Image credit: Kurt Bradley

Ah, the Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance in California. Big hats, fake smiles, astronomical yearly incomes and tax evasion of all levels. Basically: my kind of soirée. At least, it would be if I didn’t keep getting asked to leave. Those bitches.

See, I’ve kind of given up on driving in most places. There’s bound to be congestion of some kind. And because the majority of the roads in nearly all countries are considered “public spaces,” it means I have to share them with commoners. Which displeases me. So, I’ve been exploring alternative means of transportation.

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They’re very sensitive about airspace here in the United States, which took the FAA getting stern with me and my so-called “unauthorized” helicopter arrivals during the Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance of 2014, 2015 and 2016 for me to fully grasp. I was determined not to let that happen again. I had my checkbook singing in my bag and I was ready buy some shit and win some car auctions.

While I was in Europe, I made a quick day trip to visit a friend in Tel Aviv who was having a fire sale on submarines. Don’t ask. Anyway, to make a long story short, he sold me a nice ex-military submarine, which I had cleaned up all nice and painted gold. Because fuck you.

I was very excited about my new sub. Sure, it’s nowhere near as luxurious as a yacht, but can you launch cruise missiles from your yacht? This would be my perfect chariot to Pebble Beach.

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Happily, the Concours overlooks the water, so on that day I fired up the sub and cruised it straight to Pebble Beach. You should have been there (and I only mean that in the romantic sense—you personally wouldn’t be found anywhere near the Concours d’Elegance, but keep pulling on those bootstraps).

The sub broke through the waves, gold paint gleaming like a promise in the sunshine, and I had my crew navigate it carefully right up on the beach. Well, “lightly crashed it” would be a more accurate description of what happened. How else was I supposed to get to shore?

Screams erupted from the well-dressed crowd above.

“What the fuck is that!?”

“Run!”

“Hide the Porsche!” (Seriously? Like I’d ever want that thing.)

“It’s the Russians!”

At this, I had to laugh. Russians? Me? Bitch, please. As if I’d be seen in something as basic as a Russian submarine. Plus, they’re running things in this country just fine without needing a naval invasion.

I climbed carefully down the side of my new sub and adjusted my Concours hat. But before I could take two steps toward the lawn, I was stopped by a member of the event staff. She had the police with her.

“You need to leave!” she shouted even though I was right in front of her.

“Your drugstore lipstick is smeared on your teeth,” I informed her.

“You are trespassing and destroying California state property!” the shouting continued.

“‘Destroying’? Improving, more like—” But she was having no more of me.

“I will have you arrested!”

At this I sighed. “Aw, come on, lady... Why do you have to be like that?” I pulled out my checkbook. “I’m just here to buy something. Preferably something shiny and expensive.”

“This is not,” she retorted, her eyes white with rage, “a matter of money.”

I knew this to be a lie—everyone has a price—but bystanders were gathering, phones were out taking pictures and I had better things to do that afternoon than bribe the local authorities.

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“Fine,” I spat, throwing my checkbook back into my bag. “Fine! It’s your fucking loss.”

I whirled around and furiously climbed back into the sub. Before I slammed the hatch shut, I shook my fist at the crowd, the diamond rings on my fingers catching the sun’s every ray. “You’re lucky I left the missiles at home because the gold paint is still drying. That’s right! I could have ended all of you if I wanted to. Ended you! Carry on living your empty little lives!”

Then the sailors threw it into reverse and we backed away from the armpit of California, Pebble Beach, and sank beneath the waves once again.

Maybe 2018 will be my year.