Читать книгу The World According to Vice - Vice Magazine - Страница 27

Today I realised that since I’ve been dressing up like a fop, I haven’t taken the time to enjoy music—not on my iPod, not at work, not even at home. I hadn’t even noticed. My theory is that this suit is sapping my ability to feel joy.

By early afternoon I needed a good meal, and being a modern man of means I opted for the exotic and worldly delicacy known as Oriental fusion. I thought it would be prudent to bone up on my “Eastern culture” now that the Chinese are set to rule the world. I know this because the articles in my new daily read, the Financial Times, have been hinting at it quite a lot.

By the time I had finished my lunch it was about 4 PM, and I contemplated heading back to work. But I was pooped. Instead I went to a fancy bar to relax, sip on a couple Rémy Martins, and enjoy a choice variety of D’Angelo tracks. I can’t drink too much brandy—it makes me gag—so I switched to whiskey, which makes me retch slightly less.

No one spoke to me, even though I was wearing the right stuff. I think I might have been missing the lingo. I found myself contemplating the logistics of jamming a portfolio of mergers and acquisitions up one of their arses.

The truly prosperous must be in tip-top condition so they don’t tire from fucking over as many proles as possible. With this in mind, I trotted along to an upmarket gym for a game of squash. I was feeling pretty sozzled, but no one likes a quitter, so I staggered through 45 minutes of painful degradation.

I tried to smoke another cigar after the match to regain some poise, but it made my oesophagus feel as if I’d been fellating exhaust pipes all day. I went home drunk, unwell, and unhappy