Hate the Rich

Rich people annoy me.

Not because they’re richer than me (pretty much everybody is richer than me) but because they exude an air of extreme cuntery. They swagger around in new clothes, drive new cars and eat new recipes in new restaurants and wipe food from their new, permatanned chins.

Maybe it’s just me, but I find it very difficult to trust anyone who doesn’t occasionally look at their bank balance and self harm or whose stomach doesn’t drop when they see another white envelope drop through the door with an angry letter from their creditors.

Now don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t mind a bit more money. It would be nice to get to end of the month without having to look for the dented cans of beans at the supermarket or eek out the last of the electricity and gas on my prepay meters.

However this blog isn’t about my inability to make or keep money. It is about why I find rich people creepy. Yes you read me right! They’re creepy. Creepy and slimy. They look too good, smell too good and dress too well. If you go to dinner with a rich person then you will rarely look across at a slightly frayed shirt or a crumpled sports jacket. No, the shirt will be pristine cotton, made from the pubic lint of an Indian virgin and the jacket will be so perfectly pressed that you might cut yourself on the lapels.  It doesn’t help, that on the two occasions I’ve been to dinner with a rich person; I’ve been the one who paid. You see rich people are miserly; they didn’t get rich by paying for meals. No sir, they’ll keep that money, starched and pressed in their Dodo skin wallets and when they’re at home and alone, they’ll take it out and cum on it.

Now I’m prepared to admit that it isn’t just their wealth that I loath. There are plenty of really rich people that I quite like. Stephen Fry is loaded and I don’t vomit when I see him on my television. However I can’t watch an episode of ‘Up the Lions Bum’ because it features a room full of the sort of rich people I loath. The ‘self made man/woman’ kind, who sicken me.

So there it is: my own special prejudice. I’m not a racist or homophobe, nor am I anti-semitic, sexist, ageist or speciesist. No. I just hate a certain kind of rich person, which in my world makes me the best kind of person.

Can you lend me a tenner?

Martin Wolfenden

Back in the early days of this Century, I made some money by saying the odd funny thing in public. On one of these occasions a fellow funny talker told me that I should write a blog (because that was the sort of thing funny talking people did back then.) Now, I’m not the sort of person who does things the easy way, so I rejected all the ready made blogging platforms and started my own website. Since then it’s become a repository for whatever stuff is bubbling out of my brains and a directory of various podcasts and videos that I’ve made with my friends and is completely unnecessary.

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