My Day vs. Your Day

While scouring the parking lot of the local country club for lost Kruger Rands, which the club's golf enthusiasts use as ball markers, I made the acquaintance of one Mr. Turlington P. Barleycorn, who owns a respected publishing house. As I was well-dressed and did not appear to be colored or Jewish from a distance, rather than call on club security to neutralize me with a net and cattle prod, he deigned to speak to me directly to inquire about my activities. Upon hearing my explanation that I am a humble blog-master researching the living standards of the city's powerful elite, so amused was he that he decided it would be quite corking to go slumming as a blog-writer for a day. I present to you Mr. Barleycorn's magnum opus.

My Fabulous Day Compared to Your Miserable Day
by special guest author Turlington P. Barleycorn
As you, the typical blog-reader, sit down in your stained corduroy La-Z-Boy after trading another eight or nine hours of your finite existence for a handful of magic beans, you may ponder over an aluminum can of watery mixed-grain lager in between installments of Access Hollywood and TMZ about what daily life is like for the few privileged members of the elite. What did they do all day while I was watching my youth slip away?

6:15 a.m.
You: mumbling swear-words at your cell phone's alarm clock function, wanting desperately to roll over between your Wal-Mart bedsheets for a few more moments of unconsciousness.
Me: Sound asleep, wrapped up in 600-thread-count sheets, which are changed daily by my undocumented housekeeper. My bedroom's 50-inch flat panel TV is still aglow from when I fell asleep with the TV on after catching up with some stuff I'd DVR'ed during my three-week trip to Europe.

6:45 a.m.
You: groggily shoveling cereal and skim milk into your pie-hole and slurping instant coffee from a plastic screw-top mug.
Me: Still sound asleep, chump! I don't get up before 9 unless the house is on fire and Lupe can't put it out herself.

7:45 a.m.
You: getting another day closer to a coronary from the stress of coping with morning rush hour traffic as you drive your clattering, malodorous shit-box that may not pass inspection next week to your workplace, chugging the rest of your terrible imitation coffee beverage to give you a boost of energy so you can get through that god-awful, pointless staff meeting without nodding off. Eventually you park on the treeless asphalt slab under the roasting sun, ensuring you arrive at your desk with sweat stains on your Costco polo shirt.
Me: Not conscious before 9, remember?

9:10 a.m.
You: finally out of the time-wasting staff meeting, sorting through your inbox to see what you can put off until later this week, in hopes that you'll win the lottery tonight and not have to do it.
Me: Sipping a cup of gourmet coffee, freshly ground from beans which were consumed and shat out whole by endangered Andean titmice and harvested bean-by-bean by descendants of Atahualpa, in my dressing room while I throw on an outfit and shoes that cost more than your shit-box is worth.

9:40 a.m.
You: working on some boring task you really don't want to do, putting in just enough effort to keep you from getting fired.
Me: leisurely eating the eggs benedict that Lupe laid out on the table outside by the pool while I skim the Wall Street Journal on my iPad in search of new opportunities to exploit for my own financial gain. Yes, I have a lot, but you know, I'd give it all up for just a little more.

10:15 a.m.
You: hitting the vending machine for a Diet Coke to help you stay awake until lunch, since your boss is too cheap to provide free coffee. I can see it his way, though; the money he didn't spend on bulk coffee can go toward a set of cufflinks carved from panda teeth.
Me: marveling at the lack of traffic one finds on the roads at this hour as I cruise my Mercedes-Benz S600 into my reserved parking space, right by the office door, under the only tree in the parking lot, rigged with bird-repellent chemicals to keep birds from crapping on my clearcoat.

11:00 a.m.
You: doing all you can to keep from screaming at assholes who keep bugging you for things they originally told you they didn't need for another week.
Me: trying not to get too worked up about the fact that my best salesman just had a death in the family, which is going to put a dent in his sales figures this month.

12:30 p.m.
You: watching like a starved vulture as your bowl of canned ravioli turns 'round and 'round in the break room microwave.
Me: seated in the resplendent "casual" dining room at my country club with a few friends, having a Bloody Mary made with vodka distilled from the tears of Russian orphans while we wait for our $12 sandwiches to arrive.

1:15 p.m.
You: rubbing one out in the handicapped stall while thinking about the receptionist you have no chance with, hoping no one else comes in right when you shoot your load.
Me: Enjoying a cigar rolled on a 16-year-old Cuban virgin's thighs after shagging the waitress in the cloak room after she got visibly turned on at the sight of my Centurion card. If she tries to blackmail me later, no biggie—the Senator is my squash partner and knows how to make someone disappear.

3:15 p.m.
You: fighting off sleep for all you're worth, which is kind of a stupid expression since you're not worth anything to begin with.
Me: swerving back into the parking lot, still a little buzzed from the after-lunch cocktails. I'm running a little behind for my meeting with that little shit whose dead mom might end up costing several monthly payments on my son's Range Rover. I'll break even by claiming the Rover as a business vehicle and writing off its depreciation.

4:45 p.m.
You: staring at the little clock on your computer screen and swearing it's ticking backwards. Already getting hungry, and with no more change for the vending machine, it'll still be an hour before you're home.
Me: Boy, what a long day! I'm heading out so I can beat the traffic. Got to call Lupe and tell her I want lobster tails for dinner instead of broiled wild salmon.

5:45 p.m.
You: finally home after another long, tiring day of being exploited, you collapse in your La-Z-Boy to ponder dinner, and realize you haven't gone grocery shopping. Too damned tired to deal with it, you drive to the nearest Taco Bell instead and get whatever's on their 89-cent deal this week.
Me: Sitting in my oak-paneled study with my iPad, in my favorite chair covered with the hides of the wildebeests I shot on safari a few years back, sipping a little Dewar's Signature on the rocks to unwind after my 3-hour work day while Lupe gets supper ready.

6:45 p.m.
You: already returning your gordita to the earth from whence it came, swearing it's even hotter coming out than it was going in. You'd get your digestive problems checked out, but the boss downgraded the health plan this year so he could afford his aging trophy wife's plastic surgeon.
Me: Bunny is awfully late getting home from her tennis lesson. She must really enjoy it, though; she's always glowing when she comes home, and says the guy is a real pro.

7:45 p.m.
You: yakking on the phone with one of your fellow middle-class dullards, making plans to go to a filthy movie house or bar this weekend, with TMZ on mute.
Me: calling my personal American Express concierge to arrange my next three-week vacation. I'm worn out from all these 15-hour work weeks. Better check the fridge to make sure Lupe didn't smuggle home any leftovers to her kids; my purebred French bulldog adores lobster.

9:30 p.m.
You: slipping in and out of consciousness while some mindless reality show drones on, your anus still burning from its last expulsion of seasoned ground animal parts.
Me: scheming over the phone with my golf buddy Skip Choadsworth to spread false rumors that each other's company is facing bankruptcy so that we can buy more shares when the prices fall. Then when we report record earnings thanks to some creative bookkeeping and the prices go back up, someone's going to have a bigger boat in the slip at his beach house this summer.

11:30 p.m.
You: back between the Wal-Mart bedsheets again, dozing off after spanking it one more time while thinking about Janine at the front desk (at your office, not from Ghostbusters).
Me: Hitting the fridge for some of that leftover lobster. Not like I need to be in bed; I don't plan to get up until 9 anyway. Seeing how it's early yet, I grab a bottle of Moet & Chandon from the wine fridge and slip into the hot tub out back to ruminate on what a fine day it's been.