Bellow!!

Holy mothballs my life fucking blows. Of course this is for the typical reasons. Lack of fabulous wealth and universal acclaim being the primary causes of my present torpor. I’m not usually this attuned to my utter lack of universal acclaim. Maybe it has something to do with the weather. The weather or the cosmic injustice that has allowed me to wallow in obscurity for so very long.


Working Boy: I’m so miserable.
Everyone Who Runs Into Me: Why are you miserable?
W.B: I don’t have cashmere socks.
E.W.R.I.M: ?
W.B: or a Kirman rug. Or, and I’m truly ashamed to admit it, even a Gaggenau.
E.W.R.I.M: These seem to be rather frivolous concerns. Are you kidding me?
W.B: I never kid when it comes to a Gaggenau.
E.W.R.I.M: You’ve kind of become a douche. A big, bourgeois douche.
W.B.: But I am bourgeois, an elitist liberal bourgeois, variously gifted and invariably charming. I delight in literature, landscape, architecture, the company of clever and beautiful women. Is this a crime?!
E.W.R.I.M: What are you drinking?
W.B: Turpentine. Why do you ask?