Honestly, the only thing that kept me from buying the Porsche 911 Turbo S was that fact that it was too cheap. If anything was going to ferry my ass around, it would have to be so exclusive that I would actually want to change pants before I got into it. Porsche hooked me up.
A few months ago, I called inquiring about a 911 Turbo S. I asked how much it was. “Ehh, about $191,000,” was the reply.
“Hmm,” I responded, slurping down the rest of my martini and snapping my fingers for another. “Pocket change. I think I’ll take my business elsewhere. Adieu!”
“Wait, wait!”
It was then that I heard it: the first tendrils of desperation, reaching out, grasping, for something—anything—to hang onto. “Maybe we can work something out.”
I languidly stirred the cocktail olive on a stick in my fresh martini, already weary from having just berated the groundskeeper who maintains my hedge mazes. “What did you have in mind?”
Again, that was a few months ago. Today, our efforts came to fruition. I am Queen Midas and Porsche is my kingdom.
Twenty-seven extra horsepower? Check.
Color? Gold. DUH. This was not even a point of consideration.
Matching chronograph? You fuckin’ know it.
Porsche Exclusive Manufaktur plates? Bitch, please. Go big and opulent or go home to the poor house.
A custom luggage set? Why not. I always need new laundry bags. Kidding! I don’t do laundry. I just throw things out after the first use and buy more.
How much more did all of these fancy things jack the price up by? The Porsche Gold Exclusive Fuck You 911 Turbo S is now $257,500... a price I’m way more comfortable living with.
In fact, I loved the idea of this thing so much that I made Porsche make 499 more for my friends and family to buy if they were so inclined. These are the kinds of people I want to associate myself with anyways.