2013 : AND IT'S A HORRIBLE BUS





Bring me another kale milkshake, that was a truly horrible year. 2013 you sucked. But to be fair I accept blame for pretty much everything that went wrong. And did I mention that pretty much everything went wrong. How can this be, I hear you say ? You're all thinking how amazing the life of  billionaire blogger must be. Oh sure, I get to sit around on yachts with George Clooney and Julian Assange eating gourmet dishes made from the brains  of endangered species and brushing my teeth with cocaine  while we discuss trickle-down economics with  Lady Gaga, but this can get old. And it doesn't stop you from making a series of poor personal choices leading to metaphysical and financial disaster. Otherwise known as my fifth marriage. The divorce was the high point of the year, which should give you a clue about the rest of it. Anyway.

She got the helicopter, the fake Brett Whiteley's, and our collection of vintage Latvian cheese. And a half a billion in bitcoin. I got custody of Ptolemy. I know I shouldn't sound so churlish, after all he's my youngest son, but he's a difficult child.  Some kids have an imaginary friend, mine has an imaginary drug dealer. His name is Terry. Or Pablo Escobar Montego di Bastardo, if it's been a particularly florid week at Steiner. So this bastard is leaning on my son for money. I keep telling Ptolemy to use the Platinum Amex card I give all my children when they turn six but apparently Terry/Pablo insists on cash. It's costing a fortune. How much imaginary cocaine can a seven-year-old get through !?
I may have to send the little bastard to an imaginary rehab

What else went wrong ? Everything. I should never have given the okay to our all zombie production of August: Osage County. The dinner party scene was a shocker. No really.

And here's a hint for any of you in the comedy biz. Don't outsource any of your writing to North Korea. What the fuck was I thinking ? I mean the price was right but I get back stuff like "Three doctors walk into a bar" That's it. I say to to them this is not funny. They say to me that Kim Jong-Un says it is funny. And who am I to disagree.

The TV pilot season went badly. I dunno, I thought we were in with a chance with "Breaking Badly", an exciting new and original story about a high-school English teacher with cancer who has to support his wife and chain-smoking children by selling illegal but highly potent poetry. His sonnets are pure but deadly. He is known on the streets as "Byron". Netflix passed. Screw them.

And then somewhere in the middle of the year I was struck by this single but paralysing thought : If there really is an all-powerful and loving God, how can you explain Hootie and the Blowfish ? I couldn't do anything for weeks. Metaphysical meltdown. I had to go out & buy myself a new Lamborghini to cheer myself up.

And finally. My shame is large and deep but there are photos and I cannot deny it. Yes, I wore meggings to the Billionaire Bloggers Ball. With little diamantes all over them. For some reason I thought I could get away with pairing rock star tights with a dinner jacket. I couldn't. I didn't. This is what comes of breakfasting on kale and Kahlua smoothies. Let this be a lesson to the kiddies.


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