I hang out with rich people, volume I forgot. Why people like you hate the rich and why you should stop right now.
Probably the worst hardship in my life is not what you’d think. Most people guess because I spend my time hanging out with the richest people on the planet, attending their parties, and usually getting laid, that my biggest challenge would be figuring out which party to go to next, which sick luxury car to borrow, or maybe even whose credit card to ask for so I can go shopping today.
While all those take minutes of planning and sacrifice, what really pushes my boundaries is the insane amount of time I spend being a fucking therapist, life coach, and mentor to my needy, ultra-wealthy friends who seem to require endless attention and advice from me.
Poor people like you (I’m just guessing) always miss the point when it comes to rich people unlike you. You think that if you have a mega yacht; fourteen huge mansions; a fucking stable of classic sports cars; tons of people who want to sleep with you; a private chef; a private personal trainer; horses that are in those fucking races on t.v.; know celebrities; have sex with celebrities; have your own air hangar; and just pay people to like you… I can’t even remember where I was going with this.
Anyway, my friend Latushia (not her name but kind of rhymes with it. Actually, no it doesn’t) and I were having lunch at one of those places in California where other people are allowed to eat in the same area and it was making me kind of nervous.
At one point, I made eye contact with one of the poor people at another table and it was as if his poorness was being laser-beamed onto me with his gaze. I think that’s what poor people do. They, like lepers, want to touch you and bring you into their poorness and misery. Maybe you (the reader) can write an article explaining that, since I’m so removed from that life and you are so very much in it.
Latushia asked me what was wrong. Was I feeling ill? I told her that the other people around us were making me a little queasy and that they kept staring when I’d ask the waiter loudly if he could push some of their tables farther away from us because I could smell their fake perfumes and body odor.
That’s when I realized how needy Latushia really was. Instead of comforting me, her loyal friend, she took the side of the intrusive lurkers around us. She scolded me for considering myself above them and she gave me some bullshit about how money didn’t matter and that I had all my “priorities” out of whack and some other nonsense about morality and blah blah blah.
You can probably guess what I did next, because it’s what anyone would do. It’s what you would do if you weren’t so poor and stinky. I calmly, but violently, lifted the table and turned it over, smashing all the glassware, gold infused coffee, and food I ordered just to look at but not to eat. She sprung up like some mythical creature that jumps up out of fear when glasses and food fall on it. I, again calmly, stood and explained to her these three things:
1. If you’re entertaining a friend for lunch and he’s not paying for anything, you’d better be prepared to shut your mouth long enough to keep it closed so he can talk. Latushia forgot that rule and suffered the consequences.
2. If you invite a friend to lunch, make sure you also don’t invite a hundred poor people to be nearby and stare at you. That’s what they used to call “unacceptable” and worthy of banishment.
3. Stop constantly whining about your own troubles. Let me have one day where I don’t need to hold your hand and take care of you. Next time, it won’t be a table I turn over. It will be everyone’s table, even if I have to accidentally touch a poor person.
Even in my anger and rage, I controlled myself and was classy. That’s what separates me from basically the whole of humanity on this planet and probably many others. But even as I lectured Latushia about her shortcomings and rudeness, I realized that I was actually teaching her something, just as I am constantly teaching all my ultra-rich friends. I guess the moral of this story is that they need me much more than I need them, and that I take crap all the time just to make them happy and make their lives even better.
I finally left the restaurant and thought about burning it down on my way out, but I didn’t have matches or a lighter and I assumed it would take too much time to figure out how to ignite the whole place. My time is too valuable and I needed to move on to the next sick party, helicopter ride, or orgy where I was sure to spend my time imparting knowledge and wisdom to yet more needy wealthocrats. Maybe someday one of them will get it, but it’s doubtful. I’m out.
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