Yuppie Douchebag Chronicles - Cash and Kerry

Southampton, NY - What’s up Assnozzles and Sockfuckers? You make it out of Mom’s basement for anything other than picking up an extra case of lube this summer? I hear there’s a run on Astroglide in the West Village, and I know you dorks are responsible. No matter- I’m sure you’ll switch over to KY, which is why I’ve been loading up on J&J September calls since the Gay Pride Parade. I mean Christ, at the most basic level trading is just having some fucking common sense, right? I don’t know why we even pay half you fucks.

Speaking of common- how fucking common were those people at the DNC convention? You’d find a more attractive and better- educated crowd at any Greyhound station or bowling alley in the nation; no wonder they take Moore’s word as Gospel. I will say this though: Kerry’s daughter looks almost as hot as she did when I nailed her at the Gold and Silver Ball back in prep school. Those were the Salad Days, my decrepit drones, let me tell you.
I remember Cousin Carter had a room at the Waldorf and had just gotten back from dove hunting in Bolivia with Grandfather. He packed the shaft of his lax stick (that’s Lacrosse for the Goombas in the crowd) full to the brim with that country’s primary GDP component, and we were striping ‘em out with our hands, Tony Montana-style. I even snagged one of Father’s suit vests to strut around in to complete the effect late-night; pure genius I tell ya.

Anyway, Chip and I had rolled in from the country with Father’s car and driver (Oh, man, just remembered: we drained the bar in the back of the car and I let the driver take the fall for it: whoops.) and we were in the lobby of the hotel calling up to Carter when these chicks walk in and one of them gives me that look. You know that look, the one you never get, that says ‘Come fuck me ‘till I’m cross-eyed’? The skinny one introduced herself as “Alex K”, and says “ So are you guys ready to par- tay? Or what?” The fat one- I couldn’t tell you her name if I had a gun to my head, mumbled something incoherent while eyeing some leftover cookies on a nearby tea tray. Fat chicks just don’t register, you know? A side note to the ladies- black velvet ain’t as slimming as you think, particularly when it’s on the floor covered in puke. Turns out Chip had gone on Swiss Challenge or Sail Caribbean with one of these chicks (the fat one, thank God) the previous summer, so we dragged them upstairs for a little pre- party.

These chicks were ready to get down, and so were we, loaded with the aforementioned powdery goodness, a big ol’ sack of Mexican dirt weed I picked up at a Max Creek show at Lupo’s in Providence, plus the minibar, which ain’t so mini in a hotel like that. We proceed with a few rounds of Whale’s Tale the Price of Wales, or whatever the fuck that game is, and head on down to the Ball.

Chip and I walk in and take a stroll around, admiring the sixty- foot curtains at the edge of the room. Chip looks at me, smiles wickedly, grabs a curtain around waist- high, and starts running. Sliding around in his tux shoes like a puppy on linoleum, he finally picks up some speed, and after ten yards or so and picks his feet up, hanging onto the curtain. He goes swinging about fifteen feet in the air, out over the edge of the dance floor, letting out a huge “YEEEE HAAAAW!” Of course I follow suit, and we keep doing this until I end up booting one of the Chaperones in the head by mistake. She picks herself up off the floor, breaking her five foot strand of pearls in the process, and screams at us :”You boys get the heck out of here! And don’t expect a warm welcome at the Infirmary Ball in a couple of weeks, I don’t care who your parents are!”

We crack up and stagger back to the elevator in tears, sniffling the whole way. Alex K and The Fat Chick of course saw this and followed right along, and the night only got worse from there. I woke up around ten in the morning to a snoring Kerry, who’s face looked as though she’d been force- fed powdered doughnuts all night. From the bathroom I hear this incessant giggling and get up to see what it is.

I look in, and I see Carter, coked out of his mind, with a semi- naked chamber- maid (also coked out of her mind), drawing dicks on the fat chick’s face with magic markers as she slept in the bathtub! Somebody starts pounding on the door and screaming at us to open up, which I do. Standing there is this guy who looks like Droopy Dog, in a full sweat, obviously looking for his daughter. I run past him, pulling up my suspenders with a snicker, and dive into the elevator just before it closes.

Carter ended up taking a bit of a bath himself on that one- had to spend the rest of winter break with Grandfather in Hobe Sound instead of coming skiing in Verbier with me. Oh well, I guess if there’s a moral to the story it’s this: Fat Chicks can get you into trouble in more ways than one. Now- back to work you plebian pig stickers! You think the tape paints itself on the NYSE?!?!

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