I Hate Your Charades of Fame

High Society and me don't have much in common. I don't enjoy classical music unless it's playing in the background during a movie murder scene or the rumble scene in "Clockwork Orange," and I don't like an sort of art that looks like it was painted by Muhammad Ali. Opera is too fucking loud and Pâté tastes like ASS. I openly admit this because I don't want anyone to ever confuse me with someone who gives a fuck about country clubs and ballet. The self-cut hair and shrunken polo probably gave me away, but I'd like to think I'm not so obviously mundane.

(uses Sharpie to disguise scratch in $40 shoe)

What I do care about are people who impersonate being hoighty-toighty, fancy-pants, high-class schmoozers, because these people are fifty-times worse than the people who actually enjoy playing squash and eating squid-ink soup.

All of you know someone who claims to flirt with high society. They claim to have friends who are royalty, they claim to have fucked the daughter of a New York debutante, they claim to have eaten Polar Bear meat while on holiday in Oslo. They are the fucking WORST. Listening to these dip-shits makes me want to set my desk on fire and scream, ATTICA! ATTICA! until the NYPD blows my head off with a shotgun. Seriously, it's much better than the alternative, which is sitting quietly as someone recounts their bullshit romps in the South of France.

Why people feel the need to lie, I'll never understand. Mainly because, you know, you're not fooling anybody. You are a flake. Any imbecile who can count to ten without taking off their shoes knows you are full of shit. You have never eaten dinner with Idi Amin. He would have chopped off your head and staked it on a spear in front of his palace. You never ran into Marlon Brando at Elaine's. Marlon Brando would have fucking slapped you in the face. You never shared a joint with Andy Warhol back in the 70's. You may have seen Warhol in a magazine sharing a joint with Liza Minelli, but you are not Liza Minelli. You’re a fucking sham. I even like Liza Minelli more than you, and she makes me want to drink a pitcher full of mercury.

You know what I think? I think these people are so delusional that they truly believe that they are connected to people with more money than God. I think these people think, "Oh boy, last night was INSANE, driving down Sunset Blvd in a stretch Bentley while blowing coke of Lindsay Lohan's ass and Indian Wrestling Prince Harry." But everyone knows they really spent last night eating alone at some stupid trendy bistro where the waiters blow snot rockets in the lobster risotto. Do I think this is sad? No. Sad is a three-legged dog. Sad is a sick kid. Sad is the demise of Al Pacino's career. Sad is not some fucking asshole who wants people to believe he or she is something that he or she is most certainly not.

So here are a few words of advice. Stop. Just stop already. I can't listen to anymore of your bullshit. You're making me feel nostalgic over the days when I had to share a cube wall with a lady who claimed she once cooked Chris Webber a pot of spaghetti*.

*100% true story