Sting is worth $300 million give or take a mansion or yacht or two. He earned his money and he’s doing whatever the fuck he wants with it, which includes making sure his kids don’t become spoiled heirs and heiresses and maybe there’s one unisex one that’s a heir-something or other.
“I told them there won’t be much money left because we are spending it! We have a lot of commitments. What comes in, we spend, and there isn’t much left.”
Ha, ha, ha giggled his six kids as they realized they now have to learn something and get a job somewhere. I always found Sting to be boring. He’s white cotton underpants. He’ll be more fun now given that he’s going to have to spend the $300 million really fast and irresponsibly. He’s not the kind to be swindled by young hookers or bamboozled by janky pyramid schemes. He can probably buy Ghana or something and set everybody free free, set them free. There really aren’t slaves any more in West Africa, but Sting may not know that. He can go to his grave believing he’s a grand liberator, even as his children wrench the gold from his fillings and scythe off his genitals to sell in Chinese black markets.
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