Do Women Just Love Me For My Fabulous Wealth? (restaurant, Colorado, New Zealand)
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I tell you, I've had it up to here. I'm so depressed that I might just have to retreat to my 62 foot Oyster anchored off Belize.
Yet another 20-something is pursuing me. I don't know. Maybe it was my Bentley parked at the curb outside the restaurant. Maybe it was the incredible deference shown to me by Antonio the waiter, and the fact that I was able to get a table immediately when other diners without reservations were promised a wait of 45 minutes or more. Maybe it's the fact that a Senator, several well-heeled CEOs, and a host of other luminaries came over to my table while I dined alone reading my copy of Forbes. Maybe it was because I was on the cover of the same copy of Forbes. Suddenly, she appeared at my table, her finger shyly tracing the outline of her generous decollete as she introduced herself, her pupils dilated with desire.
Out of politeness I invited her to sit down and eat, for I could have used the company. Instead of her complimenting me about my luminous intelligence, my shining wit, she kept steering the discussion towards my real estate holdings, my chalets in Colorado and New Zealand, and my exquisite taste in art, which runs towards painters such as Velasquez. Her copious breasts heaved and her eyes glittered as she added up in her head the size of my portfolio. And I'm not talking about the one in my custom tailored britches, mind you.
Why, oh why, can't women get past my fabulous wealth? What do I have to do to get them to see the real me?
I tell you, I've had it up to here. I'm so depressed that I might just have to retreat to my 62 foot Oyster anchored off Belize.
Yet another 20-something is pursuing me. I don't know. Maybe it was my Bentley parked at the curb outside the restaurant. Maybe it was the incredible deference shown to me by Antonio the waiter, and the fact that I was able to get a table immediately when other diners without reservations were promised a wait of 45 minutes or more. Maybe it's the fact that a Senator, several well-heeled CEOs, and a host of other luminaries came over to my table while I dined alone reading my copy of Forbes. Maybe it was because I was on the cover of the same copy of Forbes. Suddenly, she appeared at my table, her finger shyly tracing the outline of her generous decollete as she introduced herself, her pupils dilated with desire.
Out of politeness I invited her to sit down and eat, for I could have used the company. Instead of her complimenting me about my luminous intelligence, my shining wit, she kept steering the discussion towards my real estate holdings, my chalets in Colorado and New Zealand, and my exquisite taste in art, which runs towards painters such as Velasquez. Her copious breasts heaved and her eyes glittered as she added up in her head the size of my portfolio. And I'm not talking about the one in my custom tailored britches, mind you.
Why, oh why, can't women get past my fabulous wealth? What do I have to do to get them to see the real me?
LOL!!! LMAO!!! Good one cpg! Funny as hell from what has been posted lately.
OK, maybe not a joke(). Buy a bigger penis!
Good Lord, that was good cpg. I can't help but laugh out loud.
I tell you, I've had it up to here. I'm so depressed that I might just have to retreat to my 62 foot Oyster anchored off Belize.
Yet another 20-something is pursuing me. I don't know. Maybe it was my Bentley parked at the curb outside the restaurant. Maybe it was the incredible deference shown to me by Antonio the waiter, and the fact that I was able to get a table immediately when other diners without reservations were promised a wait of 45 minutes or more. Maybe it's the fact that a Senator, several well-heeled CEOs, and a host of other luminaries came over to my table while I dined alone reading my copy of Forbes. Maybe it was because I was on the cover of the same copy of Forbes. Suddenly, she appeared at my table, her finger shyly tracing the outline of her generous decollete as she introduced herself, her pupils dilated with desire.
Out of politeness I invited her to sit down and eat, for I could have used the company. Instead of her complimenting me about my luminous intelligence, my shining wit, she kept steering the discussion towards my real estate holdings, my chalets in Colorado and New Zealand, and my exquisite taste in art, which runs towards painters such as Velasquez. Her copious breasts heaved and her eyes glittered as she added up in her head the size of my portfolio. And I'm not talking about the one in my custom tailored britches, mind you.
Why, oh why, can't women get past my fabulous wealth? What do I have to do to get them to see the real me?
ROFL
"copious breasts heaved" LOL
I think we have a winner here *dilated pupils of laughter* LOL
Thanks, all. I'm waiting for a member of the Indignation Brigade to chime in, not getting that this is a spoof on another post.
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