As I write this I am accomplishing three major life goals and am soon to live a fuck-you-that-aint-neva-gonna-happen-dream.
1. I’m writing a weekly column that people actually read! (thank you SO MUCH for your time)
2. I’m in first class, flying to Europe
AND
3. It’s all on someone else’s dime! Someone who doesn’t even expect sex in return!
After a few days in London we’ll be going to four different countries in four days. That’s a country a day, which sounds like it would be grueling were it not for THE PRIVATE JET. HAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!
Behold my big FU dream: private jetting through Europe.
It’s been my dream since I watched a documentary on Hugh Hefner. Barbie Benton reminisced about how they would just go to sleep on the jet in New York and wake up in Paris. I figured that would be something I’d do if I ever I had FU money, that and get fake boobs on my shins and elbows so it wouldn’t hurt so much when I bumped them on stuff.
So once I got the PRIVATE JET news, my concerns turned to, of course, what does one wear on a private jet?
I image searched private jet interiors and mostly got Donatella Versace sitting in hers. So I figured I’d need hooker shoes, a poufy, feathered crop jacket, and either a mini dress or cat-suit in a metallic material. Think Diana Ross circa the 70s.
Also, it appears that I will have to take up cocaine. That is what private jets run on, right? Now, I don’t do drugs, I think they make people stupid. But in order to fit in I figure I’ll have to just snort my portion.
Being a natural dissenter, worries about all this fancy Euro travel are plaguing me. Take, for instance, breakfast. I need a hearty breakfast with protein or my blood sugar will tank all day long. When I imagine breakfast in a European country I imagine three skinny people bitching at each other over a single quince. Not hearty!
Of course this is looking a gift horse in the mouth, but I figure, what good is a gift horse if you can’t look it in the mouth?
As demonstrated above, the collision of the fulfillment of my dreams with my inability to go along with anything without a fight should make it an interesting trip. I’m hoping to get some style perspective to write about when I get back in a month.
But until then I just have to hope that cocaine helps me walk better in hooker heels, or that someone throws in a fake boob for my forehead so it won’t hurt so much when I break my ankle.
