Yuppie Douchebag Chronicles Volume III
Amsterdam, NL -Greetings my intellectual, physical and financial inferiors, I’m sure you’re all back to your meaningless McJobs after three or four glorious fun-filled days at Manasquan Motor Inn at the Jersey Shore. How’s that ear infection you got from the above ground pool coming along? Docs got you off the antibiotics yet? Sorry you had to get back to the grind so quickly, but somebody’s gotta do the grunt work around here, and Lord knows it ain’t gonna be your beloved YD. My responsibilities tend toward the more, shall we say, important.
The past few weeks have found me on the road, shuttling between the major financial centers of Europe and the UK (you do know that the UK refers to England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, right??). Anyway, I thought I’d brighten your pathetic lives and perhaps lend you a bit of culture by recounting some of my exploits across the pond, as they say.
London is just lovely this time of year, the throngs of salad-dodging American tourists like yourselves having gone home to gorge themselves at their hometown Taco Bells, for a change (don’t really get the Gorditas quite right over here, they say). I decided to stay at Brown’s this time - it happens to be around the corner from the Heritage Club, which enjoys reciprocal privileges with my beloved Bainbridge Club back home. I was relaxing in the Club Room with a Single Malt after a long day of enormously successful pitch meetings (which means a boatload more work for you peons and a handsome bonus for me; sorry about that), when an old friend from Insead (a B-school in Fontainebleau none of you could dream of getting accepted to) happened by.
After catching up, I had the urge to roll the dice and challenged him to Backgammon, the stakes starting at GBP10 per point. He reminded me that gambling is verboten at the Heritage, but I assured him I’d be able to make the necessary arrangements.
Now I don’t have quite as much pull at the Heritage as I used to, after an unfortunate incident involving Rohypnol tablets and the seventeen- year- old daughter of the current squash champ, but I’m not entirely without influence. I summoned Rashid, my favorite server there, and reminded him of the time I arranged for a green card for his sister back in the States (whom, incidentally, I hit in the proverbial dirt star in a moment of weakness). He graciously agreed to help and closed the door to the Club Room, hanging a small sign on the handle outside explaining that the room was closed for the evening. After I rolled boxcars for the umpteenth time, my old chum conceded and paid his debts (some GBP500 at that point, poor chap) and asked if I’d like to join him for a few off the car keys at Catch, a nightclub on Old Brompton Road.
We hopped a black cab, strolled past Igor the Slovakian Bouncer, found a spot on some couches, and ordered a bottle of Citron and some mixers. My esteemed colleague retired to the men’s to partake in the aforementioned Charlie, when a nineteen- year- old Estonian beauty rolled up beside me and stuck her tongue in my ear without so much as a word. This prompted my usual reaction of taking her by the hand to the men’s, from which my mate was just emerging. He tells me the “Charlie’s in his usual spot” (hidden in the paper towel dispenser for you monks in the crowd), as we make our way past the line of losers waiting for the pisser.
After a couple of bumps, we go through he usual suck and fuck (no anal this time, oh well) and as I’m zipping up the trousers of my new bespoke suit, she turns to me as says “Zat vill be fife hundled, sveetie.”
I look at her, laugh in her face, and run for the door. Out we go, weaving through the crowd like Formula One drivers at Le Mans, when she takes her six-inch stiletto off and brains me with it! I go down, hard, gushing blood from my temple, while my buddy looks on in disbelief, laughing his Eton ass off. She goes to jump on top of me when he steps in and catches her, pulling her away from me while she spouts a sea of incomprehensible insults and tries to spit in my eye. Igor the Slovakian Bouncer sees what’s going on, puts her in a headlock, drags her out the door and tosses her in the street, where two Bobbies pick her up and put her in the paddywagon with the rest of the Eastern European whores they’d rounded up that night. With many apologies, the bartendress rips up my tab for my troubles.
And so my evening ended, prompting me to opt for a long weekend here at the Amstel, smoking Afghani hash (does this mean I’m supporting terrorism?) and sucking back Heinekens to dull the pain. In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a moral to this story, kids. “Never try to stiff an Estonian Hooker.” Write that one down folks- it’s applicable more often that you might think...
The past few weeks have found me on the road, shuttling between the major financial centers of Europe and the UK (you do know that the UK refers to England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, right??). Anyway, I thought I’d brighten your pathetic lives and perhaps lend you a bit of culture by recounting some of my exploits across the pond, as they say.
London is just lovely this time of year, the throngs of salad-dodging American tourists like yourselves having gone home to gorge themselves at their hometown Taco Bells, for a change (don’t really get the Gorditas quite right over here, they say). I decided to stay at Brown’s this time - it happens to be around the corner from the Heritage Club, which enjoys reciprocal privileges with my beloved Bainbridge Club back home. I was relaxing in the Club Room with a Single Malt after a long day of enormously successful pitch meetings (which means a boatload more work for you peons and a handsome bonus for me; sorry about that), when an old friend from Insead (a B-school in Fontainebleau none of you could dream of getting accepted to) happened by.
After catching up, I had the urge to roll the dice and challenged him to Backgammon, the stakes starting at GBP10 per point. He reminded me that gambling is verboten at the Heritage, but I assured him I’d be able to make the necessary arrangements.
Now I don’t have quite as much pull at the Heritage as I used to, after an unfortunate incident involving Rohypnol tablets and the seventeen- year- old daughter of the current squash champ, but I’m not entirely without influence. I summoned Rashid, my favorite server there, and reminded him of the time I arranged for a green card for his sister back in the States (whom, incidentally, I hit in the proverbial dirt star in a moment of weakness). He graciously agreed to help and closed the door to the Club Room, hanging a small sign on the handle outside explaining that the room was closed for the evening. After I rolled boxcars for the umpteenth time, my old chum conceded and paid his debts (some GBP500 at that point, poor chap) and asked if I’d like to join him for a few off the car keys at Catch, a nightclub on Old Brompton Road.
We hopped a black cab, strolled past Igor the Slovakian Bouncer, found a spot on some couches, and ordered a bottle of Citron and some mixers. My esteemed colleague retired to the men’s to partake in the aforementioned Charlie, when a nineteen- year- old Estonian beauty rolled up beside me and stuck her tongue in my ear without so much as a word. This prompted my usual reaction of taking her by the hand to the men’s, from which my mate was just emerging. He tells me the “Charlie’s in his usual spot” (hidden in the paper towel dispenser for you monks in the crowd), as we make our way past the line of losers waiting for the pisser.
After a couple of bumps, we go through he usual suck and fuck (no anal this time, oh well) and as I’m zipping up the trousers of my new bespoke suit, she turns to me as says “Zat vill be fife hundled, sveetie.”
I look at her, laugh in her face, and run for the door. Out we go, weaving through the crowd like Formula One drivers at Le Mans, when she takes her six-inch stiletto off and brains me with it! I go down, hard, gushing blood from my temple, while my buddy looks on in disbelief, laughing his Eton ass off. She goes to jump on top of me when he steps in and catches her, pulling her away from me while she spouts a sea of incomprehensible insults and tries to spit in my eye. Igor the Slovakian Bouncer sees what’s going on, puts her in a headlock, drags her out the door and tosses her in the street, where two Bobbies pick her up and put her in the paddywagon with the rest of the Eastern European whores they’d rounded up that night. With many apologies, the bartendress rips up my tab for my troubles.
And so my evening ended, prompting me to opt for a long weekend here at the Amstel, smoking Afghani hash (does this mean I’m supporting terrorism?) and sucking back Heinekens to dull the pain. In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a moral to this story, kids. “Never try to stiff an Estonian Hooker.” Write that one down folks- it’s applicable more often that you might think...
posted by YD at 12:19 PM
1 Comments:
If you're going to ride a preposterous and irritating premise for comedic value, it's best to bring some semblance of literary ability to the table. Otherwise, you end up foisting off lame, one note squitter like this. : )
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