THE PRICE OF SUCCESS

The fancy, sophisticated, rich-people party was well under way as billionaire bon vivant Rodrick P. Witherington helped himself to a large dollop of Beluga caviar atop an artisanal cracker.
 
“Excuse me, Mr. Witherington, sir?” a small voice mewled from behind him.
 
Witherington turned to find a young man, eager and sweaty, pawing at his trousers.
 
“I wanted to know the secret,” the young man panted. “The secret to your vast and unimaginable wealth and success.”
 
Despite his disgust with the poor unwashed dolt at his feet, Witherington smiled and gave the same answer he always did.
 
“Fish.”
 
And before the sniveling plebe could inquire further, Witherington explained himself.
 
“Most young men like yourself spend an inordinate amount of time trying to impress women, woo women, bed women -- time that could be spent more productively in the amassing of power, riches, and prosperity. So, at the tender age of eighteen, I swore off women and devoted myself to money-making enterprises. And obviously, my strategy worked. Of course, every man has certain biological needs that must be sated, so I relieved myself every week into the freshest catch of the day.”
 
“Excuse me?” the young man stammered, drooling onto his inexpensive cotton shirt.
 
“Yes, I engaged in sexual relations with fish that I procured from the nearby market. While not entirely satisfying, it did serve its purpose. I was able to focus exclusively on money-making ventures without worrying about the ramifications of canoodling with the fairer sex, i.e. pregnancy, venereal diseases, broken hearts, and whatnot. My, dare I say, perfect system allowed me to become one of the richest men in the world with absolutely no repercussions or untoward consequences whatsoever.”
 
And with that, a smug Witherington lifted his hors d’oeuver to take a well-deserved bite, only to be interrupted by the high-pitched cries of recognition coming from the dark, round delicacies atop the cracker. 
 
“Daddyyyyyyyyy!”