The Have Yachts

Image and video hosting by TinyPic There are two types of people in this world, the haves and the have yachts.

Top 10 Helicopter Headaches


As not many of us know, owning your own helicopter is massively convenient. How else can you inspire fear in villagers who have no way to fathom the technology you command (though they can fathom you will soon be plundering their resources)? Nevertheless, owning your own sky wolf does not come without its challenges.

10. The Four Seasons has yet to construct a helipad worth mentioning.

 9. The dust the blades whip up can wreak havoc on an ascot.

 8. The repair and maintenance costs equal a small fortune. Fortunately, I have a large one!

 7. Helicopter pilots tend to be culled from the more rough-hewn sectors of society.

 6. The jealous, hungry looks you receive from the hordes of less fortunate who want nothing more than to be lifted into wealth by your luxury chariot of the skies.

 5. The obligation to build a four-copter garage.

 4. There is simply no decent place to buy a fashionable flight scarf in the Lesser Antilles

3. The inconsiderate nouveau riche who have no sense of proper helipad etiquette.

2. Have you ever tried pouring expensive bourbon while banking over a volcano?

1. The amount of disdain one can deliver toward the masses who cannot afford their own is not nearly the amount of disdain that the masses deserve.

Elite Social Network Does Marvelous Work


Normally, it is well beneath my station in life, or I should say “stations,” for I do own several major network TV channels, to jump into the social media fray. The lowbrow thoughts of plebian masses oft depress me, with their provincial photographs of caviar-depleted children and resorts scarcely sanitary enough for the natives that staff them.

Nay, I normally prefer the smug chortles and uplifting talk of orphanage consolidation I find in the brandied lounges of my cohorts. But Netropolitan may just be a social network worthy of my valuable hands. With a $9,000 entry fee (scarcely more than a light lunch at Eleven Madison Park) and a $3,000 yearly price tag, this network goes to great lengths to keep out those of you who are not me.

An absolutely brilliant concept. A social network that includes the one person I truly want to socialize with – myself.

Top hats off to you, Netroplitan. I wish you many years of myself.

The Rich on Being Rich

"Even the rich are hungry for love, for being cared for, for being wanted, for having someone to call their own."

                                                              - Mother Theresa

While I normally find myself in disagreement with those who spend their lives making negative dollars (therefore making negative sense, ha!), I do have to agree with Mother Theresa here.

Of course the rich are hungry for love. In fact, we’re famished for it. So much so that we are willing to pay catastrophic sums to have our portraits painted by whatever idiot savant is trending at the time. This way we can gaze upon the visage we love most in this world - our own!

It is also true that we desire to be wanted. What glory would there be in a fiefdom if you had no peons to repress in exchange for petty promises of protection?

And finally, of course we want someone to call our own. In my case, there are several dozen and they all answer to last names such as Wooster, Brookings or Human Footstool.

It looks like Mother Theresa did one decent thing in her life - she gave us this quote, haha!

A Sad Day in the Yacht Life


Do you recognize this gaggle of nouveau riche long hairs?

If you do, you’re probably trying to dredge their names from a drug-clouded fog that the more prosperous clearly recall was the 1960’s.

If not, it hardly matters. What does matter is the deplorable way in which they are treating this fine sporting yacht.

Their clothing is hardly up to the regulations of the rigorous “Col. Monocle’s Yacht Apparel and Accessory Standards Committee.” Yachting without their approval is tantamount to wearing ivory after Labor Day.

John’s attempt at a jaunty cap might as well say, “I was conceived on an off-shore oil rig,” while Paul’s offensive T-shirt declares, “I can’t afford my final rabies injection.”

George appears to be suffering from more immediate symptoms of said rabies, while Ringo can barely handle the motor functions required to gesture at what is probably a filthy boardwalk dive called McJuggers Ale House. No doubt a location where you can cavort with public school teachers who would like nothing more than to drown their lives in swill and body shots.

And while I will admit that these four acid-addled hippies did indeed generate a sizable amount of money, there is absolutely no reason they need to trash the memory of this fine boating vessel with their unmanicured antics.

I write all of this while my much larger yacht gently weeps.

Snow Day

As I sit perched in my zebra-skinned armchair, watching the snow fall upon one of my vast estates (this one I call, Colorado), I can’t help but think of those hearty, rosy-cheeked youngsters hustling to shovel the snow from their neighbors’ driveways for a scanty buck or two.

On the one hand, I appreciate their moxy and hope there’s a future Richard Branson or Kim Jong Un in their midst. On the other hand, I laugh at their reliance upon manual labor.

As one of my expensive Yale professors used to say, “Why shovel a driveway when you can have the help shovel off your helipad?”

Wise words from a wealthy man, haha!



While one must give popular singer Justin Bieber credit for disregarding his flight staff so vehemently, one cannot forgive the negative attention he has brought upon private jet setting.

The discretion of the private jet is well known to those of us whose clubhouses extend to 30,000 feet. What we do in the air is for you to dream about, but never actually dream possible. What happens in the stratosphere, stays in the stratosphere.

Yet here comes this flub-footed whelp to ruin our entitled secret. What should have been a routine air jaunt, became an international issue because his entourage could not control their metaphorical air loins.

The next time he chooses to reveal a secret of the massively wealthy, we may choose to unveil the power of our massive wealth. Haha!

Polar PoorTest


Hysterical state-college educated pundits are referring to this weather front as the Polar Vortex. 

Well, I am most decidedly calling it the Polar PoorTest.

For if you are complaining at all, it simply means you are too poor to afford a home in one of the many tropical locations in which I own land, homes and souls.

Sympathy escapes me as a I sip a Mai Thai and wait on Wooster to bring me my foot massage.

I’d say I’d rub it in, but that’s Wooster’s duty to my feet, haha!

The Trouble With Target


I have caught wind that the bottom 99% is in an uproar over a card hacking scandal at the cockroach-infested retail basement, Target.

I can only presume this is the kind of place where you’d find the cast of Roseanne shopping for meatloaf or toilets or whatever it is those people do with their pitiable paychecks.

These people very much deserve a few silvers being knocked from their coffers for two reasons.

1.) You are shopping with a card that doesn’t come with it’s own team of Elite Platinum auditors to monitor its well being.

2.) You choose to battle other paycheck peons for “stylish” goods that nevertheless appear to have been designed by an insipid 8-year-old Norwegian child.

Merry Christmas, peasants!

Fair Jordan


It would appear that the Chairman of the Skies, Michael “Air” Jordan is having a spot of trouble parting with his Chicago mansion. You can read about it here.

It would appear that Air Jordan has plummeted to Fair Jordan status.

Firstly, it’s hard to blame anyone for not wanting to buy a home in Chicago. A move that’s tantamount to strapping on a fanny pack, heading to Dollywood and announcing to the world you’ve embraced the bosom of sitcom middle America.

Secondly, please read the sad state of his, ahem, man cave:


With Middle-Aged amenities like these, it’s a wonder the entire facility isn’t condemned. And as classy as Playboy Mansion doors are, you may as well just invite a cabal of exotic dancers over to refurbish the cupola atop your planetarium. Oh the humanity!

Tis the Season for Embarrassment


Perhaps there is nothing more embarrassing than admitting that you lack a flurry of lowborn kitchen folk to attend to your culinary bidding.

And nothing makes that more plainly obvious than holiday recipes sitting about your residence. Avoid, at all costs, lest you wish to see your Club membership revoked with great prejudice.

The only time I’ve used the word “recipe” is in the context of, “Jeeves, your inability to properly sort my ascots is a recipe for disaster.”