How I finally realized what an absolute dick I am and how I will change. I hang out with rich people volume 39 (I think). By Darryl Smurten.
I’m going to be honest for once. When people would tell me I had severe anger issues, took too many drugs, and was dangerous to be around, I thought they were just envious of my amazing lifestyle and the fact that I was clearly better than them. But as I began to examine my life, I noticed that what they were saying was very true and I was, I guess, a bad person?
If you’ve read my columns, you know I spend my life traveling around the world and hanging out with my rich friends. Then, out of what can only be described as mercy or charity, I tell you about it so that you can catch a tiny glimpse of what I experience every day. With that, you’re supposed to feel good. Or something. The editors didn’t really explain it to me that well.
Anyway, I read some of my past writing for the Intergalactic Business Report, and I even watched some police video of myself, and after a few hours I began to notice a pattern about the man I was reading about and seeing. I had to look beyond the fact that I am the kind of person everyone wants to be and look like and really gaze deep within myself. I could only conclude that sometimes I act like a total dick.
It was one video in particular that caught my eye. It was taken by someone on his iphone, I’m assuming, and posted online. It showed me being chased by some security guards at an exclusive resort in an anonymous place I won’t name, called Ibiza. This was filmed years ago, but as I watched it, the events surrounding it became clear again in my sharp and active brain.
I had gone there with some female friends of mine, who were models. Usually I don’t hang out with models because of their average (I’m being generous) intelligence and they’re hesitancy about having sex with me, but these girls were cool in the sense that I barely knew them so I assumed they would do whatever I wanted and that they would buy me drugs, almost like they were my personal hooker stash that I could carry around with me and whip out whenever I needed them.
These women also knew Bolgo (a name I made up to hide the identity of a guy named Bodo, who lived on the island). “Bolgo” is rich. And rich enough to hang out with me, which, if you used a venh diagram would be like a chart where you saw me on one side overlap with him and then another part of a circle that showed money. I didn’t know Bolgo yet, but I assumed he would have heard of me. So I went ahead expecting to be set up royally for the weekend. And this is where I think all the problems started.
By the time we made it to Bolgo’s hotel suite, I was pretty drunk and felt ready to party even harder, but, after some pleasantries from him about how I was welcome and blah blah blah, he started trying to act super educated and asked the girls if they wanted to see some of his art collection, which he stored there in this penthouse.
I went along with them, but as you can imagine, I was almost instantly bored. Talking about art can be the opposite of a boner pill and I felt like he was never going to stop making noise out of his face hole. I was losing my buzz, so I left the “tour” and went to find a bottle to sustain me for a few more minutes.
I then ran into some bartender/bodyguard who had a serious attitude when I helped myself to some liquor and told him to step aside. He physically removed me from the bar and I, enraged, grabbed a stray bottle, poured it over the bar and some couches, and then lit everything on fire. O.K. let’s stop right here in the story.
As a reader, tell me if you think anything I did up till this sentence was rude, strange, impolite, etc. Good. Because what comes next was the bizarre part.
After standing my ground and not allowing myself to be pushed around by a servant, a bunch of security guards were called in. They began putting out the fire and asked me to come with them. I was a little astounded. I asked them calmly, but with a firepoker in my hand, if they would please get Bolgo in there right away so we could set things straight. They then lied and told me that Bolgo was the one who had called them.
I explained that the bartender had refused to serve me in the way I wanted and so I naturally burned a few couches and the bar, but I hadn’t done anything that should get everyone so huffy. But they still tried to grab me and I, with the motion of some kind of animal that is more graceful than a slithery cat, evaded them easily and ran from the suite and down the hall.
Their pursuit lasted a while and went throughout the hotel. This is when I believe some asshole decided to film us. I remember being so angry that I did something I was truly unproud of, and this is what haunts me to this day and is making me a better man, I hope.
Up till that point, I had conducted myself like a gentleman, meting out judgment and punishment only when it was well-deserved. But, cornered, I had to make a decision about my own survival. Instead of accepting an arrest by rent-a-cops and a humiliating perp walk under the scrutiny of hundreds of camera phones, I flung my own poop at my assailants. I bent down, and struggled to relax long enough to produce the feces necessary to repel my foes. But I did it just in time.
I will never forget their horrified glances. Their running away. One of them looked at me in terror, as if to say, “I’m a rent-a-cop. I don’t get paid enough to touch you.” With the remaining human crap, I covered myself as if in armor and walked out of the building with no one coming too near. I had won, clearly, but I couldn’t help but think I had lost something too?
As I watch the video now I see that, tactically, I am a genius. But, like Julius Caesar, that only gets you so far. In the future I can’t promise I won’t fling poo or even cover myself in it if that’s what it takes to escape or make my point. But what I will do is try to do it with more compassion and caring than I did that night on Ibiza. I guess this is why I have been entitled to all the things I’ve been entitled to. Because I am self-aware enough to be rewarded for understanding myself so well. And this makes me able to be a mentor and hero to teenagers, for instance.
With that, I’m off to go to my next party. And when I’m there, I’ll show my own wisdom to myself. Again.
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@example.com. Don’t expect him to get back to you right away.
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