The good life

Last week I got a letter from my most frequent airline informing me that I was now a member of their super elite status something or other. Since I was flying last week, it was immediately obvious the changes in class I was now experiencing. Gone were the days of waiting in lines with the smelly and the idiotic. No longer would I have to beg for choice seats, or seats at all for that matter, because now I could pick any other passenger and sit on them. This new elite status afforded me endangered species menu items (I highly recommend the spotted lion chocolate chip cookies) and I am now allowed to drink as much as the pilots.

As with all mail from this airline it began with “Dr so and so..” because I am, of course a doctor, on a variety of levels. First, I did get me one of them doctor degrees in madacine which was quite the accomplishment and has allowed me to have a long and distinguished career in the madical field, as they say. Having one doctor degree wasn’t enough for me, because I am nothing if not a go-getter, so while I was busy operating and delivering thousands of babies, I also earned an evening degree in pshyoanalyticalreverseosmocanolopotry. Which is, obviously, some sort of study of the human brain and it’s varied interactions with both porn and sugar.

Moving on, as they say, I was lucky enough to also have won another pHd on a midcentury TV talk show. My late grandfather was the guest, he had invented a battery operated hand held vibrating device that was designed to relax tension in a working man’s muscles. I was in the audience, seat 36, and at an odd moment in the show, the host, a pedophile named Harris something announced that the University of California was giving away a degree in divinity to some lucky audience member. I was that member, I still am and at almost any religious function, except the ones where they cut off the tip of a penis, I am a doctor of some sort of religious studies.

What all this high class education has meant is that at parties I am always the one who laughs at the jokes that no one else seems to get, Last week, while I was in France on business, I happened upon a late night fig and cheese party and someone said something to the effect, “zat Obama, he is a waskilly wabbit, eh?” I laughed like there was no tomorrow. The joy of super intelligence is that when a foreign language is in play, those of us with multi-lingual tongues often get first crack at the humor and the hummus.

Speaking of rarified treatment, I did not know hospitals also have a frequent user program. My oldest brother, a rich industrialist, has surgery every other tuesday for something that those of use in less rarified bank accounts might call useless procedures, but the super wealthy prefer to call these sorts of things fun times. So while I was visiting him recently he got a call from his local hospital concierge who offered to schedule him for a complete nostril replacement, along with a toe sanitization. Seriously, for one hundred thousand taxpayer dollars he had his left nostril completely replaced, with that of someone who apparently had no use for his. Upon learning of this exclusive service of unnecessary medical care I was obviously jealous and in need of signing up, but he assured me I was not only too poor, but also too healthy. The rich, he reminded me, are afforded years of abusive lifestyle choices, which inevitably leads to massive amounts of seemingly useless surgeries to repair telltale signs of years of abuse. See how that works? Oh the rich, they really are different than us plain old doctors and frequent fliers.

So I will stick to my new elite lifestyle, because mostly I just find myself in first class sections of low class jet planes, talking to white men who feel superior for no particular reason, entitled in the most banal of ways, and I eat cookie after cookie and wonder how the most powerful animal in the wild kingdom tastes so damn good with just a little chocolate.

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