There’s too many self-indulgent wieners in this city with too much bloody money!

Posted on by Raoul Duke
The pylon tells you that people really race these saucy little club tarts. Yeah, right.

Roger the Scottsdale Ferrari Salesman: My name’s Roger, Sir. May I be of some help?
Memphis: That’s funny, my name’s Roger… Two Rogers don’t make a right.
[laughs]
Memphis: Roger, I have a problem…
Roger the Car Salesman: Yes?
Memphis: I’ve been in L.A. for three months now. I have money, I have taste. But I’m not on anybody’s “A” list, and Saturday night is the loneliest night for the week for me.
Roger the Car Salesman: Well, a Ferrari would certainly change that.
Memphis: Perhaps, Mmmm. But, you know, this is the one. Yes, yes yes… I saw three of these parked outside the local Starbucks this morning, which tells me only one thing. There’s too many self-Indulgent wieners in this city with too much bloody money! Now, if I was driving a 1967 275 GTB four-cam…
Roger the Car Salesman: You would not be a self-indulgent wiener, sir… You’d be a connoisseur.
Memphis: Precisely. Champagne would fall from the heavens. Doors would open. Velvet ropes would part.

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When I came to, the general back-alley ambiance of the suite was so rotten, so incredibly foul. How long had I been lying there? All these signs of violence. What had happened? There was evidence in this room of excessive consumption of almost every type of drug known to civilized man since 1544 AD. What kind of addict would need all these coconut husks and crushed honeydew rinds? Would the presence of junkies account for all these uneaten french fries? These puddles of glazed ketchup on the bureau? Maybe so. But then why all this booze? And these crude pornographic photos smeared with mustard that had dried to a hard yellow crust? These were not the hoofprints of your average God-fearing junkie. It was too savage. Too aggressive.