Now I find out. The thing’s they’ll hold against you!
Just to prove once more that you can’t please everyone I suddenly discover that one of my commonplace treasures is someone else’s junk, that what I expected to be a hallmark of good taste is looked down upon by the snobs.
Well, excuse me.
The tidy mansion of the rapper, 50 cent, in the town next door is up for sale. I always liked that house — once owned by a notorious crook and then by the more notorious boxer and miscreant, Mike Tyson. It’s a little cramped for my tastes — at a mere 48,000 square feet. It has only 18 bedrooms, 37 bathrooms, a full gym, two billiard rooms, racquetball courts and a disco, but it shows promise. We — 50 Cent and I — have exactly the same tastes, and who knew they wouldn’t appeal to everyone? How tight is that.
A local realtor discussed the place in a story in the Courant today.
“He’s put a lot into it, and it’s all very tasteful, except the stripper poles.” The realtor told the paper that 50 had added an infinity pool and spa with a grotto, new decks, windows and roofing, an entirely new main kitchen, a movie theater, updated master bedroom, and all electrical systems. “It’s a lot of good stuff and, candidly, it’s all top quality,” he said.
Except the stripper poles.
Will someone please explain to me when having stripper poles, with attendant strippers, became less than desirable, for cryeye?
Didn’t I put in a forest of stripper poles in my own mansion? I can barely get into the kitchen or find any of the 37 bathrooms without bumping into a stripper pole but I was assured that it was the hallmark of haute couture. Sure they tend to attract more firemen than strippers and they are hard to polish — even though I am trying to persuade a local stripper to wear an outfit made up of Brasso cloths while she slithers on the stripper poles, double-dutying. But how to discount the thrill there is in using a stripper pole oneself!
It has become a notable diversion of the clan for me to do some pole dancing after supper for the edification of the family and guests. Of course, it played a bit badly when I clonked one visitor, the Archbishop of Cantebury, on the forehead with one of my size 12 brogans while peeling to the tune of “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
Except for the stripper poles, indeed.
What’s a mansion without stripper poles? It’s a dump, is what it is. Does anyone think the Vanderbilts didn’t have stripper poles galore? Or that old sourball, J.D. Rockefeller, didn’t do a shimmy slink up and down his own stripper pole at Kykuit? It is hard to conceive of any self-respecting mansion owner not having stripper poles everywhere.
Hang tough, 50 Cent. Our stripper poles define us.
