Yuppie Douchebag Chronicles: Return of the D
New York, NY - What’s up dullards? Life must be pretty fucking boring without Your Not-so-Humble Narrator (what the fuck I have to be humble about I have NO idea) around to entertain and amaze you with stories illustrating my inherent (and inherited, mind you) superiority, huh? Well, we can remedy that situation- that I’m sure of. What I’m not sure of is whether modern science can fix that fucking pus-filled boil you call a head. Who knows? If I keep on throwing VC money at the biotech sector the way I have been those dweebs might just have the seed money to research the genetic mutation that sealed your fate long before your crack ho of a ma even considered going bareback with your Mystery-Dad for another hit. Stranger things have happened. Like- that time you got laid, right? So there’s hope.
My attorneys have advised me not to comment on the reasons for my prolonged absence (or my prolonged adolescence for that matter). All I can tell you is that I am once again welcome to roam the USA without worry, thanks to my recent purchase and strategic leveraging of a few photos of Elliot Spitzer and what looks like a guy dressed up as Ethel Merman. My stay abroad has been invigorating and enlightening, to say the least. It’s amazing what the brothels and opium dens of Thailand can do for one’s sense of well being. That being said, when you start to empathize with both Michael Jackson and the BTK Killer it’s probably time to come home, which brings us to today’s tale. You probably expected some insipid pun on the word tale, right? Like “tail”, as in: “ass”, right? Well, I’m just not that fucking pedestrian. Remember that, Hayseed.
Anyway, I decided to stay at the sky palace in The City for my triumphant return. The view across 5th to The Park really is unbeatable this time of year, and I needed to be sure that I could do the necessary, ahem, shopping, needed to maintain my equilibrium while weaning myself from the opium haze that dominated my exile. Mike the Doorman was on top of his game as usual with a fat satchel waiting for me, which facilitated a traditional Kind Bud and Ketel One homecoming. I plopped down on the couch in front of the Plasma (was that new? Maybe Cousin Carter won it in a poker game?), and twisted one. As a pleasant veil of THC descended upon me, I flipped the channels around and around and realized that Desperate Housewives were much more fun in person than on TV, and that there was a plentiful supply of them just a short stroll uptown. I made another drink, pounded it, and hopped in the shower.
Upon exiting the shower, I opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the shaving cream. What I found under the cap was a welcome sight indeed. No doubt the work of Cousin Carter, a neat little fold was wedged in there just so. Chuckling to myself, I opened it and striped out a fatty of yellow- tinted- white- powdery- goodness. Just what the doctor ordered.
As soon as I hoovered it I knew this was not what had been prescribed - the rush had a psychedelic twist to it and suddenly I wanted to hump the couch, Mike the Doorman, and anybody else that popped into my head. Even Old Lady Dingleberry from the 4th floor seemed like she’d enjoy a good rogering. This feeling, although unexpected, was rather familiar- I’d snorted X before, way back in the 80’s when a Texan kid in my dorm brought a hockey bag full back to boarding school after Thanksgiving. I shrugged and figured I’d just go with it; after all, it’s not like I had a choice- I had a good six to eight hours before the shit would wear off. What to do? What to do?
Well, back in boarding school the woods was always the favorite venue for such doings, so I climbed (quite literally, visibly puzzling Jose the Elevator Man) into the elevator, and crossed 5th into The Park. What I saw there was even weirder. Big Orange Vortexes, thousands of them, everywhere. I became convinced if I walked through one I’d instantly be transported to Uncle Chip’s 25th reunion at Princeton, and damn if Chubby Checker wasn’t rustling the Ivy with his sound. I ran at the first of them, brushing past the big orange velvet curtain as though it were the entrance to the VIP room at Suite 16, and kissed the sidewalk on the other side, hard.
Now the curtains looked like vines, and damn if I wasn’t going to swing from vine to vine, Tarzan style. Back and forth I rocked on the first curtain, gaining momentum to leap for the next. Leap I did, catching the second one on the way down, kissing the sidewalk for the second time that evening. Upon recovery (entirely painless I might add), I found the curtain was now a cape, and quickly fastened it around my neck. Furthermore, there was a pallet of red warpaint on the sidewalk, with which I decorated my face in the fashion of a Maori Porn Star. It was now my mission to cure the lonely hearts of the Upper East Side.
And where are those hearts the loneliest? The Carlyle, of course. Bobby Short had been chipping away at suburban-soon-to-be-grandmother's hearts for far too long; it was my turn now. I burst in, slammed my Amex Black Card down on the bar, ran on stage and grabbed the Mike. By the time I was finished I had performed a ripping Help>Slip>Franklin’s, the fight songs from LSU, Ole Miss, ‘Bama and Harvard, plus an Ave Maria that would have cured the Pope if he was within earshot.
I woke up on the couch back in the skypad Lord knows how long afterward with a pile of Polaroids and a note next to me. It was from some guy named Christo, who said he wanted to get together again real soon to talk about his next project, maybe when I meet with LA Reid about my singing career at the Homecoming bash for Martha, which was tonight. There was also a contract from the Carlyle- I’ll be performing there the 1st of every month for the next year at ten grand a pop. Hope that’ll cover the cost of the X required to keep me on my mark!
Now- who wants to know what today’s unemployment number’s going to be 15 minutes in advance? Huh? All it takes is a blowjob from your wife, ya know!
© Copyright 2004, Wrecked Highway, Inc., All rights reserved.
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My attorneys have advised me not to comment on the reasons for my prolonged absence (or my prolonged adolescence for that matter). All I can tell you is that I am once again welcome to roam the USA without worry, thanks to my recent purchase and strategic leveraging of a few photos of Elliot Spitzer and what looks like a guy dressed up as Ethel Merman. My stay abroad has been invigorating and enlightening, to say the least. It’s amazing what the brothels and opium dens of Thailand can do for one’s sense of well being. That being said, when you start to empathize with both Michael Jackson and the BTK Killer it’s probably time to come home, which brings us to today’s tale. You probably expected some insipid pun on the word tale, right? Like “tail”, as in: “ass”, right? Well, I’m just not that fucking pedestrian. Remember that, Hayseed.
Anyway, I decided to stay at the sky palace in The City for my triumphant return. The view across 5th to The Park really is unbeatable this time of year, and I needed to be sure that I could do the necessary, ahem, shopping, needed to maintain my equilibrium while weaning myself from the opium haze that dominated my exile. Mike the Doorman was on top of his game as usual with a fat satchel waiting for me, which facilitated a traditional Kind Bud and Ketel One homecoming. I plopped down on the couch in front of the Plasma (was that new? Maybe Cousin Carter won it in a poker game?), and twisted one. As a pleasant veil of THC descended upon me, I flipped the channels around and around and realized that Desperate Housewives were much more fun in person than on TV, and that there was a plentiful supply of them just a short stroll uptown. I made another drink, pounded it, and hopped in the shower.
Upon exiting the shower, I opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the shaving cream. What I found under the cap was a welcome sight indeed. No doubt the work of Cousin Carter, a neat little fold was wedged in there just so. Chuckling to myself, I opened it and striped out a fatty of yellow- tinted- white- powdery- goodness. Just what the doctor ordered.
As soon as I hoovered it I knew this was not what had been prescribed - the rush had a psychedelic twist to it and suddenly I wanted to hump the couch, Mike the Doorman, and anybody else that popped into my head. Even Old Lady Dingleberry from the 4th floor seemed like she’d enjoy a good rogering. This feeling, although unexpected, was rather familiar- I’d snorted X before, way back in the 80’s when a Texan kid in my dorm brought a hockey bag full back to boarding school after Thanksgiving. I shrugged and figured I’d just go with it; after all, it’s not like I had a choice- I had a good six to eight hours before the shit would wear off. What to do? What to do?
Well, back in boarding school the woods was always the favorite venue for such doings, so I climbed (quite literally, visibly puzzling Jose the Elevator Man) into the elevator, and crossed 5th into The Park. What I saw there was even weirder. Big Orange Vortexes, thousands of them, everywhere. I became convinced if I walked through one I’d instantly be transported to Uncle Chip’s 25th reunion at Princeton, and damn if Chubby Checker wasn’t rustling the Ivy with his sound. I ran at the first of them, brushing past the big orange velvet curtain as though it were the entrance to the VIP room at Suite 16, and kissed the sidewalk on the other side, hard.
Now the curtains looked like vines, and damn if I wasn’t going to swing from vine to vine, Tarzan style. Back and forth I rocked on the first curtain, gaining momentum to leap for the next. Leap I did, catching the second one on the way down, kissing the sidewalk for the second time that evening. Upon recovery (entirely painless I might add), I found the curtain was now a cape, and quickly fastened it around my neck. Furthermore, there was a pallet of red warpaint on the sidewalk, with which I decorated my face in the fashion of a Maori Porn Star. It was now my mission to cure the lonely hearts of the Upper East Side.
And where are those hearts the loneliest? The Carlyle, of course. Bobby Short had been chipping away at suburban-soon-to-be-grandmother's hearts for far too long; it was my turn now. I burst in, slammed my Amex Black Card down on the bar, ran on stage and grabbed the Mike. By the time I was finished I had performed a ripping Help>Slip>Franklin’s, the fight songs from LSU, Ole Miss, ‘Bama and Harvard, plus an Ave Maria that would have cured the Pope if he was within earshot.
I woke up on the couch back in the skypad Lord knows how long afterward with a pile of Polaroids and a note next to me. It was from some guy named Christo, who said he wanted to get together again real soon to talk about his next project, maybe when I meet with LA Reid about my singing career at the Homecoming bash for Martha, which was tonight. There was also a contract from the Carlyle- I’ll be performing there the 1st of every month for the next year at ten grand a pop. Hope that’ll cover the cost of the X required to keep me on my mark!
Now- who wants to know what today’s unemployment number’s going to be 15 minutes in advance? Huh? All it takes is a blowjob from your wife, ya know!
© Copyright 2004, Wrecked Highway, Inc., All rights reserved.
Subscribe to Wrecked Highway
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posted by YD at 12:36 PM
1 Comments:
Is this guy for real?
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