Recently one of our star European executives was the victim of a strange blackmail scheme. Our man’s father-in-law demanded a total of $11 million in exchange for never contacting him or his wife ever again. Authorities charged the father-in-law and his lawyer with harassment.

Despite its questionable legality, what’s not to like about that deal? I paid $125 million to the Jehovah’s Witnesses to keep them away from my property. I spent $10 million of my own money keeping trick-or-treaters away from my Park Avenue building last year. It was money well spent. Do you know how long it takes me, even using my Segway scooter, to get from my living room to the front door of my penthouse? I lose $4 million worth of my valuable time every time I go to the bathroom.

Rival buyout firm KKR will be following the path blazed boldly by the Blackstone Group and going public sometime soon. But unlike Blackstone’s incredibly successful IPO, KKR’s buyout is nothing more than a back-alley bailout of its European group.

That’s not a real IPO, everyone knows that. KKR should quit wanting to be Blackstone. It never will be.

And Europeans are as ignorant private equity's awesome power as well. No wonder KKR’s Euro-venture was such a failure. Europeans cling to ridiculous antiquated notions like child labor laws, environmentalism and a living wage.

What if I told you that terrorists were ruining the economy and our own government is letting them? No, this is no wacky ‘Loose Change’ type conspiracy theory, but exactly what is going on with FAS 157.

What is FAS 157, you ask? It’s a bunch of accounting rules that say that banks and other financial institutions have to account for their assets according to what they’re actually worth. That’s ridiculous. If I have a piece of dreck company worth only $4 billion why should I have to put it on my books as $4 billion? I know that at some point I’ll be able to sell it to Leon Black or some other sucker for $12 billion.

The FAS stands for the Financial Accounting Standards Board. They are among the most useless people on the planet and they are standing in the way of patriotic American commerce. Imagine the lamest Star Trek-watching nerds hellbent on punishing the successful and cool kids with their nitpicky rules.

As those of you who follow the goings on of the important art world might know, I have a nude painting of my wife in one of my homes between a Picasso and a Rembrandt. It's my new favorite painting, at least until I buy another Van Gogh.

This is a more modest art project that I've added to my priceless collection. I've tried other things to help celebrate myself and my family that didn't quite work out. I had a sculptor ready to replace the heads of the Pietà with those of mine and my mother. It would have been the best Mother's Day gift ever, but the Catholic Church and the Italian government gave me some sob story about "national artistic treasure."

To honor my contribution of $100 million to the Schwarzman Library (formerly the New York Public Library), a modest celebratory dinner was held for me.

It was an excellent evening worthy of all things Blackstone. Fresh lobster was served from a bowl of butter balanced on Gary Coleman’s head. I ate my favorite fresh crab claw sandwiches off of a naked Natalie Portman (she had a lot of overdue books). The Eagles played an exclusive concert from me, and my wife got to use Joe Walsh as a footrest during dinner.

Jealous library patrons and thrifty donors have apparently been complaining about the wise decision of the library formerly known as the New York Public Library to rename itself The Schwarzman Library. According to some in the press, the old donors, who are WASPS, don’t like the fact that their library is now named for a person of Jewish decent.

Honestly, I don’t think these old Protestant farts hate me because I’m Jewish. After all, I’m not successful because I’m Jewish. I’m successful because I like having more money than everyone else around me. And nothing makes me happier than when I get to rub other people’s noses in my enormous wealth.

The media spared no effort to publicize Blackstone’s “losses” in the first quarter of 2008. By now you’ve all seen the numbers and heard all kinds of crazy criticisms. Was our report too slick? Were we trying to mimic the film ‘Reservoir Dogs’ in our partner photo? No! Of course not! The Blackstone Group would never fumble a diamond heist that badly, or hide out in a seedy warehouse. [And another thing: Spoiler alert: all the main characters in Reservoir Dogs get killed].

All this silly nonsense misses the entire point of private equity investing: losses now mean even greater wealth later! So from any sophisticated investors point of view, a first-quarter loss only means you’re going to make that much more money later. That’s what they call the “J curve” and our J curve means Justification and Just Wait and See.

Recently it was reported that I made some “controversial” comments about Nagasaki, Japan. I compared subprime lenders to noodle salesman left with few noodles or customers after the atomic bomb.

Firstly, not to indulge in stereotypes, but I think the Japanese are too good at business to be offended by this. Secondly, my analogy was spot on. Subprime lenders are in the business of lending money they can no longer access to poor slobs who never had the means to pay it back in the first place. That would indeed be like setting up shop in a desolate, radioactive city, so Nagasaki after the bomb dropped was perfect. Is Hiroshima offended I didn’t mention them and they were bombed first? Take it up with Harry Truman.

When I was in the fourth grade, my class went on a field trip to see the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. I had a choice seat on the bus to downtown Philadelphia, right next to Kiernan Conroy, the cutest redhead in all of Abington.

Just as I was about to impress her with my intellect and suaveness, my mother arrived with my box lunch, which I had forgotten to bring with me that morning. I had to go to the front of the bus to get my lunch (and take a brief scolding from my mother), and when I returned to my seat, who but the detestable Jason Howard was in my seat.

“That’s my seat,” I told him.

“Is your name on it?” he asked, knowing full well that my name had not yet been engraved on the seat.