 I don’t know you, but I’m guessing there are a lot of days when you read this column and think to yourself, “The guy who writes this is the coolest, most awesome person I could ever imagine,” and then you go back to being poor. That being said, I agree with you. And at this point in my writing, I want to stop because there’s not much more to be said than that. However, the Intergalactic Business Report has asked me to do an article about car preferences of the ultra-wealthy because I guess they thought that was interesting even though it’s not but here I go anyway. As per usual, I like to illustrate my reports on the wealthy by telling a story about my constant interactions with them. I guess the most “car” story I can think of is when I visited my friend “Giovanni” at his high rise penthouse in a major U.S. city the name of which I will never reveal in any way. “Giovanni,” whose name I put in quotes to keep him anonymous and because his actual name of Jeff doesn’t seem as cool for the purposes of this article, has a collection of cars that he keeps in a hangar in New Jersey, not far from the unnamed city in which he lives. He invited me to see his cars and I accepted his offer even though I think it’s a little dumb to walk around and look at cars. We met first at his penthouse, which is on the zillionth floor of his building, and when I got there he asked if I was ready to go. I asked if we could have a drink first and enjoy the view of the city from his outside garden. He said o.k., and some woman who was I guess his maid came in and got me a drink. Later I found out that woman was his wife or girlfriend. Or maybe his maid. I don’t remember. Anyway, we had drinks and Jeff pointed out all the buildings and said stuff about architecture, which I found extremely boring, so I asked for another drink. Jeff said we should get moving, but, as his guest, I retained the right to drink more according to all codes of etiquette and grace. He begrudgingly went back and got us a couple beers. I drank mine quickly and then Jeff said we should leave. I again invoked my right to drink more. Jeff said we should go. I invoked my sacred right again. He said he didn’t know what I was talking about. I asked if I could use the bathroom. As I took a long but angry dump, I reflected on his rudeness. In past years, before I had stopped drinking seriously, I would have shit on his floor and probably burned his fucking penthouse to the ground. Today, I just took a dump in his shower and shouted swear words loudly, so that he and his maid/wife/daughter could hear my discontent and consider how they would make things up to me. The drive to his car hangar was quiet. It was even a little uncomfortable. It was as if something had come between us to challenge our friendship. When his maid-wife called him, Jeff looked confused and hung up before asking me, “Did you shit in my shower?” I didn’t answer. I just pointed to a crappy Nissan that was driving next to us. Then I said, “Would you ever drive that?” Jeff just shook his head. That was a “No,” I guess. So what did I learn that day about the super wealthy and their cars? 1. Their maids will snitch on you if you take a dump in their house in something other than the limited space of a toilet hole. 2. They either marry their maids or they make their wives/daughters/sisters become their maids, which is really fucked up. 3. I drink Falstaff beer. Every time I go anywhere, they should ask me, beforehand, “Hey, what kind of beer do you like?” and then have it for me. Jeff failed this test miserably. In conclusion, it’s clear again that the super wealthy need to up their game to get to my level of excellence. I challenge them to do so, but also understand they may falter and fail. That’s my gift—to empathize with them when they come up short in pleasing me, but to also never forgive them for their shortcomings. And that is why Jeff can go fuck himself, but in a way that isn’t permanently scarring to his butthole. As I head off to my next exclusive party, I take with me the great responsibility of a teacher, mentor, and leader. And I hope my next hosts will have their metaphorical shit together or face the consequences. Till next time. Darryl Smurten. Darryl Smurten reports on the mega- and ultra-rich. His up-close insights about how they live provide even common peasants the ability to glimpse, if for a moment, the light of the good life. If you are ultra-rich and don’t know Darryl yet, and would like to invite him to hang out with you, please contact him at [email protected]. Don’t expect him to get back to you right away.  The term "icebreaker" came about when someone said some awkward shit on a boat in the ice. Steve Jobs once said something about job interviews and you can look that up and read it somewhere. Or you can do what elite people do and read the Intergalactic Business Report. Instead of posting requotes from dead zillionaires and pretending it has something to do with us, we do first time quotes from ourselves and then pretend it has something to do with us. Today we tackle job interviews. You go into them putting on your best fake persona and hoping it will take people more than an hour to see you’re a terrible person. But if you use any of the following ice breakers, people will find out you’re a terrible person much earlier. Below, we give you the 5 most common icebreakers that you should never say to open a job interview. 1. “Great weather we’re having, right? It’s so hot I might have sex with a prostitute.” 2. “I really like your tie. Did you get it at a European sex shop where they have illegal shit going on all the time?” 3. “I’m so happy to be here. You guys look like you just slapped each other around at an orgy. Am I close?” 4. “How are you? You may not want to shake my hand. I think I got it caught inside my ass while I was trying to wipe myself. Do you wipe your ass too?” 5. “What an impressive building this is. I bet prostitutes give you a discount when you take them back here to have sex with them.” |
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