is. I guess…
First off, I just want to say that fake actresses and lawyers are not what I consider “rich.” But whatever. The legit, super-wealthy people I know would never do what they did. To explain better, I’ll tell a story of the time I got my friend’s kid into one of the most elite universities on the planet.
Rudolphino is what I’m going to call my friend, but his real name is Eric. Anyway, Rudolphino is old and had a son who was getting old enough for college. So one day when we were finished with a helicopter race (which totally sucked because my pilot decided he was going to be “safe” and not cut through the canyon like I specifically instructed him to do) I told Rudolphino that he should seriously consider firing his helicopter pilot. Then we talked about how his son was applying to all these colleges and how he really wanted him to get in and how stressful that was and blah blah blah. People are so fucking boring when they talk about their kids.
Anyway, I told him, “Hey, you’re one of the wealthiest people in the history of Earth. Why don’t you just tell all the universities to let your son in?” He droned on for a while about how it didn’t work that way and how you couldn’t just “buy your way in” to college, and on and on. I was so tired of hearing his shit that I decided to just take care of the situation for him. I said, “Hey, Rudolphino, if I get your kid into his top school, will you shut the fuck up about this and find me some drugs and hookers?”
He didn’t answer me right away, so I left and looked around the mansion for his son, Rick, whose real name I don’t even remember, probably because I didn’t know it then and didn’t ask what it was. Rick was in his huge bedroom, playing video games, so I found a cord connected to his t.v. and ripped it from the wall. He stopped playing and looked at me like I was a home invader, probably because he’d never met me and because I started screaming at him to get on the floor with his face down.
The good news was that he followed my instructions and just lay there, terrified, while I talked about the importance of education. That seemed like the right thing to do, but I was a little drunk and angry, so it may have just come off as more screaming and I think I might have thrown up in the corner of his room. Anyway, I remember thinking, “This is how a high school advisor must feel.”
I asked Rick to tell me what school he wanted to go to. He paused, so I broke a nearby lamp. Then he said the name, which I can’t reveal but not because I want to conceal the identity of the university, but because I can’t remember. All I know is it was considered super elite and a place where “smart” people go, supposedly, even if they’re not rich. Whatever.
As I looked at Rick, I began to feel sorry for him. He was a weird looking kid, even though his parents were ultra-wealthy. Clearly, they hadn’t given him any plastic surgery or new teeth. Which, I thought, was kind of like child abuse. No wonder Rick was struggling to get into a top school—his parents were fucking monsters.
This is the point in the story where I realized how amazing I can be. There I was, in one of the biggest, most palatial estates in the world, drunk out of my mind, and yet I still was trying to help someone. I told Rick I’d be his personal college counselor and get him into his top choice university. He looked scared and asked who I was. I could feel a little more puke rising in my throat, but I held it in. “I’m your personal college counselor,” I told him. “Didn’t you fucking hear me?”
I knew then that for Rick to get into his dream school, I would need to take him away from his fucked-up parents. I asked him if he had credit cards and cash. Answer: yes. Then I told him to pack a few things and in a couple minutes, we were sneaking out of his house and heading to the airport for our first college visit. We drove in Rick’s car and I took his phone and threw it out the window so that his parents couldn’t track him and stop him from attaining his educational goals.
That’s when Rick asked a question that changed everything. He said, “Are you going to kill me or something?” I took a sip of the bottle of Absinthe I had brought along and smiled, “Oh, Rick,” I said. “I’m not your parents. I’m here to help you. Not hurt you.” Then he asked me if I had a gun.
(Side note: when someone asks you if you have a gun, never answer. It’s like if someone asks you how much money you have or if they can measure your penis. Just be silent and give an awkward smile and they’ll stop asking.)
We arrived at the university sometime the next morning. I had sobered up quite a bit, although I’d been drinking throughout the plane flight and had not slept. “This must be how a high school advisor feels,” I thought to myself as we de-boarded and took a cab to the college.
Rick asked if we should change, since he was still wearing pajamas from when I first found him. I was wearing my signature form-fitting track suit with the picture of a Chinese man shushing whoever gazes upon him. I said to Rick, “The secret of meeting anyone is to be yourself. This is you. You don’t want to pretend to be someone else.”
On campus, we found some building called “Admissions,” which was either where they admitted students or interrogated them till they confessed. Inside, I grabbed Rick and marched him past the nasty secretary who guarded the offices. She freaked out and pestered us as we looked for someone who would let us into the school. Then I found him. A man named Dean Admissions, for whom the entire building was named. Dean was kind of a dick, at first, till I started screaming at him to shut the fuck up and let Rick in. Then he became really receptive.
I placed Rick in a chair near Dean’s desk and told Dean to sit down because I had a full presentation for him. Dean sat. I paced around and thought to myself out loud, “This is it. I’m going to close this deal and this dickface is going to let Rick in or I will lose my shit and burn this whole fucking place down.”
And it worked. It totally worked. I think that’s the moral of the story. Dean said, yes, sure, of course he’s admitted. No problem. Then some SWAT team or something came in and beat the shit out of me and, I think, Rick too.
But the Dean did say Rick could go there. So I feel like I did my job. Which leads me to the point of this article—how rich people really get their kids into college. I think I learned four things about that:
1. They get a really really top college advisor to go with them on their campus visit and negotiate directly with the university.
2. They don’t pay that top college advisor, even though they really owe him a shitload of money. In fact, when he comes to them with his bill for services, they accuse him of kidnapping and all this other bullshit.
3. When the top college advisor shows up at their mansion later that week and he tries to climb over their wall, they have “security” people “remove” him from their property.
4. When the top college advisor shows up again, with gasoline and matches and tries to burn down their motherfucking house, they charge him with “arson,” which is a made- up crime.
I guess in the end, I stand in solidarity with all the lower level high school advisors and college counselors out there. Even though they’re poor and wear shitty clothes, we’re kind of the same. Except for the shitty clothes and the poorness.
Will I ever work again in the super-rich college counseling industry? Probably not, unless I’m paid up front. For now, I’m off to an elite event where poor people fight each other in a ravine and we throw things at them. Till next time, I’m out.
Darryl Smurten reports on the mega- and ultra-rich. His up-close insights about how they live provide even common peasants the ability to glimpse, if for a moment, the light of the good life. If you are ultra-rich and don’t know Darryl yet, and would like to invite him to hang out with you, please contact him at firstname.lastname@example.org. Don’t expect him to get back to you right away.
The only business news in the universe that matters.