Over the years, I’ve established quite a reputation as a companion for mega rich people. Sometimes I think maybe it’s the other way around. That they’ve developed a reputation as companions for me. Just think about that for a second!
Anyway, I said all that because recently someone on the internet suggested that I have “no value” and questioned why all my rich friends would even want me around. Today, I’m going to give you the answer, and it may astound you.
Let me begin by bringing you back to a time about ten years ago when my friend Alfonso (not his real name, of course) invited me to party with him while he was on tour with his band called “Buttfinger” (not the real name of his group).
Anyway, Buttfinger was blowing up all over Europe and they were playing major venues, like stadiums and the Palace of Versailles. When I caught up with them, they were somewhere in Germany and headed down to Rome. They had rented out an entire train to take them there.
There were girls on board. Oh, so many girls. And lots and lots of drugs. I immediately took my penis out when I got on and screamed something about how it was time to party. Apparently, it wasn’t time and I got a lot of weird looks because the car I walked into was for family members of the band (like little kids and wives and even some old guy I guess was someone’s grandpa).
So I pulled up my jeans and walked to the next car. There were several groupies there –hot women who wanted a piece of Buttfinger. They asked me who I was and I said I was a friend of Alfonso. (You’ve probably heard that groupies will “sleep their way” to the lead singer of a band, meaning that they’ll have sex with roadies, who will then introduce them to someone else, and so on, till they get to the top.)
The girls asked if I was a roadie and I reiterated that I was a friend of Alfonso. They seemed unimpressed and told me that they too, were friends. I said bullshit. They weren’t friends. They were just hookers, really, who wanted to claim the glory of Buttfinger for themselves by fucking band members.
So none of them would sleep with me. A roadie appeared and three of them left with him. What a pile of crap, I thought. Slowly, I went car for car till I found Alfonso. He was passed out on a sofa. At this point I was feeling not only bored but also a little pissed off that Alfonso was sleeping when this should have been the greatest party of my life. So I shoved him till he fell off the couch.
As he hit the floor and woke up in disbelief I started yelling at him. “This train sucks!” I said. And then I went on to explain that when a friend of his joins him on tour he expects more. Like hookers who actually want to have sex with him and no little kids around to kill the buzz. Alfonso apologized, sort of… He said he was sorry if this didn’t live up to my expectations and some other stuff, but then he also said that if I didn’t like it I could get off at the next stop. So, I was a little confused. Was he apologizing to me or was he being a dick?
I gave him the benefit of the doubt and accepted the apology. I told him that he’d better step things up though, or I may actually take him up on the offer of leaving. At that moment his “manager” came into the train car and asked Alfonso if I was giving him trouble. I put my shush finger up to Alfonso’s mouth and spoke for him. I told the manager that I’d fucking kill him if he ever asked a question like that again. Then I suggested I was carrying a gun and that I would not only murder him, but everyone else on the entire train, including the hookers but probably sparing the kids and old people.
I think this was just the kind of conversation they needed at that moment, because everybody got really quiet and became reasonable – suddenly. They asked me if I wanted anything, and I said, yes, I already said I wanted hookers and a party. I joked that it had better be a good party or I’d kill everyone, and then I laughed. They laughed too, but in this really fake-ass way. Oh well, I guess that’s rock stars for you.
As the party raged on, I noticed Alfonso looking really weird and nervous. I joked again that he’d better start having fun or I’d murder him. He did another one of his fake laughs. Whatever.
At the next stop, it wasn’t me who got off. It was Alfonso, his whole band, his manager, and his family. And guess who got on just as they exited? The fucking Italian police, or Interpol, or some shit like that. They came on, arrested me, took all the drugs and started threatening me with all this European legal bullshit. I laughed in their faces because I don’t “do” legal shit.
Anyway, moral of the story is this: rich people keep me around because I save their asses and teach them how to party. Let’s recap what I did:
1. I created a party of nothing, like lighting a fire in a wet jungle. Before I arrived there was just some boring straight sex among groupies and roadies, maybe a little drinking, and a rock star taking a nap. When I was finished, there was a full on orgy happening with drugs and guns and real rock and roll shit. You’re welcome.
2. I took the hit for all the illegal activity the band was engaged in. I allowed them to get off the train just as the authorities arrived. If I hadn’t been there, they would have all been busted for sure. But I formed a barrier between them and the law, and even got locked up for a while on made-up charges of attempted murder and some other crap I couldn’t and wouldn’t understand.
3. I like to party. If you don’t like it, then don’t let me on your fucking train or in your house. Period.
In conclusion I think all of this illustrates my immense value to rich people (and any other people, if they could afford me). So suck on it, internet trolls. I have a sick ultra-elite rich party to go to. I’m out.
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 firstname.lastname@example.org. Don’t expect him to get back to you right away. Also, don't invite him if you don't like to party.
Ever wonder what really rich people do that you don’t, besides basically everything? The Intergalactic Business Report uses its deep relationships with the super wealthy to reveal what’s hot at this moment with people who have so much money they forgot the rest of us are alive.
1. In flight living. A number of very rich people have taken to living entirely in the sky on super expensive jumbo jets that hold every amenity imaginable. These planes are able to refuel in the air and even have basic maintenance done so that the elite can spend up to 300 days of the year flying around with their family members and guests, who must sign on to remain in flight for close to an entire year.
2. Epic battle recreations with real humans. Although the super wealthy people we spoke with said they don’t have time to study history in depth, they do enjoy staging recreations of epic battles they know a little about. For example, Waterloo, Thermopylae, and the ultra-expensive Normandy invasion. Thousands of “actors” are enlisted to wage combat as the wealthy “generals” hang out together at a safe distance and watch their armies clash. Because these battles take place in areas where local officials permit them, death is frequent, making the experience even more realistic and satisfying.
3. Po’ boy sandwich eating contests. Sandwich eating contests are in vogue among the elite, but they never eat the sandwiches themselves, not even ironically. Instead, actual poor people are hired to eat the sandwiches for them.
4. Trying to contract scurvy. Avoiding vitamin C for months can bring about scurvy and this is now considered a status symbol among the mega rich. We were told that “only poor people want vitamin C” and that bulging eyes, loose teeth, and scaly skin are seen as “hot” and “next level fashion” by the rich.
5. Urban camping. The next time you see an encampment of homeless people under a bridge or in an alley, look for Gucci bags and designer tents amid the misery and hunger. This is because the rich have taken to “urban camping” in which they live in the city, outside, for an evening or two. For security, butlers and guards often create a perimeter around their employers’ tents and taze anyone who approaches them.
6. One-time use washing machines. If you want a great deal on a washing machine, look in a rich person’s garbage (if you can get close enough without getting tazed, picked up by police, or both). The current trend is to use washing machines once and then replace them the next day. We were told that on the second wash, clothes tend to “smell of poverty.”
7. Hiring actors to recreate their weddings, so they can experience what the guests did. Watching the video just doesn’t cut it anymore. Rich people will sometimes join their own recreated weddings as the best man, father of the bride, or the drunk uncle.
8. Not calling it “money.” Evidently, it is not only gauche to talk about money but also to call it money at all. Other terms have taken over, such as “diamond credits” and “funyuns." Example sentence: "Daddy put more diamond credits in my account because the yacht dealer said he needed more funyuns."
Until very recently contact with the afterlife was considered impossible by most and murky even by the most ardent believers in that stuff.
But, breaking with all conventional reporting, the Intergalactic Business Report sent staff writers into the great beyond by forcing “death experiences” on them.
Our clinically dead business reporters left our world and took notes about what happens next for all of us. Then we revived them and told them they had a tight deadline to meet or they would be fired tomorrow. Here’s what they told us:
1. Unbelievably, you can take your wealth with you to the afterlife. Upon arrival in Heaven our journalists were surprised that they were shown a detailed listing of their financial assets by an angel. Those who had made poor investments or were living paycheck to paycheck were scolded and sent to a dark room that they described as “the opposite of the light” and that had the feeling of “despair and the realization that sound financial planning is the most important thing they could have ever done in their lives… but didn’t.”
2. Wealthy people receive much better treatment. One reporter, whose father had left him a considerable fortune, was brought into the light ahead of others in line. He was shown the secrets of the universe and given the feeling of total enlightenment. Then he was asked if he’d like to step up to the “platinum package” of universal consciousness. He did, but would not reveal to us what he saw after. Instead, immediately upon revival, he quit our team, said he needed to become an investment banker so that he could make more money, and acted like he was better than us and had this really shitty, condescending tone.
3. If members of your family are poor and die, you have to care for them when you do. It was a complete bummer for one reporter to find that even though he had managed his financial affairs wisely, he was going to have to live in the dark world with his cousin Randy, who pissed away money when he was alive and didn’t respect hard work and discipline.
4. You have a perfect mate waiting for you in Heaven. But she/he costs a shit ton of money. If you don’t have enough, you’re assigned the “B” or “C” models, which are mates that seem O.K at first but then reveal super annoying eating habits, body parts that look disgusting when they take off their clothes, or have a fucking voice that drives you insane every time you hear it.
5. Make sure you have some kind of identity protection on Earth, because when you get to Heaven, you may find that you were “hacked.” Even angels will question whether you’re who you say you are and be skeptical that it wasn’t you who bought that pallet of Jack Daniels at Costco.
6. In order to feel a sense of spiritual bliss and feel like “everything finally makes sense” you have to upgrade. Otherwise you feel like you do right now.
I was a millionaire by age 23. And you can be too (at any age) if you follow these three steps.
I was going nowhere. To say I was broke is an understatement. I’d graduated college with a degree in Contemporary Issues Management, and when people asked me what that was, I couldn’t even tell them. To this day, I have very little idea what I studied.
With few job prospects, I moved back in with my parents. It was humiliating. I had to ask them for what could only be described as an “adult allowance,” which they paid me each week, by leaving an envelope full of money on the dresser of my boyhood room.
I’d take that money and blow it all on alcohol and strippers. That’s the kind of dark place I lived in. Rolling in at three a.m. one morning, I noticed my father was still awake in his office. I stumbled in and asked him what he was doing.
He explained that since he was a multi-gazillionaire, he was adjusting some things in his will and also creating a “trust fund” for me. Apparently, this fund was a way for him to give me millions of dollars. But there was a catch. I couldn’t spend it all at once and I needed to consult with some lawyer before I made large purchases.
Before I go on, I want to say that dads can be dicks sometimes, but they mean well. I think that my father, in his own, misguided way, was trying to make sure I didn’t burn through a lot of money so quickly that there was none left. And in many ways he was right. If he had let me control that trust fund, I would have almost immediately spent it on a yacht I’d been eyeing.
Still, I was angry that he didn’t “trust” me with the trust fund. I explained to him that if he couldn’t see me as man enough to handle money, then I could never become a man. For weeks afterwards, I’d repeat this statement, again and again, till he finally relented and said, “O.K. I’ll just give you the money, but I’m trusting you not to spend it all at once.”
About a month later, I was on my new yacht, but since there was no money left in my fund, I couldn’t afford a captain or crew. So I became the captain and the crew were some of my buddies. We took the boat out, but it was way more complicated than we imagined. We ended up running into a marina and causing millions of dollars of damages not only to my yacht, but to other people’s property.
So there I was, a twenty-three year old who had gone from being a millionaire to having nothing. In fact, I owed money. Lots of it. I thought back to what my dad had said about not spending all the cash at once, and I couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t just given me more, so that the accident had never occurred. It was one of those moments when you realize that your parent has become older, disengaged, and maybe a little senile.
I seriously considered having my dad committed to a home where he could live out his last decades after handing me over the rest of his money. But then he came through for me and settled all the lawsuits and paid off my debts.
After seeing this, I came up with a brilliant idea. I simply told my dad, again and again, that I was in deep financial shit (which wasn’t a lie, usually). I’d say I was in trouble with a drug cartel (true), that some hookers were blackmailing me (kind of true), and that I had organized a major rock concert to benefit pediatric AIDS (total bullshit), and that I owed close to fifty million dollars to Phil Collins. Each time, my old, senile father came through, probably out of instinct, through a brain that had died long ago.
At the end of this run, I had spent close to a hundred million dollars on cars, luxury suites at hotels, and lots and lots of high end hookers and designer drugs. But I had also saved just over a million dollars, mostly because I had deposited it in a bank in Mexico and forgotten about it because I was so high on blow and had said to my friends when we were in Cabo, “Hey, let’s deposit like a million dollars in one of the shitty banks here.”
The moral of the story is that I am technically a millionaire as I write this and until I figure out how to withdraw that cash. And, after I do that, I’m sure my dad has more to give.
I know my story might seem amazing (because it is) but I truly believe that anyone can do what I did. It really comes down to three simple steps and if you follow them closely, you will be a millionaire like me.
It’s taken maybe a hundred years, but finally managers are realizing that sitting in a conference room with someone who faked his résumé and asking him where he pictures himself in ten years isn’t going to reveal to them that this guy is a on-job drunk with an embezzlement hobby.
Top management experts* have revealed to the Intergalactic Business Report what will replace the traditional interview in years to come.
*Some guy we met in a bar. And the waitress who was drinking on the job.
The secret of how super wealthy men pick up gorgeous women: I hang out with rich people, volume three.
Because I lead a life where I’m basically partying with the richest people in the world every day and night, it doesn’t make sense to readers why I would take even three seconds to let them in on how amazing my situation is. In other words, why am I so generous to write a column about my experiences so that lower level humans, like you, can have a fleeting glimpse of what it’s like to essentially have sex with luxury, money, and lavishness?
I don’t have a good answer for that, other than maybe it’s because I’m a good person. Anyway, enough about you. Today’s subject is about how my rich friends pick up hot women and what their secret is. After observing for quite some time, I’ve narrowed it down to four unbelievable facts that go counter to anything you’ve read, seen, or imagined.
While with my homeboy (let’s just call him Prince D. so you can never guess his identity) I noticed some attractive women at a party he was hosting. I did what I believed rich people would do if they wanted to meet them, so I shouted, “Yo, hookers, you wanna get with me? I’ve got money!”
Surprisingly, none of the hookers were interested. And, as Prince D explained to me, they were not hookers. He called them “models.” I wasn’t going to let homey off so easily. I asked him, “if they’re not hookers, then why are they at a party where only rich people are?” Prince D. explained that these beautiful (on the outside) girls may indeed be interested in meeting a rich guy, but they did not sleep with men in exchange for money.
At that point, I pointed out Prince D’s girlfriend, who was also a “model” who received a sick sports car from him for her twenty-third birthday. He said he just has a lot of money and wanted to give her something nice to show how much he appreciated her. “Yeah,” I mumbled so that he couldn’t hear me, “like a hooker.”
I found another group of women later. They were very attractive (externally) and I tried a different approach with them. “Hey, models!” I announced. “Which one of you will sleep with me for a Lamborghini?” One of them immediately agreed. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to come up with the car after having sex and explained to her that I didn’t have any real money of my own. Instead of being angry, she asked if I could introduce her to one of my many rich friends.
Hmmm, I started thinking. I could become some kind of pimp and spend my days setting up wealthy friends with hookers, um, models. I could charge a kind of “finder’s fee” for my services and then even call myself a “matchmaker” or something and start a whole business and maybe get my own reality show. But then the more I thought about that, I realized how much it would suck to work that hard. Seriously, it’s so much easier just living off my super rich friends.
When I found Prince D again I said, “If you didn’t have all your money, what would you say to a girl you really wanted to date?”
Prince D. thought for a moment. Then he said that he guessed he would just pretend to be rich and offer the girl a really expensive car if she slept with him. “Like a Lambo?” I asked. “Sure. I guess,” he replied, clearly fascinated by how I could read his mind like he was an empty cipher and I controlled him like a cruel but fair puppet master.
So, here’s the summary of how rich people pick up gorgeous women:
1.They call them models instead of hookers.
2.They create a venue where they can meet these hookers, like a party.
3.They have sex with them.
4.They give them birthday presents.
As the party waned and the sun began to rise, I realized I had only had sex with one of the many women roaming the grounds. Prince D was off somewhere with his girlfriend and I turned my attention to the caterers and bartenders.
I said to one of them, “How about you? You’re not as good-looking as those models, but you’re O.K. Why do you sleep with rich guys?”
She seemed angry, or something – it was an emotion I’d never seen on someone’s face. She muttered some lie about how she doesn’t sleep with rich guys. I countered immediately by offering her a Lambo, but I guess it wasn’t the right “brand” of car for her. Lesson to myself: memorize more luxury car names to get more hookers!*
*Just a note to poorer people reading this. You can offer cars that fit your lower level of being and get less attractive hookers who hang around the places you do, like country western bars and putt putt golf courses (I’m just guessing). Offer a Ford, for instance. Or a Honda
Civic. Good luck, player. See you never. (And I only say that because I will probably literally never see you anywhere, ever, because you have a lifestyle that is deeply below me. No judgment. Just fact. But good luck with those hookers.)
About the author:
Darryl Smurten is an expert on the lives and lifestyles of super wealthy people. His own life consists of hanging out with these people and garnering insights and secrets about them. Post comments below or contact Darryl at email@example.com.
Ever wonder if you should quit your job but feel like you can’t make that decision and need to read something on the internet that will tell you what to do? It’s your lucky day, because the Intergalactic Business Report gives you the answer your mind can’t come up with on its own.
If any of these things happen when you’re at work, it’s time to say goodbye immediately. Not next week, not tomorrow, but this afternoon.
1. You just kind of don’t feel like being there.
2. Your boss is a dick.
3. You wish you were asleep instead of doing whatever you do there.
4. At about three o’clock, you start thinking about drinking.
5. Your boss threatens to murder people for not doing what he wants, and you suspect he may actually have done it on several occasions, because many of your work friends have gone missing after your boss reamed them out at staff meetings and threatened to “fucking murder” them in front of everybody. Then you never saw them again. You did receive an email from them, after the meeting, in which they told you they feared for their lives and that they believed your boss was serious. Then they ended the message, mysteriously, by saying something about how you were probably next because your boss would say things to them constantly about murdering you and that it was just a matter of time till he had the right moment.
When it comes to interviewing, losers lose it and winners win (it). It, meaning the job. The following advice is for the losers, because if you’re a winner, you have no reason to read this. Instead, just keep getting every job you apply for and sleep with people whenever you feel like it. And roll around in money on your boat.
Now, back to you, loser. Wonder why you’re blowing the big interview? If it isn’t the dumb crap flowing from your mouth, it may just be your body language. So, next time you swing around an office chair at the conference room of dreams, look your future boss in the face and DO NOT use these three body language suicide moves:
1. Holding your crotch. Sure. Usually this is fine. Sometimes it’s even more than that. But believe it or not, in an interview setting, touching your private parts can be considered offensive, sexually aggressive, or even unsanitary. Instead, place your hands on your nipples, where they are in full view and suggesting nothing. Twist them to keep your hands in place.
2. Hitting yourself. This means anywhere: in your face, your crotch, your ass – anywhere. As much as you feel like it, hold back your desire to forcefully punish yourself and just act as if your interviewers have your full attention.
3. Leaning forward and grunting or squealing. Yes, this can feel good and you probably do it at the beach, lunch, and dinner. But not here. Not in front of people interviewing you for a job. Apparently, they see this as displaying mental illness or having some kind of an “episode” or “attack.” Easy solution: sing instead of grunting. And dance instead of leaning forward. Now you’re showing talent, not insanity.
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