Blokes with Bucks

Odd couples.

Mr DeCerenzo (name changed to protect the innocent) and his lady companion arrived on time, always a bonus for the humble chauffeur. He had that look European men pull off so well, scruffy yet elegant. Somehow they can mismatch colours and styles and still look chic. It must be in the Campari.

She looked American trying to be European. A tiny woman, she was barely bigger than the average fifteen-year old. Surreptitiously examining her from behind, the smallness of her legs fascinated me. Did she shop in the children’s section to find clothes that fit?

There was something not quite right about the interaction between them. She was too proprietorial over him, fussing and being unrelaxed. Her face said she was forty, but her brittleness told another story.

I asked The Boss about them, hoping to fill in the gaps in my knowledge. It turns out he was a former tennis pro, and found her here.

The Millionaire’s Club. Really. It’s no joke! Apparently Mr DeCerenzo met a few dozen women within six months of joining, all transported from various airports and hotels by Bossman’s limousines. This one has been around for a year, living with him in his golf course McMansion.

A dating website for gold-diggers. Thank goodness for the internet.

Teeny Tiny Horses

Limousines and mini-nags.

When a limousine customer tells you that they’ll be “the easiest folks you’ve ever had in the car” or that if I “stick with us, you’ll have a great time, we can have a party” they’re lying.

The opposite is always true:

In Case # 1 they will be the most demanding arseholes you’ve ever met. The limousine will end up being a pigsty, they’ll use every glass, break a few, leave footprints on the ceiling and barf in the champagne bucket.

In Case # 2 they will be self-important know-nothings, lording it over all and sundry demanding that their chauffeur be a mind reader, all the while calling him “Wimbot” and demonstrating their world knowledge comes from the National Enquirer.

It was a bunch of #2 people on Saturday. Off we went on a jaunt to a town where a Miniature Horse auction was the star turn. These folks owned a few dozen of these critters, having been awarded a top ten prize for one of them.

Nineteen hours. That’s how long I was with these supposedly yippee! party people, twelve of which were spent watching endless variations of the same thirty-inch-tall chaff-muncher being paraded around. The auctioneers had never seen such “purrty fullees” nor “manly-luuking stally-ons” in their en-tire born days, which made me wonder, because an awful lot of these prize lots were passed in at a high bid of $200.

Attempting some show of interest, I asked what one used a miniature horse for. To show, came the answer. Oh, in that case who is buying here today? Showers and breeders. I see, so the organization that awards prizes is…run by breeders to make sure there’s a market for their product.

So these animals serve no purpose whatsover other than to expand the ego of the owner when they are judged as better than a few others, and provide money for the breeders.

I didn’t say it, but that’s the gist of things.

After spending a few thousand on new midget-nags, and showing off their limousine, they went for dinner at Subway and dancing at some gay bar. I declined the invitation to go with.

A day standing in horseshit contemplating miniature horses is plenty of time to reflect on one’s life, and note the metaphors all around.