Here I sit, toiling away on the 28th floor, entering cost card after cost card to the system they call Alchemy. Poof! Your dream is materialized into stainless steel, identity on a chain, (collect them all!) while you network in the Hamptons, placing ice ’round the necks of Sean Paul and Pras.
“It’s gonna be grrrrreeaaatt!”
A sneer from Ranch Jr, as he heads to the Executive Elevator, tearing into a single serving bag of Lay’s plain potato chips, while a plastic Mendy’s bag containing a weighty mound of turkey breast dangles from his heavily braceleted wrist.
“Diggggy… Diggy is picking me up downshtairs,” he says, mouth full of chips, “And we are gonna OWN Shouthampton!!,” he exclaims brandishing his Blackberry. “It’sh gonna be a Home RUN!”
deux mille six 