|Dangerspouse Rides Again|
Garage - Track
Dec. 02, 2003 - 5:37 a.m.
So my fucking kid sister won the lottery a few years ago.
I'm not bitter about the little asshat taking what should rightfully have been mine. I'm a bigger man than that. After all, I'm her only brother, who loves her more than all the other sisters in the world. Just because she decided to start spitting out heirs, instead of staying childless with only a brother to handle her Estate after her untimely demise (plans for which I won't detail here) doesn't mean I hate the grasping bitch. Or her husband. Or her 2 kids. Or the palacial estate. With the "Keep Out" sign on the wrought iron gate.
Interesting side story:
Kid Sister was an hourly drudge at a perfume factory 7 years ago when the gods decided to rain sheckles on her. She and several coworkers each put up 50 bucks when the lottery ran to nine digits. There were four winning tickets ultimately, one of them theirs. After splitting the cash pie umpteen ways, they still ended up with a couple mil each - enough for her to retire and rub it in the face of her brother.
To her credit, she didn't do what her brother would have done in the same situation (divorce NewWifey(tm), take a 2-year sex tour of Thailand, buy a sports franchise and a brewery, go naked everywhere). She hired a Financial Advisor, an accountant and a lawyer, and because of that will be able to maintain her lifestyle after the free checks stop rolling in. Fool.
One of her friends down at the Perfume Plant took another route, however. This 50-something broad decided to invest heavily...in psychics.
Forgive me for being a bigger idiot than a parent who lets his kid accept a month-long unescorted stay at Neverland, but...what the fuck?? Rich people do not go to psychics. For one thing, they tend to be educated and so realize the inherent stupidity. For another, THEY'RE ALREADY RICH, AND RICH = HAPPY! They alread KNOW their future: more happiness. What was she looking to discover? Who the next Survivor winner was gonna be? What she's gonna make for dinner?
So for about 5 years this walking pot of glue went 3 - 5 times a week to a fortune teller, who while dishonest by definition, was no fool. She told this bovine ATM dispenser everything she wanted to hear: she was gonna win the lottery AGAIN (she really did tell her this), her kids were all gonna marry Nobel Laureates and probably cop a few themselves, she would live a long happy life, with grandkids summering at her villa on the Riviera (where she'd be moving shortly), etc.
Two years ago she had a headache and went to the doctor. It was Advanced Inoperable Malignancy and two months later she was dead. She never saw it coming, strangely.
Back to the plot....
The most interesting thing to happen on Thanksgiving was a conversation I had with Wealthy Sis. My aunt, who'd suffered a stroke last year, has been having a tough time with physical therapy ever since. This aunt was close to my sister even before the lottery windfall, unlike the rest of us sycophants. So my sister was inclined to be generous when she heard this aunt was ailing.
Wealthy Sis, although not so foolish as to believe in psychics, every now and then stumbles into New Age quicksand. And so it was this time, as she booked a week's retreat for herself and auntie at Depak Chopra's La Costa Resort and Spa. I'm not overly fond of Dr. Chopra, putting him in the same general category as Dr. Mengele. Although that may be unfair. Chopra has the potential to harm a lot more people with nonsense like "Quantum Healing" than the Angel of Death ever had a chance to.
But since they were just going to the Spa they were spared much of the quasi-Hindu Hubris that sucks dollars (and REAL health) from the desperate and gullible.
Do you think I don't like this guy? Actually I'm just jealous because I haven't come up with a fantastic scheme to take advantage of the General Public's bottomless quest for stupidity. I'll bet my lucky healing crystals that ol' Depak rolls out a prayer mat and squats down five times a day in the direction of the Kansas Board of Education.
Hmmmm. I really hadn't meant this to be a rant centering on fat Indian charlatans. The funny story will now commence therefore....
Sister and Aunt arrived at the Center and were ushered in to the Greeting Room. They were briefed along with all the other wealthy geniuses who coughed up the price of a small Lexus for a week's stay. Everyone seemed normal and well groomed. Except. Except for one grizzled guy wearing a track suit and bright red sneakers, with a long grey beard, slouching sideways across a seat directly behind my sister. She thought he might be a homeless guy who had wandered in, and the staff didn't want to risk their Karma by tossing him back out. He must have belonged there though, since he introduced himself as "Will" and the instructor didn't involuntarily recoil. My sister, who never can resist rescuing puppies, decided to make small talk with him. She leaned back and asked "I like your sneakers. Where'd you get them?"
"I got these in Germany."
"Yeah, at some airport. I forget which one."
At this point my sister shifted her opinion and now figured the bum to be, in reality, some wealthy eccentric of the Howard Hughes sort. She ended up having several pleasant conversations with him in the ensuing week, but he otherwise proved unremarkable.
Back to the initial Introductory Meeting. At one point, a woman who had flown in from Argentina mentioned that her son was footing the bill as a birthday present to her. The director exclaimed "Oh, you're Jorge's mom then. He wanted us to let you know that he's signed you up for every treatment we have, and if there is anything else you require, just let us know and he'll cover it." Mom beemed with pride. She looked down at her itinery.
"It says here that at 10 this morning I have to go in for my first of 3 "Basti" treatments today. I wonder what that is?"
My sister, who actually had the forethought to read up on the treatments and sign up only for the ones she wanted, leaned over and stage whispered to her, "That's the herbal enema. It's supposed to de-toxify."
The woman sat bolt upright, wide-eyed with horror. She was obviously one of the monied elite back in the old country, the sort of Blue-Blood who is disdainful of any body part not able to be adorned with jewelry. The thought of a salaried worker sliding a tube of oregano up her ass was probably about as savory a prospect as having to make her own L'Eggo's on the day the maid is off. I bet an interesting conversation with Jorge took place shortly after she returned home.
Meanwhile, another couple had overheard my sister's definition of "Basti" also. The woman stood up and cracked her welcoming brochure over her husband's head, sniping in a cultured British accent "You stupid git! Look what you've gotten us into this time!" Turns out they were on holiday from the college where they both held chairs, and thought this would be a relaxing change. Every year they alternated picking their vacation destination, and this year it was hubby's turn. Last year she picked Fiji, where they lounged on the beach and ate mahi-mahi. This year he picked La Costa, where they'll eat bad food and endure thrice daily buggerings. It's as if they'd never left Jolly Olde! She was not a happy Subject.
I guess money can be a pain in the ass.
Still, my sister and Aunt had a good time. They prudently (prudishly?) signed up primarily for massages, and my aunt had a few sessions with a staff neurologist to discuss ongoing problems from the stroke. On the fourth day, sitting in the doc's waiting room, they spotted the Argentinian Basti victim. She was slumped all the way over, head on her knees, moaning. It seems that she was so traumatized by having commoners manipulate her anus, that her body had a reaction opposite to what most have. After four days of 3 enimas a day...no shit. Really, no shit. This woman's social degredation was now complete. Not only had she endured 12 episodes of anally ingested salad dressing, but now she was going to have to take a laxative and stay on the toilet in the doctor's office until she pooped in front of him.
Yes, Jorge is in for an interesting rest of his life, I'm guessing.
The closest my sister came to anything like that was the effort it took to keep from farting on the masseuse. The 75 minute hot oil naked body massages were given within an hour of the vegan lunch - heavy on the legumes. I've always known she had amazing sphincter control, but she told me that this really tested her. Getting your stomach, butt and thighs kneaded into a soft paste by an Amazon Norwegian may indeed have felt good, but she was concentrating so hard on retaining fumes that she never did enjoy it. Apparently other women had the same reaction, judging from talk around the Lady's Room.
The men, of course, had no such compunction. The massage therapists all knew to open the windows if there was a guy scheduled.
On the last day they gathered for the "Farewell, it was nice having you" speech. Something to take the sting out of feeding you grass and ramming a hose up your butt three times a day for the past week, so that you'll do it again next year. For the most part it was standard, scripted bullshit about how their energies were all aligned now, and physical ailments would have no chance as long as they thought Good Thoughts forevermore. And purchased the books, of course. And the tapes. And pills.
But right at the end the director said "...and I must add, it has been a great pleasure to see Mr. Billy Gibbons from the band ZZ Top stopping by for another week here at La Costa." ...and pointed to Will, the scraggly bum with the red sneakers! He smiled and gave a little nod, and two surfer dudes immediately mobbed him with tales of how much he'd meant to their formative years in garage bands. Poor Will looked like he was getting Basti'ed, and snuck out soon after.
Figures their most popular album was "Eliminator". You write what you know, I guess.
Well, work's over. Gotta scoot. Drive safe. And always remember to read the brochure carefully, kids....