Below are the 4 most recent journal entries.
I awoke this morn to find my closet utterly devoid of clean jackets, even my smoking jacket being out for cleaning (really, who knew that blood stood out so boldly against burgandy velvet?). With my chamber maid Francesca still recovering from a rather... rough evening with me, I'm afraid that her daily duties have not been performed. So, my only option being to wear no jacket at all (THIS IS NOT AN OPTION), I was forced to wrap myself in a black blazer with gold buttons (I actually shuddered as I put it on) and shamefully make my way to the Country Club.
I thought that my fashoin faux pas had gone unnoticed (the club itself full of miserable Lacoste shirts and the occasional pair of white socks), but this assumption would be proven premature. As I was leaving the clubhouse, I ran into that despicable bastard Louis Rentonne III (despicable bastard he is, insisting that his 'third' status be acknowledged by all and sundry). He mistook me for a valet and politely asked me to bring his Towncar round the front. Thinking quickly as I am oft to do when enraged, I resisted the initial urge to turn his face inside out and humbly accepted his keys.
I then took to the stables and found his eldest daughter Rebequa tending to her mare and informed her that there had been a terrible accident involving her mother and that she should accompany me to the clubhouse at once. Walking along briskly behind her, a stout blow to the head with a croquet mallet rendered her unconscious and I dragged her body to the parking lot where her father's Towncar awaited. I had my way with her in the back seat and left my Superior Breeding slathered across her face, then stuffed her still slumbering into the trunk.
I drove the car around to the clubhouse and got out, flashing my perfect white smile at Louis. He tipped me and drove away. That poor fool, what a shock he'll be in for once the poor girl wakes up!
Presently I'm in the lounge enjoying a bourbon and some fine china. The twenty Louis slipped me is on the table, a greater trophy than the exotic animal heads on my wall.
At any rate, I must leave you now. As you would expect, I've had a busy day and am completely tuckered out.
bunny van der court, here.
everett thought he was rather clever starting this "blog" and trying to keep it a secret from me. ha! just as he thought he was clever sleeping with yvette, our laundry maid. and consuela, the nanny. that pompous bastard.
tonight i am taking a break from my nightly drink and enjoying a quiet (or so i wish it was) evening with my, ahem, lawyer, favre. it is so nice to be away from my husband. he's always "my penis" this and "croquet" that. man speak. i cannot for the life of me understand it.
of course, we had a charming evening eating fine food and talking of things that only we can understand. the high price of good scotch, the side effects of quaalude, you know, that sort of thing.
now we are watching the telly. some sort of "sport" with sticks and black discs and ice skating. it all seems rather homosexual, other than the frequent beatings amongst what favre refers to as the "players." the only people i know that do "plays" of any kind are either fags or children. quite an unfortunate combination. i'm afraid this all has me questioning the sexuality of my, ahem, lawyer.
don't fret, everett, i will not be divorcing you. we did, indeed, sign a pre-nup, because apparently your family didn't have the proper breeding that mine did. perhaps if your mother wasn't a showgirl from the fall run at the stardust, we wouldn't have this problem. in fact, you might have turned out to be quite the gentleman. but because of this pre-nup, i would be forced to shop at places with words in the name such as "mart" and "save". perish the thought!
it appears my, ahem, lawyer needs me to go over some "briefs" so i must be going now.
don't worry darlings, i will report back soon. i think i shall quite enjoy this "blog", whatever the hell that means.
Mood: doped up.
I read something odd in The Times today...
Apparently there has been some sort of mass exodus of poor people leaving their home state in the south (I declare, poverty and southern states seem to go hand in hand like light beer and inbreeding, don't they?), seeking refuge at various sites across the nation.
Something about inclement weather or some such unpleasantness... to tell the truth I was bored to tears and didn't read the whole article.
These people must be very poor indeed if they can't afford a decent pair of Galoshes. Perhaps if they spent less of their Brookshire's paychecks on Doritos and sweat pants they would have a little money set aside for a rainy day.
I was enjoying a luscious merlot at The Crimson Knicker this afternoon when all of a sudden a fellow entered the pub. I nearly dropped my glass when I noticed that he was wearing a black belt with a pair of brown loafers and was still frozen in shock when he had the nerve to shamble his way towards me and ask for a light.
I responded by asking if the power had been cut off at his mobile home, and directed him to the nearest liquor store as that was surely his next stop.
Immediately afterwards, I noticed that he was smoking Marlboros- confirmed!