A woman of the higher echelon holds court at the jewelry counter.
I want something that says everything’s gonna be okay while encouraging my friend to press on.
Hmm. Bad divorce?
No. She lost her dearly beloved Sophia.
Daughter?
Dog.
So they plowed through the charm bracelets, looking for a twenty four carat gold cocker spaniel. The woman made it clear that Sophia was a Cockopoo and the saleswoman made it clear the jewelry industry wasn’t exactly up to date with the whole hybrid trend.
Well I certainly can’t give her just any old mutt.
Let’s consider other things. We have some lovely ash pendants for pets.
Oh geez I dunno about that. Sounds sorta creepy.
Maybe a nice long slender silk scarf.
Well she’s not Isadora Duncan. She just lost a fuck’n dog.
So the upper echelon society gal was starting to unravel and show her roots. If I had to guess? Yonkers. But it was getting harder each year to classify what preparation these snoots had under their belts to substantiate their above it all demeanor. Quite a few times, my investigations into their upbringing revealed nothing. They just had miracle vaginas and red snapper tongues. That’s it. Sex sells and the real blue blooded women simply couldn’t and/or wouldn’t perform some of the newer techniques nor would they entertain the growing number of fetishes. The blue blooded women made great brides and fantastic homemakers. Their uteruses were top shelf, so the family portraits displayed perfection. Yet lo and behold, some skank would invariably make the husband veer off the path.
Then the shark divorce lawyers surface with lopsided settlements men have to agree to cuz they’re more interested in listening to their crotches. They just want out of the dream scheme and are ready for a new life that’s a little less starched. They grow a pony tail, get those bohemian seaside outfits with sandals and vape high levels of THC. They are free at last with a major sex machine to close out their night.
But take notice modern men, that sex machine stuff eventually fades into bartering, compromise and misery. And you better believe your sex snatch is gonna birth a baby faster than a speeding bullet once you put a ring on it. That’s called her pension plan. You’re nothing but a cash cow now, but your utters aren’t getting any milking.
You’d be better just going gay, provided you’re good looking enough and have a flare for fashion. But it’s unlikely that you do. Money can’t buy that stuff. Well actually it can. See ya at Bergdof’s next Saturday.