How The Rich Drive
Since most of you aren’t lucky enough to be born into the privilege that I’ve been born into, my first word of advice is to get yourself under or over the richest sugar daddy you can find. If you’re not fortunate enough to be as attractive as I am, or at least attractive enough to land yourself said sugar daddy – even one of the bargain bin variety like any of the Trumps, then by all means – please continue to toil away in your cubicle hell, as you do me the great service of not being on the street when I’m trying to drive Fauntleroy to his next puppy play-date.
Now is when you’re probably asking, “Alistair – YOU drive?” To that I say – Of course I fucking drive. You think I’m going to let some fucktard drive my Bugatti Veyron while he tries to engage in meaningless conversation – No Small Talk Clause! No thank you. I’ll drive myself. And you better believe I made Hartmut Warkuss design Faunty’s booster seat personally. That bitch is welded to the seat and not going anywhere – forget having passengers, my dog truly is my co-pilot.
Once we’re all suited and goggled up we’re off for our weekly rotating puppy play date. Little Faunty only associates with the most top tier of canines, so we mix up our visits each week to see Gunther IV, German Shepherd of the Liebensteins in Germany, Tina & Kate, Collie mixes of the Hardwell’s in St. John, and our favorite New Yorkers, Trouble, Maltese of the Helmsley’s, and Toby Rimes, Poodle of the Wendel’s – I only expect the very best of company for my best little companion. Flossie of the LA Barrymore’s has consistently been trying to get in, but Faunty doesn’t want to return his calls, and I’m not one to force anything on him.
The only glitch in the fun is when we first arrive at an estate and I’m forced to speak to the help. I don’t know how many times I’ve asked Alvin to hurry up and make me my own private entrance already – if it was good enough for his sister Leona, its good enough for me dammit. As I’ve said a million times, Fauntleroy and I have a No Small Talk clause, it’s attached to our No Eye Contact clause, and yes, I do carry that with me. At all times.
Unfortunately, not everyone decides to abide by these rules, and on occasion, I’m actually forced to engage in conversation with underlings who believe that I’m somehow “humanized” by conversing with them. I’m not human, people. Simple humanity is subpar. If there were a separate planet for only the elite, I would be from it. I would call it “Snobbery” and it would be good. And most of you wouldn’t be invited. All Donnybrook members of course have their own countries to lord over and the rest of you would be lucky to be invited.
Okay sorry, going off on my “planet all to myself” dream again. Since I can’t get my own planet yet – I stress the yet as I plan on doing some prime location hunting once Branson gets Virgin Galactic up and running – I still occasionally have to deal with people who ignore my No Small Talk and No Eye Contact clauses – here’s a recent letter I received from someone suffering from the same predicament.
Enjoy. And you’re welcome.
I like my coworker but she always wants to talk when I have real work to do. I mean, who wants to hear about her health problems, how her cat was shot out of a tree, her sixth toe on her right foot, how her dad and uncle are the same person? Those spreadsheets aren’t going to balance themselves!
- Not Interested in Idaho
Before the amazing and tireless Consuela came into our lives, we used to have a house keeper named Esmeralda – I called her Consuela, because I call all of the help either Consuela or Pedro, depending on the sex and if I care to see if they’re male or female – Daddy just finally put it in the employment notice that you must be named Consuela or Pedro, though that bothered me because I don’t actually want to call my staff by their real names lest they think they’re of a higher status than the other help.
Nevertheless, Esmeralda-Consuela had a myriad of health issues. It seemed like almost every day I had to hear about the tumor on her kidney, her husband that tirelessly took care of her during all of her surgeries, her children that had left her, and then her husband dying mere months after she’d had the surgery to remove it – all of this equaled a one way ticket to Downsville until I finally couldn’t take it anymore.
Every morning when I’d try to sneak downstairs and eat my Frosted Flakes in hungover peace, Esmeralda-Consuela would suddenly appear as if she had the kitchen under surveillance and would begin to go, once again, into her stories about having to take a catheter up her hoo-hah for the umpteenth time. I would look concerned – all furrowed brow and pursed lips, as I began to gently slap the top of my cereal bowl repeatedly with my fingers so that milk sputtered onto her glasses and corn flakes became stuck in her hair. The constant spray of milk and cereal in her yapping face made Esmeralda-Consuela recoil in disgust and go about her daily chores in blissful silence, and after about a month of having to clean wet cereal out of her nasal cavity she thankfully left the house.
I believe at the time I was coming down from a five day trip off of Dextromethorphan so, really, can I be blamed for reacting this way? I think not. Furthermore, she annoyed me – and I don’t believe in being held accountable for any actions resulting from either my annoyance or my boredom.
Please remember that if I am anything, it’s a giver, and I love nothing more than to tell you how to live your life, because frankly, I’ll do a much better job of it – write me at AskAlistair@gmail.com and if I’m drunk/bored/high enough, I’ll respond by putting you on blast in this column, as I don’t engage in direct conversation with anyone that’s beneath me.