Yuppie Douchebag Chronicles - Volume V

Hotel Jerome, Aspen, Co.- Holiday Greetings and Salutations my intellectual, fiscal, and physical inferiors. I’m sure you’ve all worked your way through your rotgut-induced hangovers by now (you really should try to make the jump from MD 20/20 and Old Milwalkee to Opus One and Heineken), and are wondering exactly what your hero has been up to these past few weeks.
With one major exception, the end of this year has been fairly typical. I kited on down to the family compound in Hobe Sound to spend some time with extended, twisted (although genetically miles above your) family, and to get my fill of two things which arrive there fresh off the boats: tuna and Pink Peruvian Flake.

This time of year is a special one in these parts, as droves of wide- eyed college nookie are just dying to escape their various familial obligations, most of which entail running to the store to fetch grandpa yet another bottle of Gold Bond to remedy his chronic crotch- rot. Seriously, this is the apex of the fish-in-a-barrel season. Anyhoo, this account of my most recent exploits (and I mean exploit in every sense of the word) should brighten you mundane post-holiday blues, as well as explain a few things.

Seems Grandfather had commissioned yet another boat, a Grand Banks Eastbay 49’, and I was put in charge of taking delivery (believe me, a peach of an assignment) down in Del Ray. I jump in his sky blue ‘79 Rolls Corniche Convertible (top down, chome spinnin’, as the homies like to say) and toodle on down A1A, stopping off to say Merry Christmas to Jorge, my seasonal connection, and over to Del Ray Community College to see what mamalian protruberances were on offer from the local brain- trust.

As winter recess was still in effect, no salacious sluts, er, womyn, were to be found on "campus" (looks more like a strip mall to me), so I headed for the closest beach bar to see whom I could scare up for a private christening of the good ship Suckitbitch. Behold, upon entering I spotted my conquest, sitting at the bar drinking a florescent blue something-or-other, and sat down beside her to set the bait, per se. After a few more Tahitian Treats for her and Heinekens for me, punctuated with a bump or two from the key of the Corniche, she agreed to accompany me for a booze cruise on the Eastbay.

I wheel into the marina and say hi to Biff the BN (that’s Boat, um, Negro), who tosses me the keys and informs me she’s all gassed up and stocked for the brief ride up North. Out of the marina and into the intra-coastal we go, and my guest seems to be growing anxious for more of the offerings on hand, so I set the controls on autopilot and we adjourn down below. About 45 minutes later, I’ve got her thong stuffed in her mouth whilst pounding away, and I make my attempt for the back door.

She protests in jest, but knows she wants it, so we start to proceed when all of a sudden a piling rips though the hull with the force of a scud missle, nearly hitting her in the bean! Seawater is pouring in as fast as physically possible, and I realize we’re taking on enough that Grandfather’s new boat is going to have a very short life indeed. We run upstairs, jump onto the dock of which the offending piling was part, and keep on running. I run back to the marina and explain what happened, all the while picturing my considerable inheritance going the way of the vessel I had just destroyed.

Then it hit me, if I could replace the boat, my standing in the will would be preserved, and nobody need be the wiser. After all, Grandfather wasn’t due back from having his blood changed in the Bahamas for another week- surely there was another Eastbay in the vicinity I could purchase. But how to pay for it? The answer, I’m afraid, had to be the bonus pool which, you know by now, you did not participate in.

I know. I know. It doesn’t seem fair. It really doesn’t - if that dumb slut had given it up just a tad quicker we never would have had this problem, but, the fates have their say in everything, I guess. Natually I couldn’t heap my own bonus onto the pile, as Grandfather would surely be suspicous as to why I didn’t have a new pair of fat boards for my annual heli-skiing trip, never mind why I wasn’t going heli-skiing this year. So I’ve decided to play it safe and carry on as usual, spending 10 days here in Aspen.

I’ve figured a way to make it up to you all though- I’m going to recommend to the board (Grandfather, Father, and Myself) that my pay going forward be based on what I call the YD Composite Index. This index will track the prices of various goods and services to which I am entitled ( High -end Hookers, Kind Bud, Peruvian Flake, Cristal, Purdy Shotguns), and my pay will slide with it. So, for example, if the DEA actually gets their shit together, driving up the price of Flake, I’ll get paid more, in keeping with that inflation. If, of the other hand, prices of said goods and services drop, so will, oh who am I kidding? I’m never going to make less fer fuck’s sake!

I’ll be tracking this index and giving you updates from time to time just to give you an idea of how YD’s coffers are doing from now on- feel better now? Yeah, I though you would. Now- back to your cubes you Proles! The stock market’s not going to manipulate itself now, is it?!?!

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