Let me get this out of the way before I write anything else: Christmas is for poor people. I feel better now. Thanks, even though I don’t need to say that because I don’t “thank” people any more.
Anyway, I’ve been asked to explain what the holidays are like for the ultra-rich and I’m going to try that now. Because my lifestyle is basically being around wealth and money every moment of my day, I’m also around it during Christmas, which, by the way, I haven’t celebrated in like ten years because I’m more into something called LeReaux, which is like Christmas only not religious at all and it’s where you receive gifts but never give them. It’s complicated. Maybe I’ll explain it in a different column even though part of LeReaux is not telling poor people like you about it. So maybe I won’t do that.
I guess the best way to let readers in on how the rich celebrate the holidays is to tell a story about when I was with my good friend Davonte (as always not his real name of “David,” so that you can’t figure out his identity) and we spent Christmas Eve together at his ice mansion in Sweden.
If you’ve ever been to an ice building, it’s probably been in the kind that are built for poor people so that they can walk in and say, “Wow! They built this hotel out of ice!” And then they pay like $2,000 dollars a night to stay there. Let me put it this way. If Davonte’s ice mansion were a hotel, it would cost you $2,000 to have the honor of giving one of the cleaning staff a blow job. And that would be at a massive discount.
So Davonte had called me and asked me to come to his place somewhere near the North Pole or whatever and said he’d have all these exclusive friends there. I didn’t really feel like spending my time traveling from the perfectly temperate private island I was on to go all the way to some snowish hellhole, but he practically begged me to come, so I told him whatever, I’d do it.
I won’t lie. The journey there sucked, even though Davonte tried to make it all luxurious with his private jet that picked me up and the helicopter that took me to the final destination. After we landed in Stockholm, he had this stupid servant pick me up at the airport and lead me to the helipad. This guy, named Serf or Smurf or something, wouldn’t stop talking and his grating stupid accent was giving me a fucking headache.
Anyway, Serf kept telling me how special it was going to be to spend Christmas Eve at this place and then he started saying stuff like, “You know…We’re going to be very close to where Santa Claus lives…” I know what you’re thinking. I should have slapped him for talking to me like I was a little kid or something, but I was tired and figured I’d get him back later, maybe by getting him fired or stranding him out in the cold.
Then I found out I was taking the fucking helicopter ride with other people. It was some musician from a band I’d never heard of and a model who was kind of hot but not my type because she got all pissy when I suggested she have sex with me on the ride. The dumb “rock star” kept explaining how he’d sold like a billion albums in Europe. I was like, “That’s like selling a billion Zagnut bars to Chinese people. Big fucking deal.” He shut up for a while after that. I can burn people when I want and I scorched that motherfucker. Then I asked the model if she’d at least have sex with the “rock star” in front of me so I had some fucking entertainment. Again, she had an attitude and refused.
Understandably, all of this was putting me in a negative mood. As it often goes with my mega wealthy friends, they put me in uncomfortable positions like jamming me in a two thousand square foot luxury helicopter cabin with two totally annoying “guests.” I tried to tune them out and get some sleep on one of the couches there. When I woke up, we had finally arrived at the ice mansion.
It was all decorated in Christmas stuff. And some asshole in a sled with dogs pulling it met the helicopter and made us all get in and ride up to the house. He and Serf rode up front and chattered like a couple of snow monkeys and I was losing my patience. As always, I kept my cool and showed class. There was a moment when I could have easily pushed the model out of the sleigh, but I just sat there instead, showing the universe my extreme composure and self-control.
Let me describe the ice mansion for a second. It was huge and all made of ice. You can just imagine from there, I’m sure. Inside were a bunch of servants and guests and honestly I couldn’t tell them apart because Davonte didn’t make the servants dress in distinct outfits, like prisoner uniforms.
Davonte saw me and he was all like, “Welcome to my ice palace,” and blah blah blah. Again showing my classiness, I shook his hand as if I were some kind of general who should be respected and given an award. He asked me if I had a good flight with his other “friends” and I just laughed. No one got how funny that was except me.
The party blew. It had these Christmas dancers and little elves running around, and what I hate about parties where they have people dress up like elves is that you can’t tell if they’re children or midgets so you just kind of give up on having sex with them. Sorry, I meant “little people.” Whatever. I don’t ask them to call me a “big person.”
Like all of Davonte’s parties, there were almost no drugs, and in the fucking North Pole it’s not like I could leave his place and try to find a drug dealer. And no, I don’t need drugs to have a good time. I just can’t have a good time unless I have some drugs. There’s a big difference and poor people sometimes don’t understand that.
Anyway, I was trapped there, like in “The Shining,” and then came all these kids singing Christmas songs and everyone was quiet as if these were the only children left on Earth and oh my god they’re singing in annoying high-pitched voices. I tried to listen, but I spent most of my time trying to figure out which one of them looked like he might have drugs on him.
One of the kids totally looked like a druggie. You know the look. If you’re poor (like you probably are) you actually havethe look. So I approached him after the seemingly endless song singing. He was Finlandish or whatever and had this horrible accent. I was a little miffed that Davonte would bring a kid who spoke such crappy English and looked like a drug addict to a supposedly high-end party like this, but I buried my judgment for a second so I could ask the kid for drugs.
I cornered him by the kitchen, where all the servants were going in and out. He acted all fake polite and like he didn’t know what I wanted. I asked him again, calmly: “I know you have drugs. Can you give them to me now, please?”
He refused, so I escalated appropriately by grabbing his collar and telling him that I needed the fucking drugs and where the fuck were they. At this point Serf and some of his servant friends came over and asked if everything was ok and all the bullshit they tell servants to say. They actually physically pulled me away from the kid. I know. Unbelievable.
After a few minutes of me explaining to them that they needed to fuck off, Davonte came over and was like, “What’s going on here?” and some other weak shit. I told him loudly but dignifiedly, that he better tell his servants to get their hands off me or I’d crap my pants.
Davonte gave me this look like I wasn’t serious, so, as any gentleman who keeps his word would do, I shit myself. Instead of honoring my decision and getting me the fucking drugs from the kid like a decent host would, Davonte actually told me some bullshit about how I (not him!!!) was ruining his party, even though, as I pointed out to him, it wasn’t technically a party because there were no drugs.
I was shocked that none of the people stepped forward to help me as Serf and the others locked me in some kind of ice “prison” room or something, where everyone could see me (because ice is pretty much see-through) but couldn’t hear me scream. All I could think is, “How do you lock a fucking ice door?”
Yes, the party sucked. And I learned three things about how the rich celebrate Christmas:
1. They like to go to off-the-map, isolated places so they can abuse and imprison their guests with no legal or moral consequences. How fucked up is that?
2. They hire drugged out children to dance as elves and sing for them.
3. They are morally bankrupt, even at a time of year when we’re all supposed to be celebrating love and peace. Or whatever.
I guess sometimes it’s difficult for a man of high ethical standards to be around the constant debauchery and sickness that money spews on rich people. Many of them, like Davonte, have lost the understanding of the true meaning of Christmas and that’s sad.
As the clock hit midnight, and I could barely scream any more at the precious party guests outside my cell, I realized it was Christmas morning. For the past several hours I had planned to hire some Eskimos (or whatever people are up there) to melt the ice mansion with all the guests inside and then to release their wolf pets upon them as they fled into the snowy hell outside. But that wouldn’t change anything, I thought. Only my understanding and forgiveness mattered, even though they all were too weak and depraved to appreciate it. I stopped screaming and gave them my silent gift as I whispered, “Merry Christmas” to them all.
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.
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