Yuppie Douchebag Chronicles

Enough With the Fucking Man-Blouses Already

2005-04-02T09:57:00.000-08:00

New York, NY- April 2nd, 2005
Okay sockfuckers, let me just set you straight (as in not gay, get it, Cletus?) on one thing: the proliferation of the man- blouse has gotten way out of control. A lattice- patterned shirt festooned with a collar that looks like the wings of a 747 and cuffs that are de rigeur among Chippendale’s dancers is not going to get your sorry ass whisked from the back of the line into the VIP lounge at Suede.

It’s also not going to get you promoted, which is what you need to do to make the kind of scratch required to land the uber-hottie that ensures entry into the hitters-only section. This is a fucking business, not a casting call for Austin Powers stunt doubles. If you knew what you were doing they’d have your measurements on file at numerous shirtmakers on Jermyn Street in London instead of the Penis Pump manufacturer outside of Stockholm.

If your shirt would fit right in at your grandmothers Canasta game, you’re on the wrong track. You’re also on the wrong track with the Jordache jeans, the mullet and the retro running shoes. If you really want to get retro, try banging your secretary on your desk after pumping her full of martinis and Peruvian Brain Darts at lunch. That’s what I do when I’m feeling nostalgic. You just look like an Eastern European kid getting off the short bus.

Do yourself a favor, get yourself some Levis, a white button-down shirt from Thomas Pink and some cordovan loafers. The loafer choices some of you guys make, while moving in the right direction, are dead give-aways to your modest beginnings. If you weren’t such rubes, you’d know that a bit belongs in your horse’s mouth and not on your fucking shoe. I’m tellin’ you guys: Guiseppe the Italian shoe cobbler and Maury the Shirtmaker are filling the Sub-Zeros of their summer homes in Sardinia with the fruits of your stupidity and insecurity. Pay a little more attention to the direction of gasoline futures and the Euro and less to the direction of the stripes on Carson Daly’s shirt and you’ll do just fine.

Yuppie Douchebag Chronicles: Return of the D

2005-03-21T12:36:00.000-08:00

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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Yuppie Douchebag Chronicles - Cash and Kerry

2005-03-21T12:35:00.000-08:00

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?!?!

© Copyright 2004, Wrecked Highway, Inc., All rights reserved.
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Yuppie Douchebag Chronicles - Memorial Day Special

2005-03-21T12:34:00.000-08:00

Southampton, NY- Hey all you Fire Island Fudge Packers, you gearing up to man the glory holes of the LIRR this weekend or what? I tell ya, back before I had access to the company whirlybird I didn't dare bend over to tie my shoe on that train before the Bay Shore Ferries stop, much less risk being dosed with GHB by drinking a cocktail from an open cup . When you're a six foot Norse- God like myself, sometimes you attract the wrong kind of attention; it's just the price you pay. I can't help it some Capezio-clad nut-nibbler wants a piece of me, and who can blame him? He's no different from the rest of the women on this planet.

But enough about days past. This year the Open is coming back to Shinnecock. Just when you thought the rainbow coalition had retreated to the warrens of the boardwalks on the Jersey Shore, our friends at the USGA invite them back. Where the fuck they got the idea that golf was a sport for the masses I have no idea. Shinnecock really is a nice place to play though; the bartenders make a helluva Southside and the caddies are great guys. They all seem to want to carry my bag for some reason, maybe it's the fatty I smoke with them at the turn, I dunno. What I do know is that my East End Bud Dealer's going to be in his Donzi in the inlet so he can cater to Daley's needs more easily. Christ, if that fat fuck had the bud I smoke all summer with him on tour maybe he wouldn't have to beat his wife between rounds or drink on the course. Not that there's anything wrong with drinking on the course, mind you, but a man has to draw the line somewhere.

Speaking of lines, my whitebag guy out here's going to park himself at The Star Room in Wainscott for the summer. Now I don't know how much you losers know about nightclubs in the Hamptons (other than the dishwashing stations), but this place gives me the heebee- jeebees. Back in the day, it was known as The Swamp. It was a place that appealed to the same demographic as The Man Hole or The White Swallow. The High-Five must have been passed around that place faster than Star Jones goes through a roll of toilet paper. Seriously, I'm going to have to see my therapist about this or I won't be able to walk in that place without a full body condom. Who would have thought I'd actually go to her for thereapy and not just to bang her silly while she screams "Tony!" and I scream "Dr. Melfi you little hoowah!"??

By the way- we have a few positions open on the compound this summer your kids (read: hot, willing daughters and weed- dealing sons). Pay will be commensurate w/ hotness/willingness of daughters and quality of weed for the sons:

Hedge Trimmer - This will take the whole summer as it's a fucking huge hedge. No that's not The Meadow Club, that's our house.

Pool Cleaner - This will ONLY be filled by a female. Propensitly for bisexual trysts with the babydoll-du-weekend a plus.

Deck Hands - If you can tie a bowline, great. If you have a shaved snapper, even better.

Designated Driver - Former members of the SHPD given preference.

Attorney - This is one position for which you do not need to be hot/have good weed. Solid relationship with local judges a must- if they want to play Shinnecock as my guest, just let me know, but that's a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Bartender/lifeguard - If I'm drowning because you over served me you damn well better save my life as Father will be very upset.

Bodyguard- Just don't let anybody male too close, got it steakhead? You also need to be on hand to fetch smokes.

Resume's should be submitted via email to: Charles_Festerbottom@yahoo.comNo female applications will be accepted without a naughty picture.

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Yuppie Douchebag Chronicles (Tasers ‘R’ US)

2005-03-21T12:33:00.000-08:00

New York, NY - Alright, gather round you impoverished imbeciles, and I’ll fill you in on the latest doings of your Hero, the one and only Charles Festerbottom. I’d apologize for being out of touch for so long, but I don’t owe you fucks a God damn thing so I won’t. Besides, I’ve been busy reclaiming the money my dear old Gran left to her gold digging shit-bag of a Nurse. For Chrissakes, just because the bitch spent the last twenty years of her life caring for Gran doesn’t mean she’s entitled to a chunk of her money. I mean shit- just because she’s got a few medical bills and her kid needs glasses we have to cut her in on the deal? She said herself she’d go weeks at a time without seeing the little brat ‘cause of work'; she barely knows him. And that kid isn’t going to need glasses washing dishes at that job I got him at the Club, now is he? Fuckin’-A, some people…

Anyway, any of you morons who tune in to CNBC between reruns of Leave it to Beaver know that there’s been some pretty interesting action lately in a little stock called Taser International (they make stun guns and shit like that- Captain Freakin’ Kirk indeed)- TASR is the ticker. This fucking thing has gone from 40 to 130 and back in three months, but the really interesting moves have been in the last few days; 35 point swings in a matter of hours, just like the glory days of the late nineties. You also may recall that we have a very strict policy on our research department about sampling products of companies we invest in (eg. Vivid Video, EZ Wider), so naturally we got a hold of one of these things.

Chip Rottencrotch, our Head Analyst (he picks stocks; nothing to do with anal sex you homos) and I fucked around w/ the thing for a while around the office. We shot random shit while drinking Twisted Spoke Bourbon- printers, fax machines, etc., but it got a little boring, so I told him I’d bring it out to the country and try it out on our gardener this weekend (what the hell, I pay him enough) and slipped the thing in the pocket of my cashmere topcoat on my way out. I make my way over to the bar at the Hudson Hotel, where I check my coat and meet up with my dealer and the Hooker du Jour (senior at NYU, acting major; enough said).

We knock a few back, doing bumps in the corner when the wait staff wasn’t looking, nothing too special, when I get up to take a piss. I’m walking past the coat check on my way to the men’s room when I hear a woman scream. Curious, I head over to the coat check and peek in. There, lying on a pile of coats at the back of the room, is this Mexican dude, who is twitching and clutching my Taser! Apparently he was rifling through my pockets, found it, and thought it was some new funky cell phone or something! Dumb fuck must have turned it on himself not knowing what it was! I’m laughing my ass off, standing over him, screaming at him that it serves him right, the dumb immigrant. The chick takes off running for help as the guy's starting to come out of it.

Then it hits me- this guy’s probably got a bunch of stuff on him from other coats! I go through his pockets, and yessiree- about two hundy in cash, a nice little fold of white powder, a brand new camera phone, and a bag o’ weed, which I needed anyway! I took everything but the camera phone; took a picture of the dumb douche lying there with the taser and left it for him to see. So you see kids, don’t fuck with YD, or you’ll get yours. Now- back to your battle stations! It’s fucking earnings season- and you can bet your sorry ass I’ve got the numbers already and need to put out a few shorts! Get stock loan on the horn, pronto, or I’ll hit you with this cattle prod next!

© Copyright 2004, Wrecked Highway, Inc., All rights reserved.
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The Yuppie Douchebag Hits More Than Just the Oscars

2005-03-21T12:32:00.000-08:00

Bungalow Three, The Chateau Mamont, Hollywood, CA- What’s up Household Help, Hangers-on and Hired Hands? Any of that Oscar glitz and glamour miraculously rub off on you through the coaxial cable you pirate from the hovel next door? Yeah, I thought not- your wife’s gunt still filling out that imitation Juicy sweatsuit nicely, huh? I guess I’ll give you another glimpse into the lives of the people at the top of the food chain. You see, when you’re a hitter like me, you tend to have a finger in every pie (hair or otherwise).

Disney’s recent decision to sever ties with Pixar (Jesus those guys are morons, but that’s another story) has created an opportunity for me (um, I mean us..). Those guys could use a little oomph to their balance sheet, so they’ve decide to float a $150 million secondary through us next month (More on that later- you boobs better sharpen you fuckin’ pencils for that meeting, that I can tell you. Fuck this one up and you’ll be out the door like five minutes ago’s soiled rubber.) Anyhoo, I put myself in charge of closing the deal with the powers that be over in Pixar-land.

Now these guys are like anyone else in the technology industry (and don’t even fucking pretend these are Hollywood types): they’re fuckin’ propeller-heads who haven’t been laid since the Cool- Guy Frat tricked ‘em into doin’ a donkey and blackballed ‘em anyway. Only difference is, these guys are now invited to all of these parties, they need dates and they need ‘em fast.
I call up my old buddy Charlie Sheen (he and I had the same west coast connection for years) for Heidi Fleiss’ number and the honk-head has the nerve to try to tell me he doesn’t have it. I told him “Look, I know you have it and I know where it is- it’s right next to Pablo’s number: under your living room carpet, dead center so you have to move all the furniture to get at it. Call me back in fifteen minutes or I’ll tell your wife you still have both of those numbers and where they are.”

He calls me back and a few phone calls later we’re in business. I explain the situation- I need three smokin’ chiquitas, and fast. I also tell ‘em that they can’t let on that they’re hookers: one of ‘ems my girlfriend and the other two are her sisters, capice? “No problem.” says the voice on the other end of the phone. Twenty minutes later, the six of us are in the back of a sixty foot limo headed for the after party at The Standard, my bungalow stocked for the end of the evening. I’m already pinned to the gills from a few trips to the men’s room, my girl knows it and want in. “Shhh, wait until we’re in the club, you’ll get yours..” I whisper in her ear, pretending to be cooing to my girlfriend of several years.

We walk in and I immediately pretend to lose the Pixar retards in the crowd. I bring my rent-a- baby into the men’s room stall for a beak-full and she’s game. I spank one out on her ass as she’s hoovering the last of the first bindle and we’re outta there, trying to find my future partners. No dice, they’re nowhere to be found. I talk to the bouncer , Radio Raheem I call him. He hasn’t seen ‘em. Maybe try the VIP lounge. VIP Lounge? Yeah right. I go up there anyway, no sign, but my nose has that familiar itch so we head for the restrooms again, this time the Ladies Room. There’s a giggle from one of the stalls, which is normal, but there’s a clip- on bow tie hanging over one door and I can see plastic rental shoes under the other. “Heh, you’re a good man YD.” I think to myself. “Your work here is done.”

As we head out the door, I hear one of them say “Are you sure you know where to find a donkey?” It was then, my friends, that I knew I had closed the deal. I immediately headed back to the bungalow to lie in wait for my prey, who would be walking into the suite next door with a cloven hooved animal in the next hour or so. Needless to say, the Champers was cracked early and I ordered another of Heidi’s girls to keep us company for the duration, which was just long enough for the first three way of the night.

I still had a Bushmills in my hand when I snapped the first of the pictures, and I had a Bloody in my hand as the contracts were signed by the star of The Donkey Show (which never existed, wink wink). So you see my inferior friends, no good deed goes without it’s rewards, hazing isn’t always what it seems and blackmail is what makes the world go ‘round. Now get back to work! What do you think this is?!? Fucking Romper Room?!?!

© Copyright 2003, Wrecked Highway, Inc., All rights reserved.
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Yuppie Douchebag Chronicles - Volume V

2005-03-21T12:31:00.001-08:00

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?!?!

© Copyright 2003, Wrecked Highway, Inc., All rights reserved.
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Your Beloved YD Hits the Super Bowl (vol. 6)

2005-03-21T12:31:00.000-08:00

The Four Seasons, Houston, TX - Well, I suppose you peons have been working off the tub of Super Bowl Dip and that case of Milwaukee’s Best at your meaningless jobs wheeling the mail cart around the executive suite. Anyway, I’m sure you were wondering what corporate quarterbacks like yours truly, one young Charles Festerbottom, do to mark pedestrian, but entertaining, events like the Super Bowl.

I have to say this year was a bit different. Oh, yeah, some things were the same: took the CEO of Devastation Drilling to the game, sat in the owner’s box, all that shit. By the way- the shrimp cocktail there fucking sucks ass- don’t bother. I figured Dallas (that’s his Christian name) Turfraper would be a good choice to bring this year- his outfit desperately needs to float some paper (that’s bonds, you imbeciles) to pay the fines recently levied against them by that pesky EPA so it was a chance to win some serious underwriting dollars.

I probably should mention that he was my roommate in prep school (the first one, before I was bounced for feeding the headmaster’s daughter bong hits until she gave up the back door..). He also has a Honk and Hooker problem rivaling mine and is a native Texan, so I was confident he’d be a good sherpa in the badlands of Houston. Jesus Christo was I wrong. Here’s the story:
Starts out okay; Thursday night I wing on down in the G4 (G5 still hasn’t been delivered, what the fuck is that?) and check into the Four Seasons. I give my man Dallas a call, who says he’s heavy (turns out he has a whitebag the size of my head; everything’s big in Texas, I guess.) and on his way over to begin the festivities. We stripe a few out and head on down to the bar to prime ourselves for the long road ahead. Dally (as we call him) has the whole place dialed- Hummer waiting in the parking lot to take us wherever we decide to go, jones- man on speed dial, our names on every list in town- from the Divas Denim and Diamonds gig at the Boaka Bar to the Playboy party at the Corinthian, we’re there.

We have a couple of beers, a couple of Patron shots, catch up on old times- he’s in the middle of a divorce, needs to hide some money from his naggin’ wife and pudgy brats, blah blah. Dinner is out of the question so we figure on going over to the old Rub and Tug. We walk in, place looks more like a teaming AIDS pit in Guam than a massage parlor in Houston, but whatever. We choose girls and head into adjacent rooms. Things proceed as usual (“Ohh Mista Eddies Fahza! You so biiiig..), when I decide maybe I want to spend a little more money. The negotiations start with her looking around nervously, which seems weird, but whatever.

Finally, we agree on a princely sum for unspeakable acts involving fruit, vegetables, and fictional virgins when the door flies open and I’m confronted by a four foot, 200 pound Asian lady swiping at me with a cleaver! I jump up, barely catch my towel and run for my life down the narrow dimly lit hallway. All of a sudden, I get to the end and realize I’d turned the wrong way out the door! The wombat with the cleaver is barreling towards my like the Tazmanian Devil, her kimono streaming out behind her spastically. I realize it’s a life and death situation, give her one of my patented fakes from my glory days on the gridiron at Philips, and bust a move right by her. At this point I’m chuckling to myself, heading back to find my pants and wallet. I enter the room and bam! Fuckin’Johnny Law staring down at me. We end up in the clink for about an hour (during which time I met Ken Lay and got a golf invitation to The Mansion at Turtle Creek) before getting bailed out by Dally’s maid, but not before I guilted him into floating twice as many bonds as he wanted.

The moral of the story: every rub and tug has a silver lining if you play your cards right. Hey, what’s 15% of 7.5% of 20 million anyway? Whatever, I figure it’ll cover the bet I lost on Broadway Joe offering to tongue-punch CBS’ Bonnie Bernstein’s dirt-star on camera.

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Yuppie Douchebag Chronicles - Volume IV

2005-03-21T12:29:00.000-08:00

Greenwich, CT - Well, it’s that time of year again kids, when Hitters like me find their way back to the Family Compound to break bread with kin and to give thanks that our (quite literally) ancestors were smart enough to secede from those faggoty English pricks, kill all the Indians, and claim their rightful place as rulers of this continent. After all, if God didn’t want there to be a ruling class in North America, he wouldn’t have created Aspen, Palm Beach, or even Fairfield County for that matter. As I’m not familiar with proletariat Thanksgiving customs (probably some backyard football game insipidly referred to as The Turkey Bowl and case after case of American beer in cans, fer Chrissake), I thought I’d bless you with a peek at how actual (go ahead, you can read that as “RICH, WHITE”) Americans spend this Fall holiday.

Last year was rather typical for your hero, one young Charles Festerbottom. As usual, I took the whole week off to do a little shooting up in Millbrook with Father and Cousin Carter Festerbottom. Cousin Carter had been kind enough to arrange for the traditional 500 bird pheasant shoot, ensuring that the guns were clean, the ammo box was stocked and the liquor cabinet was full in the cabin Upstate. The shoot was great fun. There really is nothing like weaving around a field in your Wellies and Tweeds hammered on 32 year old Glenfiddich and Mexican Brick Weed, blasting the life out of hundreds of God’s Creatures, but it was the events which transpired afterwards that make that particular holiday memorable.

After The Help had cleaned the birds and prepared them to be shipped of to Starving Somebodies (perhaps The Help themselves, now wouldn’t that be ironic?), Father was helped into the back of his car by his driver (a wonderful old black man named Lanceford whom I still have to thank for taking the heat for me when Mother found my stash in the back seat when I was sixteen). Cousin Carter and I commandeered the my little brother’s Range Rover, packing up the guns, ammunition and our favorite of the dogs, a big fat old black lab we call Oprah. I had to drive as Carter had had his license revoked (temporarily anyway) as a result of his umpteenth DUI outside Shinnecock Hills over Labor Day Weekend. I took one last pull from the flask and one last hit of the Brickweed, and climbed behind the wheel.

With Carter and Oprah dozing off in the passenger and back seats, I quickly found my way to the Taconic, set the cruise control to a comfortable ninety-five miles-per-hour , and reached into my inside pocket for a smoke. Instead of smokes, however, I found a piece of paper crudely folded into an envelope, which I vaguely recognized. Turns out, it was the leftovers from last years festivities- probably about a gram or so of the ol’ White Lady, wrapped up in a letter from some slut I was dating at the time (“You don’t care about me, can’t even remember my name, why did you always insist on anal sex and couldn’t you stay away from my sister, blah, blah..”).

“Hmm HMMM, just what the doctor ordered for the long drive.” I thought to myself, and balanced the open fold in my lap. Now I was looking around the car, trying to spy a utensil to get said powder up my beak. Keys? Already in the ignition. A pen cap? Christ, my brother hadn’t seen a pen since he was kicked out of Salisbury, except to make a crack stem out of. Shit, come on come on come on. Think, damnit! Oooh, wait, a match book! Use the corner to scoop it up! Resourceful. Brilliant. I congratulated myself. MacGuyver had nothing on me.

Anyway, I scoop up a little bump, do it, but it doesn’t really go up far enough, if you know what I mean, as one nostril remained open while I hoovered with the other. Next challenge. No problem. I put one knee flush against the steering wheel to hold it straight (still doing 95, mind you), scooped up another bump, and sniffed her home. The next thirty seconds are pretty much a blur- I put my knee down, go to grab the wheel and the fold begins to slide off my lap! I go to save it, batting it out of the air like an errant shuttlecock, and a cloud of coke fills the air in the car. Oprah wakes up with a start, gets a nice whiff herself, and immediately starts going nuts. She jumps in my lap, wagging her tail furiously, 120 pounds of dog licking at my face. She gets her paw in the steering wheel and tries to stand on it, instantly sending us across two lanes of traffic as we round a curve. I grab the wheel and spin it the other way to compensate, and we roll the goddamn thing into the embankment.

I quickly assess the situation- I’m drunk/high/coked up. I have weed on me. We have more guns in the car than the Branch Davidians did at Waco. Carter is hanging upside-down from his seatbelt, looking around in a daze.

Now I’m no stranger to the law myself, and Hell if I was going down with the ship on this one, so I sprint into the woods and keep running. I come out of the woods and see a road. A car is coming down the lane. I run to the road and stick my thumb out, casual as can be. Nothing unusual, just your average hitchhiker out for a jaunt in his Holland and Holland tweed shooting outfit. Miraculously, the car pulls over, a Jeep Wagoneer covered in Phish stickers. Hot little hippie chick rolls down the window and says,

“Hey do you mind driving for a while, I want to roll a doobie and I can’t do it while I’m driving; almost wrecked a ways back.”

“It’s the least I could do.” I say, and hop in beside her as she slides over to the passenger seat.

“Thanks, man. Where are you headed?” She says.

“Greenwich.” I say.

“Cool! So am I!” She says “Hey, do you like blowjobs by any chance?”

Needless to say, Dinner was rather awkward after bailing Carter out of jail. But then again, who’s Thanksgiving dinner isn’t?

Yuppie Douchebag Chronicles Volume III

2005-03-21T12:19:00.000-08:00

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...

Yuppie Douchebag Chronicles (Vol. 2) - Mid Summer Report

2005-03-21T12:18:00.000-08:00

Nantucket, MA - What’s happenin’, my inferior brethren? Just thought I’d let you know how old YD’s summer’s been so far- how’s yours? I hear Newark is lovely this time of year…Yours Truly has been on the oh so reliable East Coast Circuit for most of the summer. Oh, the usual weddings, banged the occasional bridesmaid- one behind the catering tent at Mid-Ocean in Bermuda, but that’s only part of the story.

Y’see, Chaps like me tend to follow a certain path the way birds fly south for the winter. Watch, you’ll notice an island pattern: Come May Two-four, every year, it’s a safe bet Frog, Four Star, Charlie-cat and the rest of the deep-sea fishing crowd will have the blenders fired and the Dark and Stormys coming in like a full gale. The free drinks and the Bacardi chicks at the weigh in of the Bermuda Classic marlin tournament are worth the price of airfare alone. It’s like you’re Hemingway without the urge to write!

Around Memorial Day, The eastern end of Long Island tends to fill up with the usual suspects. The fish start running again, and the offspring of the founders of NYSE listed companies bearing their names begin to move north. The bars run out of Heineken, and the drug dealers from the city can’t drive fast enough to satisfy our appetites. Independence Day holds special meaning for these people, in that they feel that their ancestors largely founded this country, and that it was the wave of immigrants that spoiled it for everyone. This is Home to a certain faction of the tribe, including yours truly. It is in this local that our Episode of the Summer So Far took place.

As Mummy and Daddy travel most of the year, YD had the place to himself yet again. The boat was gassed up, the cooler packed with beer, the tackle in place (literally and figuratively). My boys Chad and Chip tell me to meet them at Conscience Point, right? That joint where that Jewish broad mowed over all those suckers in line? So I go to meet ‘em at like 10 o’clock, line of the usual losers out the door (Yeah, cheesedick, I saw you there in line and didn’t let you tag along, got a problem with that?).

Anyway, I roll in past Jamal the Eight Foot Bouncer with a wink and a nod, say hello to some chump who owes me commissions from a deal we did like fucking a year ago (he’s damn lucky I don’t have the time to go after 20 grand), order a beer and fuckin’- a if I didn’t run woody- first into my prom dates little sister! She wanted me when she was like fuckin’ EIGHT when I picked her sister up to pop HER cherry. I mean, talk about your groundwork already laid for ya. She bummed a smoke and told me how weird it was to run into me there, and did I have ‘any interest in a little booger sugar’? I mean, this little tramp had a better chance getting away from Leo DiCaprio with a fistful of X!

I damn near fell down and thanked God like an NFL receiver in the end zone right then and there. A moment later we’re in the unisex bathrooms, and she pulls out a fold the size of my head! Fumbling through her tiny purse, she pulls out the keys to her Hummer. “You drive a Hummer?” I say.“Yeah, I got it ‘cause they have the fattest keys to do bumpies off of- plus I really like the name.” she replies casually, handing me the bindle.

Needless to say, the story gets better from there- we go back to her parents’ 57 ‘ Grand Banks, only to interrupt her hottie college roommate going at it with the waitress from the bar on the deck! I tell you my pissant little acquaintances, if I have to paint a picture for you, you don’t deserve to hear the rest of it. Besides, the market’s about to open you fucks! Get back to work! And forward those TPS reports to the fax on my boat- NAUTY BY NATURE! Anybody who calls me before Labor Day’s fired! You hear me??

© Copyright 2003, Wrecked Highway, Inc., All rights reserved.
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Yuppie Douchebag Chronicles (Vol. I)

2005-03-21T08:46:00.000-08:00

New York, NY – Hey all you losers. Just thought you’d like to know what it’s like to live the glamorous and vapid life of a Genuine Bona-fide Yuppie Douchebag. With the recent dotcom crash and ensuing market turbulence, the men have been separated from the boys once again. This column will serve as a reminder to all of the dorks waiting at the back of the endless line in front of Flow on Friday nights that they were, in fact, ugly, talentless proletariat slime all along. All of the worthless stock options in the world will never make you peons as cool as Moi- don’t even try to talk to the beautiful babies sitting in my banquette (unless you happen to have an 8 ball with you, of course).

So get this, my boys Chad, Chip and I go to this Benefit for Starving Something or Others (I don’t know, my name ended up on the invite ‘cause I banged some slut on the committee a while back) at the Bainbridge Club the other night, right? I’m sitting there at the bar, and I reach into my tuxedo pocket for a smoke and what do I find? That’s right, the leftovers from the bindle I lost at the last Benefit for Starving Something or Others!

Now, ordinarily Tuesday nights can be pretty tame for me but I’d already shelled out a C-note for the party (wonder if that check will bounce? Oh, well) and here I find myself holding, as they say. Just then this hot little minx in last years Manolo Blahniks sidles up to me and asks for a ciggy with a sly little grin. “I’ve got something better than that. Have you ever seen the doubles squash court here?” I say, smooth as Clinton to Monica with Hillary in the next room.

“Why no, I’ve never been upstairs here- I thought they didn’t allow women up there.” She says shyly. Yeah right, shy. This chick was no stranger to a straw up her nose or a cock in her mouth; that I could tell. I drag her upstairs by the hand, with a quick glance to make sure Javier or any of the help from the club didn’t notice. Friggin’ had to bribe the last wombat who caught me pulling this shit so I wouldn’t get kicked out of the club, which would kill Grandfather.

I tell you my friends, what happened next is the stuff of pure legend. After one little bump, I had this chick teed up like Tiger Woods on the 17th at Augusta. Her moans are echoing throughout the court, me trying to cover her pie hole with one hand while holding the door shut with the other. After I finish on her back (nice little tattoo there for a target; always a good sign), she stands up and says “I’ve got to go meet my sister at Balthazaar, wanna come?”

She had to say no more. Ten minutes, two more bumps and a $20 cab ride later I’m seated opposite her and what could be her twin, who let it be known she was also anxious to partake in the festivities. Two Stoli –o and tonics later and we’re headed for the bathroom, all three of us, without a care in the world who saw or knew what was going on. Her sister’s an even bigger hosebeast, but plays her cards better. As she’s doing the last of the bag while I bury my face in her natural breasts (such a rare pleasure these days), she says “So do you have a house in the Hamptons or anything this summer?”

This was the exit signal. A market top, if you will. I made sure I got what I had coming to me and made my way outta there. Had a pricing meeting for that Vivid Video IPO deal I’d been working on in the morning anyway. I gave her the business card of some jackass who handed me his at the Benefit, hoping to get me to write a letter for him at the club. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the call he gets in a few days; his wife may not be so appreciative! I bee-lined out of there like the place was on fire, and made it home to catch a little Conan over bong hits to put me to sleep.
Anyway, gotta run- market’s about to open. Back to your cubicles, kids!