The worst thing about being under house arrest isn't all of those weepy phone calls from clients who lost their life savings that my butler whines about answering. It isn't the cranky mail from senior citizens who've lost their retirement funds and have to work part-time at McBurger just to afford food that my lawyer reads to me during my morning spas. It's not even that I can't leave my penthouse. The worst thing is this gaudy ankle bracelet. It really chafes no matter how much cream my personal assistant, Dolph, rubs on it.

I'm thinking of firing Dolph. I caught him surfing Craigslist the other day. Dolph said he was just looking for an escort service, but I think he was really looking for another job.

I can't believe the bad press I'm getting. You lose $50 billion one time (Dear Reader -- My client admits no wrongdoing. -- His Lawyer) and suddenly you're the villain. Who hasn't (allegedly) made a few mistakes in life?

Besides, I'm 70-something years old. People my age do all kinds of crazy stuff. You ever seen us drive? C'mon, you can't expect me to remember every single deal I made. And ever since that accident in my Egyptian marble fireplace that burned all my financial records and

their digital backups, it's been harder to recall details.

Not that my diet is helping my memory. Charles, my chef, is driving me crazy. I mean it's OK to have lobster salad with wild mushrooms for lunch, but twice in a month? I can't live like that. His dinners haven't been up to Cordon Bleu standards, either. He seems so distracted. But really, is it my fault his family can't afford health insurance? If I have to eat one more seven-course meal in the formal dining room, he'll be out of his toque before dessert, begging for a McBurger gig before week's end.

I watch a lot more TV now that I'm stuck indoors. By the way, while you might think watching CNBC on a hi-def, 60-inch plasma TV with theater-level surround would be cool -- common folk say cool, right?

Or is it still neat-o? -- a few weeks worth of it is so dull. Though I admit, I've learned what I did wrong in my last sche... (Dear Readers -- "investor-friendly financial plan" -- His Lawyer).

Maybe being cooped up here is getting to me after all. I don't think I can make it in this place. Each day it's the same old Old Masters, same old Louis XIV furniture, same old masseuse, the same old 17,000-square-foot paradise. I'm wearing a path in the Persian carpets. I spent all day yesterday uploading a cute video of my kitty to YouTube, and had Dolph e-mail the link to all my former clients.

Come on, who doesn't love kittens? If that doesn't make them feel better, they’re just cold-hearted monsters.

Why can't the judge put me on house arrest in my Florida mansion during the winter, instead of here? At least in Florida, I can work on my tan by the pool. This is intolerable.

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Jim Mullen is the author of "It Takes a Village Idiot: Complicating the Simple Life" and "Baby's First Tattoo." You can reach him at jim_mullen@myway.com

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