So I put the call out on twitter, asking for some blog suggestions. Here’s how it went:
Marinaisgo: About to write a blog. What should I write about? I’ve been thinking about money, punk rock, and sex lately.
Bebe33:@Marinaisgo I like hearing about money.
Moopigpoo: @Marinaisgo I like hearing about sex.
Jaynatopia: @Marinaisgo sounds like the start of a novel
Marinaisgo: @Jaynatopia I only wish I had some sort of narrative
Jaynatopia@Marinaisgo it starts out with a sex symbol punk rocker breaking into the mob’s bank vault; now run with it!
Your wish is my command.
I’m a punk rocker, I’m sure that someone thinks I’m a sex symbol (that poor dumb bastard-thanks though,) and I often think about breaking into bank vaults, but probably only because I know I’m not supposed to. Does the Mob have it’s own bank vault? I can just see that meeting with the executives at CitiBank:
Don Vito: I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.
Citibank: And what’s that, Don?
Don Vito: Please, call me Vito, all my friends do.
Citibank: Ok Vito, what is your offer?
Don Vito: Citibank, my friend. I’m gonna let you build a whole other vault next to the one you already got just to keep my family money inside of. How’s that sound to you my friend?
Citibank: You’re joking, right?
Don Vito: No. Why?
Citibank: You want me to use bank funds to build another vault next to our existing vault so that we can keep your family’s money in it, which will only make us the most at risk bank in the city, possibly the nation?
Don Vito: I don’t see the problem here.
Citibank: I do. Not only will every rival hood in the…
Don Vito: Woah, who said anything about hoods? We’re a family. That’s a racist misconception of Italian descended individuals.
Citibank: Than why do you need a whole other vault to put your money in?
Don Vito: I’m sorry?
Citibank: Why would you need a whole other vault to keep your families money in, unless for illegal activities Mr. Vito…
Don’t Vito: Call me Don, please.
Citibank: Don, here at Citibank, we’re no strangers to handling large fortunes. Our most famous client, Mr. Stephen Baldwin, of the Hollywood Baldwins, has no qualms about letting his substantial fortune mix with the smaller checking and savings accounts of others.
Don Vito: Where does Alec keep his money?
Don Vito: Are you going to build my family a vault or not?
Citibank: I’m sorry. We don’t do that here at Citibank. Besides, it looks like you have a bankruptcy on your account.
Don Vito: I see how it is. I thought you might say that, which is too bad for you. Come on boys, we’re going to Bank of America, where they understand us.
Of course it would never happen like that. Citibank is just dying to get into bed with the mob. They would do anything to drop that fuck Stephen Baldwin. I heard he overdraws every single pay period. You should have stayed in Threesome, Stephen Baldwin. It’s a cruel, hard world out here. Even at Citibank. ALLEGEDLY.
What am I forgetting here. Oh yeah, the sex.
Well, I can tell you that Don Vito is destined to die whilst fucking his mistress, an unpopular girl who went to his daughter’s high school. She spent 3 years after graduation as a low-rent stripper in the ghetto, scrimping and tricking before she could afford to buy herself breast implants, and get hired at the good club, where she met Don Vito, and through a steady habit of refusing to give him a hand-job in the back room (mostly because he was gross), she became his angel and he set her up in a fancy 1 bedroom in a complex with a gym in the basement and a pool on the roof.
One night, while he’s huffing and puffing above her, chin sweat dangerously close to dripping into her grimacing mouth, while she moans “oh donnie, donnie, you’re drivin’ me crazy,” in an almost hypnotic manner, and tries not to remember her step-father who did the same thing every Wednesday night until he died while driving home drunk, Don Vitos’ heart gives out.
They found her three days later, when a neighbor complained about the smell. Doctor’s report that she tried to satiate her initial thirst by licking the sweat from the folds of his fat, where it had pooled as his body cooled and bloated on top of her. But in the end, she had been her own worst enemy, her prized breast implants had ruptured on impact of the old man’s body. Had it not been for the silicone leaking into her blood stream, she could have survived, licking sweat off the corpse of her dead Mafia don boyfriend while she waited for help to arrive.
Of course, if it weren’t for the breast implants she’s still be giving $20 blow jobs in the alley behind ‘Big Jims Booby Barn’ on interstate 58. So there you go.