This Is the Last Time I'll Ever Step Foot in Your House


By now, it's gotten to the point where I can't even look at you anymore. For the love of God, what have you become? You think this is funny? There are people starving in Brooklyn, and you go out and accessorize your toilet paper roll. How many more slots is your iPod going to fill? I'm stunned, truly stunned. It was fine when you bought a TiVo for every single TV in your house, even the ones in your kids' rooms. Excessive, sure, but you work hard, you deserve it. And that new Bose stereo system you had installed, with speakers in every room in the house - this on top of the intercom system that serves the same effect but has a slightly worse sound quality. I thought, "Okay, guy likes music." But you only listen to talk radio, Gary! You put on the same Super Tramp album at every Goddamn party. I'm so sick of it. And now you pull this. Look, I'm going to give it to you straight: I expected to be invited to vacation at you beach house more than once. You asked me that first year, but I had that job interview in Milan. And then you never asked again. I thought it would become a regular thing, but it hasn't. And now this. I feel like a whore. Don't ever talk to me again. Vindicated.