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Anyone who says money can't buy you happiness is lying. Money buys you lots of stuff. It buys houses, food, power and sex, lots and lots of sex. That's the only explaination for how an old bucktoothed geezer like David Letterman gets laid so much that a blackmailer thought he could actually make a buck off of threatening to tell.You just have to go over to the YouTubes and listen to Letterman's joke filled mea culpa. Apparently he didn't just cheat on his wife with a WOMAN, but with lots of WOMEN. He says he won't name names. Damn it, I want names, and full color, full body pictures! I want to see what type of chicks Letterman sized money buys.
See, this episode with Letterman has finally convinced me I'm doing it all wrong. All this time I've been trying to drag my ass to the gym at least twice a week and fight to refrain from ingesting massive amounts of Cheetos and beer in an effort to keep it hot for the wife unit. Now I see the light. All I have to do to keep the wife unit interested in hot monkey sex with me is to make tons of cash. I can eat Cheetos and pizza and drink beer until it comes out of every orifice as long as I got that bling, bling.
I get now. Money is like a hallucinogenic. It creates an magical, mystical aura of attractiveness around you. That's why all of those celeb dudes wear all that jewelry and buy those big damn houses, no one really wants to wear 10 pounds of bling - but you need it to amplify the hallucinogenic properties of the money. Money unseen in the bank doesn't work as well on the chicks as a German sportscar, that sends out waves of hotness the emanates from you for a 10 mile radius.
So before I go home tonight, I'm going to take my paycheck and buy lots of lottery tickets. I'm going to take them and paste them all over my naked body like post-its. Maybe then the wife unit will be mesmorized by all of the little potential jackpots all over my potbelly and fuck me like I'm Brad Pitt.
