Spoiler: THIS IS NOT TRUE. THIS IS IRONIC.
You'll have to excuse me if there are any typing errors in this post, but you see, darlings, I can barely lift my fingers for the weighty diamond rings they're encrusted with. Come to think of it, I've got a sore neck, too. Must be the several tonnes of pearl ropes dragging me down. This platinum keyboard isn't much cop, either. Not very tactile. My bejewelled fingers keep slipping off. We'll have the oik who sold it to us shot at dawn.
For the past few months, the main thing on our minds has been: ermine or baby seals? With which should we carpet our golden palace? This, on top of trying to locate the finest cigarettes known to man. Made with the ashes of poor people. I have to tell you, we're rather disappointed with the taste - somewhat bitter. Next time, we'll only go for the batches made with the ashes of poor people who've been force-fed butter.
Yesterday, I had a nightmare in which I was 33 years old, had been living with my parents for a year because I couldn't afford even the cheapest place to rent, was earning just above the minimum wage for a 39 hour week, didn't go out, ever, didn't even buy myself a coffee or get the bus, ever, because I was desperately saving to afford the deposit on a place of my own. In which the love of my life was losing his job and his home in one fell swoop. I which the two of us eventually scraped together enough money to just about live on my one single pittance of a wage. In which my beloved was searching for work, eventually found an interesting job, applied for & got that job, but wasn't able to start the job for several months. In which we would occasionally dream of the future - of going on holiday one day, me being able to buy a pair of new shoes that didn't cripple my feet at work - things like that, when his wage eventually came in and we'd paid all the bills. It turned out that it was only a nightmare, though, and actually we'd been living the life of Riley! So that's good.
Tomorrow, we plan to go peasant shooting, then home to snort cocaine from silver platters as we wonder how else we can squander our billions instead of giving it to people who actually need it.
This post has been brought to you by the letters: G E T A F U C K I N G G R I P.
Ta-ta.
For the past few months, the main thing on our minds has been: ermine or baby seals? With which should we carpet our golden palace? This, on top of trying to locate the finest cigarettes known to man. Made with the ashes of poor people. I have to tell you, we're rather disappointed with the taste - somewhat bitter. Next time, we'll only go for the batches made with the ashes of poor people who've been force-fed butter.
Yesterday, I had a nightmare in which I was 33 years old, had been living with my parents for a year because I couldn't afford even the cheapest place to rent, was earning just above the minimum wage for a 39 hour week, didn't go out, ever, didn't even buy myself a coffee or get the bus, ever, because I was desperately saving to afford the deposit on a place of my own. In which the love of my life was losing his job and his home in one fell swoop. I which the two of us eventually scraped together enough money to just about live on my one single pittance of a wage. In which my beloved was searching for work, eventually found an interesting job, applied for & got that job, but wasn't able to start the job for several months. In which we would occasionally dream of the future - of going on holiday one day, me being able to buy a pair of new shoes that didn't cripple my feet at work - things like that, when his wage eventually came in and we'd paid all the bills. It turned out that it was only a nightmare, though, and actually we'd been living the life of Riley! So that's good.
Tomorrow, we plan to go peasant shooting, then home to snort cocaine from silver platters as we wonder how else we can squander our billions instead of giving it to people who actually need it.
This post has been brought to you by the letters: G E T A F U C K I N G G R I P.
Ta-ta.