real world update, part three
Cripes man, it's just been one of those days.
I am sitting at my Italian dinette set looking out the window of my high-rise condo at the lights of downtown. The State Capitol plays prominently in the view.
I do my best to enjoy a light dinner of take-out tapas and wash them down with a triple Grey Goose on the rocks. Tonight it takes a little extra Goose. I need to remind that damn illegal "chef" at the yuppie hole I frequent that cilantro is an herb for seasoning and not like some fucking leaf of iceberg lettuce he shredded to top a value menu super burrito at his last place of employment.
Ah, I need to cut the guy some slack. Diego seems like a decent fellow. He tells me he wires half his less than minimum wage salary to his wife and kids back in some small Guatamalan village. He tells me he's saving as much as he can from the other half to bring them up. He tell's me he's about halfway there.
I could pull out my wallet and hand him enough cash to do it tomorrow. But I don't. I'm a firm believer in that "give a man to fish, teach a man to fish" philosophy. It's not my fault I was born with an ocean's worth of fish.
When you're born an alpha male you learn when your young there's always some other lowly chimp sneaking around trying to surprise you and knock you down by banging empty gasoline cans. When you are single, filthy rich and insanely attractive those monkeys frequently take the form of celebrity "journalists" and bottom-feeding paparazzi camera-hugging whores.
My father, The Bastard, was not without his moments of paranoia. I guess I inherited that trait. My court ordered therapist, the prick, reminded me of that in today's session.
My father, The Bastard, taught me it was prudent to get to know and get on good terms with those who prepare and serve your meals in the establishments you frequent. He taught me to tip them very generously. Not because I'm like some medieval king and fear being poisoned, but for a much more practical reason. Do you have any idea how many compromising celebrity photographs and embarrassing stories were obtained by media hacks who talk their way in through the back kitchen door? Those poor schleps in the kitchen control access to the back door. It's in your advantage to get them on your side. Christ man, I thought that skank Britney and her whore pal Paris would have figured that out by now. But then again, their path to fame was not their intellect.
So I scratch Diego's back just enough to keep him watching mine.
Anyway, it's been a tough day. I just didn't feel like going out tonight. I called up the manager at that yuppie hole I where I hang out on my slow days. I asked him to have Diego prepare me a light dinner and have that new hot waitress with the small diamond stud in her nose and the rockabilly tattoos deliver it to me. Let me just say she earned an exceedingly generous tip and leave it at that.
Now I'm alone eating cold food and drinking colder vodka.
Every now and then the notoriety of my name rises up and the goatfucking media whores leap from the shadows and try to beat it back down. Today was one of those days.
I guess the vultures are getting tired of sucking the marrow from Anna's bones and are now circling the skies looking for their next meal. Her sudden demise provided enough of a distraction to allow my return to the states to be relatively discrete. But it could not prevent some future wannabe CNN anchor local TV reporter from seeing me leave the courthouse last week. I'm single, I'm filthy rich, I'm insanely attractive. I knew it was just a matter of time. They followed me around today like a pack of rabid hungry puppies.
They followed me up to the doorstep of my court ordered therapist, the prick. His office building's crack rent-a-cop security force kept them out. I walked into the building away from them, and into his office, right up to her, The Hot Receptionist.
We exchanged pleasantries and small talk, like we have done many times before, only this time I did not imagine but remembered the bounty that lies beneath her off the rack department store business blouse. She politely thanked me for the drinks and dinner, and nothing more was said. I sat for an hour smirking at the court ordered therapist, the prick, as he sat in the chair I last saw the Hot Receptionist leaning over, skirt up hose down. He pried and prattled on about my family and my alleged issues. When I left, she again thanked me for dinner and said she'd see me again when I came in for my Thursday appointment. That was that.
The media whores were still waiting out front so I snuck out through a side door and quickly walked the few blocks back to my condo.
That was that? How curious. She acted as though the climax of our encounter last week, and I assure you it was a climax both intensely physical and in terms of the events of the evening, never happened. What's her game?
I am sitting at my Italian dinette set looking out the window of my high-rise condo at the lights of downtown. The State Capitol plays prominently in the view.
I do my best to enjoy a light dinner of take-out tapas and wash them down with a triple Grey Goose on the rocks. Tonight it takes a little extra Goose. I need to remind that damn illegal "chef" at the yuppie hole I frequent that cilantro is an herb for seasoning and not like some fucking leaf of iceberg lettuce he shredded to top a value menu super burrito at his last place of employment.
Ah, I need to cut the guy some slack. Diego seems like a decent fellow. He tells me he wires half his less than minimum wage salary to his wife and kids back in some small Guatamalan village. He tells me he's saving as much as he can from the other half to bring them up. He tell's me he's about halfway there.
I could pull out my wallet and hand him enough cash to do it tomorrow. But I don't. I'm a firm believer in that "give a man to fish, teach a man to fish" philosophy. It's not my fault I was born with an ocean's worth of fish.
When you're born an alpha male you learn when your young there's always some other lowly chimp sneaking around trying to surprise you and knock you down by banging empty gasoline cans. When you are single, filthy rich and insanely attractive those monkeys frequently take the form of celebrity "journalists" and bottom-feeding paparazzi camera-hugging whores.
My father, The Bastard, was not without his moments of paranoia. I guess I inherited that trait. My court ordered therapist, the prick, reminded me of that in today's session.
My father, The Bastard, taught me it was prudent to get to know and get on good terms with those who prepare and serve your meals in the establishments you frequent. He taught me to tip them very generously. Not because I'm like some medieval king and fear being poisoned, but for a much more practical reason. Do you have any idea how many compromising celebrity photographs and embarrassing stories were obtained by media hacks who talk their way in through the back kitchen door? Those poor schleps in the kitchen control access to the back door. It's in your advantage to get them on your side. Christ man, I thought that skank Britney and her whore pal Paris would have figured that out by now. But then again, their path to fame was not their intellect.
So I scratch Diego's back just enough to keep him watching mine.
Anyway, it's been a tough day. I just didn't feel like going out tonight. I called up the manager at that yuppie hole I where I hang out on my slow days. I asked him to have Diego prepare me a light dinner and have that new hot waitress with the small diamond stud in her nose and the rockabilly tattoos deliver it to me. Let me just say she earned an exceedingly generous tip and leave it at that.
Now I'm alone eating cold food and drinking colder vodka.
Every now and then the notoriety of my name rises up and the goatfucking media whores leap from the shadows and try to beat it back down. Today was one of those days.
I guess the vultures are getting tired of sucking the marrow from Anna's bones and are now circling the skies looking for their next meal. Her sudden demise provided enough of a distraction to allow my return to the states to be relatively discrete. But it could not prevent some future wannabe CNN anchor local TV reporter from seeing me leave the courthouse last week. I'm single, I'm filthy rich, I'm insanely attractive. I knew it was just a matter of time. They followed me around today like a pack of rabid hungry puppies.
They followed me up to the doorstep of my court ordered therapist, the prick. His office building's crack rent-a-cop security force kept them out. I walked into the building away from them, and into his office, right up to her, The Hot Receptionist.
We exchanged pleasantries and small talk, like we have done many times before, only this time I did not imagine but remembered the bounty that lies beneath her off the rack department store business blouse. She politely thanked me for the drinks and dinner, and nothing more was said. I sat for an hour smirking at the court ordered therapist, the prick, as he sat in the chair I last saw the Hot Receptionist leaning over, skirt up hose down. He pried and prattled on about my family and my alleged issues. When I left, she again thanked me for dinner and said she'd see me again when I came in for my Thursday appointment. That was that.
The media whores were still waiting out front so I snuck out through a side door and quickly walked the few blocks back to my condo.
That was that? How curious. She acted as though the climax of our encounter last week, and I assure you it was a climax both intensely physical and in terms of the events of the evening, never happened. What's her game?
posted by dr noyz @ 9:29 PM
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