File this under: Shit that I’ve learned from the latter years of Kunty Karl, Calvin Klein and Giorgio Armani.
When I’m deep into the “Dinner at 5” phase of my life and want a hot piece of buff man meat to massage waterproof Benjamin Homosexual cream (all the refined socialites refer to it by its full name, dahling) between my wrinkly toes and give me the Heimcock maneuver after I have trouble swallowing my own saliva, I have to somehow sell a million overpriced gowns to a million women first. Sounds easy. Now let me just pull my Sew Easy knitting machine out of my asshole and get on that.
There has be an easier way. I’d do that whole “sell my soul to Lucifer” thing, but my soul went into foreclosure years ago. It ain’t worth shit. Anyway.
Here’s more of the luckiest old bitch alive Giorgio Armani frolicking in Formentera, Spain with a hot piece that I’m sure he’s introducing as “his nephew.” I can’t wait until I’m 77 and can introduce my leased whores as “my nephew.”