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The party's over. All the air-kissing schmoozers went home. A few are at a little boite north of the highway and a select group skinny-dips in a grotto-like pool overlooking Georgica Pond. Look, you know the score....after-parties are everything.
But a certain naked hoo-hah treading water next to somebody's sweet, little Annie Fannie of a house guest in that self-same ersatz grotto don't feel so hot. His stomach doin' the Kick-a-Poo War Dance. They got toilets, fancy ones teamed up with warm-air-butt-dryin'- bidets not thirty feet away. Only he won't make it. 'Cause all them agitated, little curds he got ruminating 'round his colon wanna make a mass escape. And security in Camp Sphincter ain't so tight.
Right now Miss Annie Fannie wanna know where he go for good cupcakes in Manhattan. An' he sweatin. He sweatin' real bad. You know, butt checks don't always cooperate. It's hard to squeeze 'em together, 'specially considerin' that the shrimp was a teensie bit rancid too. She think he just nervous and she wanna be real friendly, 'cause he real good sugar daddy material. So the girl who looks like a vintage, nubile, Playboy cartoon character inches over to get to know him a little better. And jus' as she slowly reaches through the dark, shadowy water to take control of the situation, he goes - ahh...ahh...ahh... and shits all over her hand.
Them microbes works fast. That Grigori Usipov truly knows his business. And now 'bout a dozen naked members of the 'one percent' (plus assorted hangers-on) stampede toward the narrow, slippery, field stone steps like penguins fleein' an orca. Only this orca sheddin' more ink than a giant squid. And now he startin' to tremble too.
Fifty six hours from now he'll be ninety three percent dead and some a his buck-bathin' friends won't be too far behind.
Things gone be different on Wall Street come Labor Day.
The vampire-oligarch, known as Grigori Usipov, has spoken...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
hit the SHARE BAR, please? COMMENTS? thank you. and that title? it don't mean no God damn thing.
But a certain naked hoo-hah treading water next to somebody's sweet, little Annie Fannie of a house guest in that self-same ersatz grotto don't feel so hot. His stomach doin' the Kick-a-Poo War Dance. They got toilets, fancy ones teamed up with warm-air-butt-dryin'- bidets not thirty feet away. Only he won't make it. 'Cause all them agitated, little curds he got ruminating 'round his colon wanna make a mass escape. And security in Camp Sphincter ain't so tight.
Right now Miss Annie Fannie wanna know where he go for good cupcakes in Manhattan. An' he sweatin. He sweatin' real bad. You know, butt checks don't always cooperate. It's hard to squeeze 'em together, 'specially considerin' that the shrimp was a teensie bit rancid too. She think he just nervous and she wanna be real friendly, 'cause he real good sugar daddy material. So the girl who looks like a vintage, nubile, Playboy cartoon character inches over to get to know him a little better. And jus' as she slowly reaches through the dark, shadowy water to take control of the situation, he goes - ahh...ahh...ahh... and shits all over her hand.
Them microbes works fast. That Grigori Usipov truly knows his business. And now 'bout a dozen naked members of the 'one percent' (plus assorted hangers-on) stampede toward the narrow, slippery, field stone steps like penguins fleein' an orca. Only this orca sheddin' more ink than a giant squid. And now he startin' to tremble too.
Fifty six hours from now he'll be ninety three percent dead and some a his buck-bathin' friends won't be too far behind.
Things gone be different on Wall Street come Labor Day.
The vampire-oligarch, known as Grigori Usipov, has spoken...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
hit the SHARE BAR, please? COMMENTS? thank you. and that title? it don't mean no God damn thing.
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