equal-opportunity gold digging, a guide for men

Barbara Hutton and Baron von Cramm 

It occurs to us here at the ol’ raincoaster blog that the ancient art of gold digging is confined, in these sadly decadent modern times, almost exclusively to the fairer sex.

This is unfair.

Obviously smelly, hairy, balding guys with uncertain bowel control deserve cynical marriages of convenience as much as lithe, buxom teenage blondes do, but how to achieve gold digging parity in an uncaring world?

Never fear, gentlemen: we at the ol’ raincoaster blog have a solution. Simply implement the following steps in order and watch the millions roll your way.

  1. Barbara Hutton, setting the world on fire and vice versaGive women a lot of money. It doesn’t matter where you get it from, but get it and give it to them across the board. Until there are rich women there is no point in attempting to gold-dig them. We suggest starting by paying and promoting your employees using criteria other than gender. We also suggest personal donations, when appropriate (you have my banking details, don’t you? I gave them to that Nigerian guy…). Change property and inheritance laws so that the loot is divided on the basis of relation, not gonads. Vote for women, because everyone knows politicians never retire poor.
  2. Wait till the crop of solvent women produced by the above innovations reaches, and passes, maturity. Wait till they start to remind you of Bea Arthur in Maude; that is the earliest point at which most women will become ripe for gold-digging. They need to have outlived their estrogen, but don’t wait till they’ve outlived most of their contemporaries as well. No sense overdoing things.
  3. You want someone whose ancient passport picture looks something like this,Barbara Hutton in about 846BC ie Belle of New Orleans at the Time of the Louisiana Purchase. If nothing else, it means her granddaughters might be worth pursuing on a recreational level. People who don’t know your age will assume you fell in love with her when she looked like that; people who can tell your age should be told you met in an internet chat room, and that she tends to deny it if asked out of embarassment.
  4. The way to succeed at gold-digging is the same as the way to succeed at any endeavour: Practice, practice, practice. You’ll need to be able to whisper endearments at intimate moments without getting her name wrong, among other critical skills. This is the secret behind the eternal popularity of monogrammed pillowcases, btw. I bet you wondered. But anyway, you will need, at some point, to go to bed with the object of your … intentions. Yes, you will need to bonk the Bea, to gamahuche the granny, to roger the retiree, to sex up the sexagenarian. You’re going to have to put it in and keep it there. Don’t worry, we’ve thought of everything. Use this handy-dandy item to practice until you can complete the act without a Carmen Electra poster hanging over the bed; it is extremely unlikely that the woman you’re attempting to gold-dig will allow a Carmen Electra poster to be placed over the bed, unless she is very unconventional indeed, or, indeed, Joan Jett.
  5. Keep your figure till after the wedding, and yes, there must be a wedding: remember, living in sin cuts you out of all those silver, gold, and Wii anniversary gift-getting occasions.
  6. Don’t neglect those little touches that mean so much: encouraging her love of fast cars with enormous blind spots, lighting her cigarette, cigar, or crack pipe (see if you can get her to work her way up), putting the coke dealer on speed dial, thoughtfully buying her skydiving lessons for her 80th birthday, or teasing her that she is too chicken to stand on the cliff’s edge and close her eyes.

Just don’t let Howard Stern mix your drinks.

Unless I’m in your will.

And so they were married...over Zsa Zsa's dead body!

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2-4-6-8 come on guys, hallucinate!

This scene, from Absolutely Fabulous, is the single best hallucination scene ever recorded.

Sure, when I got shot up with morphine I saw angels surfing on the rays of the setting sun over English Bay which was certainly odd, particularly given that my room had no windows, but not really out of the ordinary for me. Lady Penelope sitting on my legs and Richard E. Grant howling to the four winds about how he turned gay because he wasn’t man enough for me and I broke his heart: that would have been noteworthy.

But it would have been Gabriel Byrne in my hallucination.

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not gay? Can’t stay!

True Patriot Land 

Canada tells a Nicaraguan teenager that because he hasn’t fucked any Americans, his refugee claim is rejected and he must return to his homeland.

Now, I don’t know about you

But if that is what it takes to stay in this country I may as well start packing.

I mean, sure, if you’re planning to live on Denman Street, fine, test for gayness. But I don’t think bonking one particular kind of foreigner should be a requirement for Canadian residency status, any more than a criminal record should be mandatory if you’re emigrating to Australia.

From the CBC:

Board adjudicator Deborah Lamont, who heard the case from Calgary via video conference, questioned whether Orozco was homosexual because he wasn’t sexually active while in the U.S.

“You’ve got a kid who’s run away from home because he’s had the crap beaten out of him by his dad because he’s different, because he looks gay, because he doesn’t behave like the other boys or his brothers, gets help from Catholic churches and then from a Seventh Day Adventist Church,” said Khaki.

“He’s 19 years old at the time of the hearing and the board wonders why he hasn’t been sexually active? [That’s] a bit problematic for me,” said Khaki.

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breaking news from the world of great metaphor: Anna Nicole Smith dead of heart failure

Anna Nicole Smith, mugshotNow there’s a loaded expression.

After retiring from a modelling career that went up and down with the tidal shifts in her saline implants, becoming the human trainwreck hostess of the original Reality TV celebrities-more-fucked-up-than-us show, marrying a wizened zombie with one foot in the grave (nip slip in the wedding photos), hosting a poolside wake for him a few months later and nearly knocking the casket into the water with her drunken antics, sexually assaulting at least one personal assistant, and killing off her eldest child by sharing a Barbaro-sized dose of recreational methadone, Anna Nicole Smith has finally done the right thing by her offspring and has died of the both euphemistic and true-on-so-many-levels heart failure at the Hard Rock Casino resort in Florida.

Do you know anyone else who parties so hard they take a private nurse with them to the Casino?

Update: looks like she needed that nurse!

While it’s a shame when anyone so young is taken, I can’t bring myself to shed a tear for this narcissistic hedonist. Her little girl (paternity still a matter before the courts) is better off without her. If Anna Nicole Smith did an honest, generous act in her life the track record would lead me to believe she did it by accident.

Anna Nicole Smith, party girlDefamer, as always, has the best roundup.

Larry King is back, and he’s confident that the legal system will eventually figure out who’s the father of her newborn daughter Dannielynn. He almost sounds cocky about it, leading us to suspect he’s trying to hint the baby is his, just to prove his incredible virility at an advanced age.

King once again falls into reverie, recalling the time she appeared on his show so drunk and incomprehensible that SNL reran the interview without altering it. She’s compared to Marilyn Monroe (for a variety of reasons), called “not the smartest woman in the world,” but also “fun.” King is clearly working through his feelings on-air.

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start your day off right, biotches: with the Spirit of Truth!

My mother was a Buddhist, but she never missed a service at the Pentecostal church down the street. This shiat is why.

Then she’d come home and watch Ernest Angeley. So that’s where I get it the multiculti freakness from, in case you’re axin’.

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