Remember me? I’m that blonde girl in the black Maserati who sped past you on the shoulder Tuesday when you were driving. I had to get to my (insert rich person activity here) and have no patience for cars. I’m not sorry. I drive a Maserati. My male ancestors wore Magnum condoms and the females utilized wadded-up $100 bills for tampons. See you on the highway, sucker.
—Dame Trust Fund Student
Congratulations on all the cash. And a hefty hat tip to the giant dicks in your family. I’ll fax you a pinata of felicitations.
I remember you. I saw you barreling behind me in the right (slow) lane as I was passing Car X that was going five under in the left (passing) lane. Alas, patience is a sluggish fool. You couldn’t wait one car length to get in front of Car X, so you opted for illegally weaving off the shoulder to pass me.
I did, although, get a sweet chortle when you got trapped behind that cement truck and I purposely paraded at speed limit in the left lane alongside Car X (who finally moved to the slow lane).
You were sweating diamonds and pearls trying to maneuver around us.
Did you know that it’s Neptune’s trident encrusting your Maserati’s grill? Well, since Neptune is the god of the sea, I’ll leave you with some advice my dear pal Diamond Dave frequently spouts: “Get in the fucking sea.”
Do enjoy your swim.
I just heard you ask the photo editor to “take care of” me for an undisclosed sum. You always say you’re going to throw me into traffic. What did I do? I’m at least a decade old. If you want an upgrade, talk to Hedge Fund. I just want you to love me, PYT.
I apologize. It’s just, when I’m booting you up, you take two hours to install updates. I’m only trying to turn you on, but you make me feel dirty. Maybe you’re jaded. We have been together for at least 8 years.
While you run your scripts, I’ll just lollygag around the newsroom, pour myself some Folgers, hit up the shitter, smoke a cigarette, see how Fritz is doing in the ad department downstairs, head over to Upslope for a beer, get a chicken Philly at Large Marge’s in Lakewood, watch an episode of “It’s Always Sunny in Philly” at my Denver home while I destroy my Philly, then head back to Boulder. You should be lubed and raring to load.
Don’t blame yourself. You probably had a rough night after I tried to shut you down 12 hours ago and you told me you had to install five updates. So then I had to go back to Upslope, climb a Flatiron, then get a ticket for climbing a Flatiron trailhead sign with my pants off (damn city folk), wipe my ass all over a black Maserati, house a Silvermine sub, dip my clown feet into Boulder Creek, then come back to work just in time to watch you turn off.
Don’t worry, I won’t rub you out — you’re company property. I’ll simply turn you on before I go to bed at night, get that foreplay rolling so when 9 a.m. rolls around you’ll be ready to be used and abused.
With your consent, of course.
Good night, princess.