SL55/63/65/R230 AMG: The Tragic End of my SL65 AMG.
11-07-2004, 03:41 PM
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The Tragic End of my SL65 AMG.
Good afternoon ladies, gentlemen and ‘Finally Retired’. I regret to inform you that my Diamond Silver/Napa Berry Red SL65 AMG Bi-Turbo has seen its day. Yes, MBWORLD.ORG. The day has come.
[Insert emotional music]
*Reaches into Louis Vuitton chest and grabs funeral-style Chanel-netted hat, and throws over-sized Balenciaga sunglasses and protects restless eyes*
Please, if you are not doing so I would recommend changing into Funeral Couture, I endorse Fendi, Givenchy and Giorgio Armani for this tragic ceremony.
Thursday, November 4th 2004.
Yapping on Vertu phone, petting my puppy ‘Coco Chanel’ through her Louis Vuitton Doctor Pink Sac De Nuit doggie carrier. Quite a normal day on Park Avenue, although something didn’t feel right. An eerie feeling...not a panic but a chill.
“Maria, what’s wrong?” *Squinting my Dior moisturized eyes*
“Como?”
“Sweetie, something just doesn’t feel right” I respond as I model my freshly delivered Christian Dior D’Trique snow boots in my Classic Aged Gold Scegli Lo Stilista Mirror.
“Sweetie, you partied too hard with Paris last night at the Bungalow 8, take a nap”
Feeling very confused and quite drowsy, I poured Evian water into Coco’s Burberry doggie-bowl and hit the Versace sheets.
Approximately 4:35 p.m.
I throw on my Christian Lacroix bucket hat, buckle on my Salvatore Ferragamo boots, grab the SmartKey from the ‘Versace Home’ butterfly table and run out the door.
The valet brings my SL65 down, opens the door and I carefully entered the roadster (Cautious of my pointy Ferragamo’s scratching the stainless-steel door sill trim)
I gash onto the aluminum pedal courtesy of Ferragamo, and zoom off onto Park.
My Platinum Edition Vertu blows up. What could this be? OMG, a reminder! I totally forgot about “P.Diddy’s Royal Birthday Ball!” I begin to panic. What in the name of Hermes do I have to wear? The invitation strictly read “Throw caution, conservatism and trend to the wind, You must show your assets. Be a style icon. Dress as you have never dressed before”
Hands shaking, I reach for COMMAND and dial my personal shopper.
I finally grab hold of the B**** and start to hyperventilate! What in the name of Gianfranco Ferré Couture could I wear to this event? The New York Press will be present, and I would be quite suicidal if I were to be featured on the PageSix or the New York Post tomorrow morning posing as the poster boy for *gasp* last season! She assures me of a new shipment of Dior Homme via Hedi Slimane, so I trust her.
I stomp on the AMG pedal making my way down to 5th, causing a scene. The traction was just BEYOND, smoke clogging the air as the Continentals’ began to spin! Even the active-charcoal filter could not block out the foul smell!
People began to stare as the V12 Bi-Turbo growl echoed through posh Park Avenue.
I arrive at Saks Fifth Avenue, and was promptly whisked by security into the private fitting room where my assistant had my Dior ready-to-wear laid out in font of me. I nodded my Frederick Fekkai cropped head in acceptance, clutched onto the ensemble with my Chanel-manicured nails and ran out of the store!
I arrive at my complex; the bellboy rushes my Connelly leather wrapped Dior Homme outfit to the 50th floor, while I struggle walking down the red carpet in my high-heeled Texas style Yves St. Laurent Rive Gauche croc boots. I pass the ****tail bar as people’s eyebrows began to rise, open the gold-lined Gattinoni painted door, ran into my Versace decoured corridor and begin undressing.
(Guys, please control your hormones, remember you are supposed to be weeping with me)
*Sniffs, reaches for Gucci tissue and adjusts oversized sunglasses*
Anywho, I begin to frantically change my outfit as if I were a model at a Louis Vuitton show in Paris. Hurry, Hurry I say to myself as I try to slip the trousers up my beautifully sculpted legs. I grab my Costume National man bag, and run downstairs while holding my Jean-Paul Gaultier boots with my Mariella Burani exfoliated hands.
To cut a long story short, we arrive at Cipriani's, pose for the press, send my gifts to Puffy, meet my friends and then leave. As the party came to an end, I was certainly in no mood to drive. Where’s my driver when you need him? So I ask my model-friend Becky to navigate the AMG back to Russell and Kimora’s Saddle River Estate, so we could charlar with our dear friends. As I settle into the Napa Leather Seats I doze off, but wake up as she made a sharp turn onto the highway.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask.
“Totally fine” She responds with her Collagen-injected lips.
I begin doze off as the Dynamic multicontour seatbacks keep me in place from the bone-jarring ride. Only to wake up to the sound of Becky screaming!!!
“OMG” I muttered, as everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.
I turned to my left as my silky smooth hair flipped across my beautiful face—only to notice bright Xenon’s shining through my Fendi sunglasses. A *gasp* leased Certified Pre-Owned BMW 325i, ran into my Mercedes-Benz! Slightly unconscious, I poke at the ‘SOS’ button with my Chanel-manicured nails.
As I try to fight the deployed airbags off of my Hussein Chalayan coat, I immediately began screaming. The pauper in his very slightly damaged BMW comes out of his non-Nappa, non-Navigation equipped 3-Series and begins to speak defensively as if he were talking to his Wal-Mart personal shopper!
“Do you know who you’re talking to?” I ask.
Curse words began FLYING out of his crusty, Walgreens moisturized lips as my Botoxed eyes widened with surprise. I reach my hand in the air, and slap the 3 for $1 Burger-King taste out of his mouth.
“How dare you?” I yell.
He calms down, and apologizes. He then acknowledged he was at fault.
I walk back over to my V12 Mercedes-Benz while my Costume National boots began click clacking through the silent New Jersey streets. I start inspecting my vehicle, and notice the whole left side damaged and his god-awful no-cost option Topaz Blue paint smeared onto my car!
I couldn’t look anymore. I grabbed my Louis Vuitton emergency bag out of the retractable luggage straps and shuffled within, searching for my oversized Marc Jacobs sunglasses. My eyes felt terrible! I’ve had enough; I don’t even want to think for the rest of the night.
I phoned Gustav (Family Assistant) and he rushes to the scene, while Mercedes-Benz sends help. Gustav deals with Mercedes-Benz and gives me a lift back to Manhattan in his Designo Graphite E55 AMG (Birthday Gift). Mercedes-Benz dropped Becky at her estate while I was whisked back to Manhattan.
Certainly in no mood to walk myself, Gustav lifts me up and carries me to my King-Sized vintage Versace bed and lays my Greek body down on the linens. I ask him to dim the lights to level 3 and not bother me thereafter.
I fall asleep…..
The next day, I was awakened with the sound of my Bang & Olufsen phone by a technician trying to give me estimates.
“Estimates?” I scream!
“You think a socialite/heir of my stature would drive around in a *double-gasp* repaired car?”
I slam the phone down, pick up my Cartier glass, and sip my Moët & Chandon while gasping for air.
A day later and still in bed, Maria comes to my bedside worried. I ask her for some anti-depressants, and she quickly dismisses me as a “Drama Queen.” I wasn’t too happy.
In the span of 5 hours, Sean Combs, Donatella Versace, Paris Hilton, and Paulina Porizkova call me, wishing me well. I was quite pleased the white roses sent to me by Paulina!
I finally had the strength to get out of bed; a force within gave me the power. I felt revived, as revived as Tom Ford post-YSL/Gucci Group depression. I reach for my bedside table, attempting to grab the SmartKey, hoping this was all a dream! Unfortunately no Keyless-Go card, or Smart Key!
Oh great, now I have to drive the Ferrari! Ugh, the Rosso Metallico brings out the bags under my eyes. I think I’ll order the F430 in Blu Pozzi or black, I said as I began to come to my senses.
[Insert inspirational music]
I got out of bed, pulled aside the Bottega Venta silk curtains and admired the beautiful fall colors of Central Park.
For I have a mission in life, and I’m not going to let some $0 down, $100 a month 325i lessee ruin me!
With my doctor’s prescribed bed-rest on my 265 ft. Mega-Yacht in Monte Carlo, I think I’ll be just fine.
*Throws off oversized sunglasses and wipes tears off of face with Chado Ralph Rucci handkerchief*
[Insert emotional music]
*Reaches into Louis Vuitton chest and grabs funeral-style Chanel-netted hat, and throws over-sized Balenciaga sunglasses and protects restless eyes*
Please, if you are not doing so I would recommend changing into Funeral Couture, I endorse Fendi, Givenchy and Giorgio Armani for this tragic ceremony.
Thursday, November 4th 2004.
Yapping on Vertu phone, petting my puppy ‘Coco Chanel’ through her Louis Vuitton Doctor Pink Sac De Nuit doggie carrier. Quite a normal day on Park Avenue, although something didn’t feel right. An eerie feeling...not a panic but a chill.
“Maria, what’s wrong?” *Squinting my Dior moisturized eyes*
“Como?”
“Sweetie, something just doesn’t feel right” I respond as I model my freshly delivered Christian Dior D’Trique snow boots in my Classic Aged Gold Scegli Lo Stilista Mirror.
“Sweetie, you partied too hard with Paris last night at the Bungalow 8, take a nap”
Feeling very confused and quite drowsy, I poured Evian water into Coco’s Burberry doggie-bowl and hit the Versace sheets.
Approximately 4:35 p.m.
I throw on my Christian Lacroix bucket hat, buckle on my Salvatore Ferragamo boots, grab the SmartKey from the ‘Versace Home’ butterfly table and run out the door.
The valet brings my SL65 down, opens the door and I carefully entered the roadster (Cautious of my pointy Ferragamo’s scratching the stainless-steel door sill trim)
I gash onto the aluminum pedal courtesy of Ferragamo, and zoom off onto Park.
My Platinum Edition Vertu blows up. What could this be? OMG, a reminder! I totally forgot about “P.Diddy’s Royal Birthday Ball!” I begin to panic. What in the name of Hermes do I have to wear? The invitation strictly read “Throw caution, conservatism and trend to the wind, You must show your assets. Be a style icon. Dress as you have never dressed before”
Hands shaking, I reach for COMMAND and dial my personal shopper.
I finally grab hold of the B**** and start to hyperventilate! What in the name of Gianfranco Ferré Couture could I wear to this event? The New York Press will be present, and I would be quite suicidal if I were to be featured on the PageSix or the New York Post tomorrow morning posing as the poster boy for *gasp* last season! She assures me of a new shipment of Dior Homme via Hedi Slimane, so I trust her.
I stomp on the AMG pedal making my way down to 5th, causing a scene. The traction was just BEYOND, smoke clogging the air as the Continentals’ began to spin! Even the active-charcoal filter could not block out the foul smell!
People began to stare as the V12 Bi-Turbo growl echoed through posh Park Avenue.
I arrive at Saks Fifth Avenue, and was promptly whisked by security into the private fitting room where my assistant had my Dior ready-to-wear laid out in font of me. I nodded my Frederick Fekkai cropped head in acceptance, clutched onto the ensemble with my Chanel-manicured nails and ran out of the store!
I arrive at my complex; the bellboy rushes my Connelly leather wrapped Dior Homme outfit to the 50th floor, while I struggle walking down the red carpet in my high-heeled Texas style Yves St. Laurent Rive Gauche croc boots. I pass the ****tail bar as people’s eyebrows began to rise, open the gold-lined Gattinoni painted door, ran into my Versace decoured corridor and begin undressing.
(Guys, please control your hormones, remember you are supposed to be weeping with me)
*Sniffs, reaches for Gucci tissue and adjusts oversized sunglasses*
Anywho, I begin to frantically change my outfit as if I were a model at a Louis Vuitton show in Paris. Hurry, Hurry I say to myself as I try to slip the trousers up my beautifully sculpted legs. I grab my Costume National man bag, and run downstairs while holding my Jean-Paul Gaultier boots with my Mariella Burani exfoliated hands.
To cut a long story short, we arrive at Cipriani's, pose for the press, send my gifts to Puffy, meet my friends and then leave. As the party came to an end, I was certainly in no mood to drive. Where’s my driver when you need him? So I ask my model-friend Becky to navigate the AMG back to Russell and Kimora’s Saddle River Estate, so we could charlar with our dear friends. As I settle into the Napa Leather Seats I doze off, but wake up as she made a sharp turn onto the highway.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask.
“Totally fine” She responds with her Collagen-injected lips.
I begin doze off as the Dynamic multicontour seatbacks keep me in place from the bone-jarring ride. Only to wake up to the sound of Becky screaming!!!
“OMG” I muttered, as everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.
I turned to my left as my silky smooth hair flipped across my beautiful face—only to notice bright Xenon’s shining through my Fendi sunglasses. A *gasp* leased Certified Pre-Owned BMW 325i, ran into my Mercedes-Benz! Slightly unconscious, I poke at the ‘SOS’ button with my Chanel-manicured nails.
As I try to fight the deployed airbags off of my Hussein Chalayan coat, I immediately began screaming. The pauper in his very slightly damaged BMW comes out of his non-Nappa, non-Navigation equipped 3-Series and begins to speak defensively as if he were talking to his Wal-Mart personal shopper!
“Do you know who you’re talking to?” I ask.
Curse words began FLYING out of his crusty, Walgreens moisturized lips as my Botoxed eyes widened with surprise. I reach my hand in the air, and slap the 3 for $1 Burger-King taste out of his mouth.
“How dare you?” I yell.
He calms down, and apologizes. He then acknowledged he was at fault.
I walk back over to my V12 Mercedes-Benz while my Costume National boots began click clacking through the silent New Jersey streets. I start inspecting my vehicle, and notice the whole left side damaged and his god-awful no-cost option Topaz Blue paint smeared onto my car!
I couldn’t look anymore. I grabbed my Louis Vuitton emergency bag out of the retractable luggage straps and shuffled within, searching for my oversized Marc Jacobs sunglasses. My eyes felt terrible! I’ve had enough; I don’t even want to think for the rest of the night.
I phoned Gustav (Family Assistant) and he rushes to the scene, while Mercedes-Benz sends help. Gustav deals with Mercedes-Benz and gives me a lift back to Manhattan in his Designo Graphite E55 AMG (Birthday Gift). Mercedes-Benz dropped Becky at her estate while I was whisked back to Manhattan.
Certainly in no mood to walk myself, Gustav lifts me up and carries me to my King-Sized vintage Versace bed and lays my Greek body down on the linens. I ask him to dim the lights to level 3 and not bother me thereafter.
I fall asleep…..
The next day, I was awakened with the sound of my Bang & Olufsen phone by a technician trying to give me estimates.
“Estimates?” I scream!
“You think a socialite/heir of my stature would drive around in a *double-gasp* repaired car?”
I slam the phone down, pick up my Cartier glass, and sip my Moët & Chandon while gasping for air.
A day later and still in bed, Maria comes to my bedside worried. I ask her for some anti-depressants, and she quickly dismisses me as a “Drama Queen.” I wasn’t too happy.
In the span of 5 hours, Sean Combs, Donatella Versace, Paris Hilton, and Paulina Porizkova call me, wishing me well. I was quite pleased the white roses sent to me by Paulina!
I finally had the strength to get out of bed; a force within gave me the power. I felt revived, as revived as Tom Ford post-YSL/Gucci Group depression. I reach for my bedside table, attempting to grab the SmartKey, hoping this was all a dream! Unfortunately no Keyless-Go card, or Smart Key!
Oh great, now I have to drive the Ferrari! Ugh, the Rosso Metallico brings out the bags under my eyes. I think I’ll order the F430 in Blu Pozzi or black, I said as I began to come to my senses.
[Insert inspirational music]
I got out of bed, pulled aside the Bottega Venta silk curtains and admired the beautiful fall colors of Central Park.
For I have a mission in life, and I’m not going to let some $0 down, $100 a month 325i lessee ruin me!
With my doctor’s prescribed bed-rest on my 265 ft. Mega-Yacht in Monte Carlo, I think I’ll be just fine.
*Throws off oversized sunglasses and wipes tears off of face with Chado Ralph Rucci handkerchief*
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Hatrad (09-17-2023)
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11-08-2004, 02:15 PM
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2004 C32 AMG
PRchris is here to just push people's buttons. Search for "posts by author" and you'll see what I mean. To be honest, I find his posts amusing, but I don't take anything he writes seriously like others do.
11-08-2004, 04:23 PM
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that was pretty good but his road rage thread was more imaginative. get back to your old self PR and come up with another one. i love the parts about the generic ones among him, those are most helarious. 
11-10-2004, 06:28 PM
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Originally Posted by dgussin1
too bad you didn't die.
and childish, saying someone should have died along with their car is even more childish and absolutely unappropriate, IMHO.
11-10-2004, 08:25 PM
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SL55AMG, Ferrari 348, Ferrari Testarossa, Ferrari F40, Ferrari Mondial t, Ducati 916, Indycar
Weak at best.....
Mid Terms must be over and PR boy is back!
To be honest this tale was pretty weak....possibly not as weak as his wrists! He must be a student at FIT with all that fashion BS.
I didn't know that the there were gay cyber cafes in Soho....Try harder PR.....
To be honest this tale was pretty weak....possibly not as weak as his wrists! He must be a student at FIT with all that fashion BS.
I didn't know that the there were gay cyber cafes in Soho....Try harder PR.....
11-11-2004, 05:21 PM
#17
MBWorld Fanatic!
Originally Posted by PRChris
With my doctor’s prescribed bed-rest on my 265 ft. Mega-Yacht in Monte Carlo, I think I’ll be just fine.
*Throws off oversized sunglasses and wipes tears off of face with Chado Ralph Rucci handkerchief*
*Throws off oversized sunglasses and wipes tears off of face with Chado Ralph Rucci handkerchief*
Hey Princess....who typed that WHOLE thing up for ya?
11-11-2004, 10:07 PM
#19
MBWorld Fanatic!
Originally Posted by IngenereAMG
Mid Terms must be over and PR boy is back!
To be honest this tale was pretty weak....possibly not as weak as his wrists! He must be a student at FIT with all that fashion BS.
I didn't know that the there were gay cyber cafes in Soho....Try harder PR.....
To be honest this tale was pretty weak....possibly not as weak as his wrists! He must be a student at FIT with all that fashion BS.
I didn't know that the there were gay cyber cafes in Soho....Try harder PR.....
11-13-2004, 09:42 PM
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SLK55 AMG
Originally Posted by PRChris
Good afternoon ladies, gentlemen and ‘Finally Retired’. I regret to inform you that my Diamond Silver/Napa Berry Red SL65 AMG Bi-Turbo has seen its day. Yes, MBWORLD.ORG. The day has come.
[Insert emotional music]
*Reaches into Louis Vuitton chest and grabs funeral-style Chanel-netted hat, and throws over-sized Balenciaga sunglasses and protects restless eyes*
Please, if you are not doing so I would recommend changing into Funeral Couture, I endorse Fendi, Givenchy and Giorgio Armani for this tragic ceremony.
Thursday, November 4th 2004.
Yapping on Vertu phone, petting my puppy ‘Coco Chanel’ through her Louis Vuitton Doctor Pink Sac De Nuit doggie carrier. Quite a normal day on Park Avenue, although something didn’t feel right. An eerie feeling...not a panic but a chill.
“Maria, what’s wrong?” *Squinting my Dior moisturized eyes*
“Como?”
“Sweetie, something just doesn’t feel right” I respond as I model my freshly delivered Christian Dior D’Trique snow boots in my Classic Aged Gold Scegli Lo Stilista Mirror.
“Sweetie, you partied too hard with Paris last night at the Bungalow 8, take a nap”
Feeling very confused and quite drowsy, I poured Evian water into Coco’s Burberry doggie-bowl and hit the Versace sheets.
Approximately 4:35 p.m.
I throw on my Christian Lacroix bucket hat, buckle on my Salvatore Ferragamo boots, grab the SmartKey from the ‘Versace Home’ butterfly table and run out the door.
The valet brings my SL65 down, opens the door and I carefully entered the roadster (Cautious of my pointy Ferragamo’s scratching the stainless-steel door sill trim)
I gash onto the aluminum pedal courtesy of Ferragamo, and zoom off onto Park.
My Platinum Edition Vertu blows up. What could this be? OMG, a reminder! I totally forgot about “P.Diddy’s Royal Birthday Ball!” I begin to panic. What in the name of Hermes do I have to wear? The invitation strictly read “Throw caution, conservatism and trend to the wind, You must show your assets. Be a style icon. Dress as you have never dressed before”
Hands shaking, I reach for COMMAND and dial my personal shopper.
I finally grab hold of the B**** and start to hyperventilate! What in the name of Gianfranco Ferré Couture could I wear to this event? The New York Press will be present, and I would be quite suicidal if I were to be featured on the PageSix or the New York Post tomorrow morning posing as the poster boy for *gasp* last season! She assures me of a new shipment of Dior Homme via Hedi Slimane, so I trust her.
I stomp on the AMG pedal making my way down to 5th, causing a scene. The traction was just BEYOND, smoke clogging the air as the Continentals’ began to spin! Even the active-charcoal filter could not block out the foul smell!
People began to stare as the V12 Bi-Turbo growl echoed through posh Park Avenue.
I arrive at Saks Fifth Avenue, and was promptly whisked by security into the private fitting room where my assistant had my Dior ready-to-wear laid out in font of me. I nodded my Frederick Fekkai cropped head in acceptance, clutched onto the ensemble with my Chanel-manicured nails and ran out of the store!
I arrive at my complex; the bellboy rushes my Connelly leather wrapped Dior Homme outfit to the 50th floor, while I struggle walking down the red carpet in my high-heeled Texas style Yves St. Laurent Rive Gauche croc boots. I pass the ****tail bar as people’s eyebrows began to rise, open the gold-lined Gattinoni painted door, ran into my Versace decoured corridor and begin undressing.
(Guys, please control your hormones, remember you are supposed to be weeping with me)
*Sniffs, reaches for Gucci tissue and adjusts oversized sunglasses*
Anywho, I begin to frantically change my outfit as if I were a model at a Louis Vuitton show in Paris. Hurry, Hurry I say to myself as I try to slip the trousers up my beautifully sculpted legs. I grab my Costume National man bag, and run downstairs while holding my Jean-Paul Gaultier boots with my Mariella Burani exfoliated hands.
To cut a long story short, we arrive at Cipriani's, pose for the press, send my gifts to Puffy, meet my friends and then leave. As the party came to an end, I was certainly in no mood to drive. Where’s my driver when you need him? So I ask my model-friend Becky to navigate the AMG back to Russell and Kimora’s Saddle River Estate, so we could charlar with our dear friends. As I settle into the Napa Leather Seats I doze off, but wake up as she made a sharp turn onto the highway.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask.
“Totally fine” She responds with her Collagen-injected lips.
I begin doze off as the Dynamic multicontour seatbacks keep me in place from the bone-jarring ride. Only to wake up to the sound of Becky screaming!!!
“OMG” I muttered, as everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.
I turned to my left as my silky smooth hair flipped across my beautiful face—only to notice bright Xenon’s shining through my Fendi sunglasses. A *gasp* leased Certified Pre-Owned BMW 325i, ran into my Mercedes-Benz! Slightly unconscious, I poke at the ‘SOS’ button with my Chanel-manicured nails.
As I try to fight the deployed airbags off of my Hussein Chalayan coat, I immediately began screaming. The pauper in his very slightly damaged BMW comes out of his non-Nappa, non-Navigation equipped 3-Series and begins to speak defensively as if he were talking to his Wal-Mart personal shopper!
“Do you know who you’re talking to?” I ask.
Curse words began FLYING out of his crusty, Walgreens moisturized lips as my Botoxed eyes widened with surprise. I reach my hand in the air, and slap the 3 for $1 Burger-King taste out of his mouth.
“How dare you?” I yell.
He calms down, and apologizes. He then acknowledged he was at fault.
I walk back over to my V12 Mercedes-Benz while my Costume National boots began click clacking through the silent New Jersey streets. I start inspecting my vehicle, and notice the whole left side damaged and his god-awful no-cost option Topaz Blue paint smeared onto my car!
I couldn’t look anymore. I grabbed my Louis Vuitton emergency bag out of the retractable luggage straps and shuffled within, searching for my oversized Marc Jacobs sunglasses. My eyes felt terrible! I’ve had enough; I don’t even want to think for the rest of the night.
I phoned Gustav (Family Assistant) and he rushes to the scene, while Mercedes-Benz sends help. Gustav deals with Mercedes-Benz and gives me a lift back to Manhattan in his Designo Graphite E55 AMG (Birthday Gift). Mercedes-Benz dropped Becky at her estate while I was whisked back to Manhattan.
Certainly in no mood to walk myself, Gustav lifts me up and carries me to my King-Sized vintage Versace bed and lays my Greek body down on the linens. I ask him to dim the lights to level 3 and not bother me thereafter.
I fall asleep…..
The next day, I was awakened with the sound of my Bang & Olufsen phone by a technician trying to give me estimates.
“Estimates?” I scream!
“You think a socialite/heir of my stature would drive around in a *double-gasp* repaired car?”
I slam the phone down, pick up my Cartier glass, and sip my Moët & Chandon while gasping for air.
A day later and still in bed, Maria comes to my bedside worried. I ask her for some anti-depressants, and she quickly dismisses me as a “Drama Queen.” I wasn’t too happy.
In the span of 5 hours, Sean Combs, Donatella Versace, Paris Hilton, and Paulina Porizkova call me, wishing me well. I was quite pleased the white roses sent to me by Paulina!
I finally had the strength to get out of bed; a force within gave me the power. I felt revived, as revived as Tom Ford post-YSL/Gucci Group depression. I reach for my bedside table, attempting to grab the SmartKey, hoping this was all a dream! Unfortunately no Keyless-Go card, or Smart Key!
Oh great, now I have to drive the Ferrari! Ugh, the Rosso Metallico brings out the bags under my eyes. I think I’ll order the F430 in Blu Pozzi or black, I said as I began to come to my senses.
[Insert inspirational music]
I got out of bed, pulled aside the Bottega Venta silk curtains and admired the beautiful fall colors of Central Park.
For I have a mission in life, and I’m not going to let some $0 down, $100 a month 325i lessee ruin me!
With my doctor’s prescribed bed-rest on my 265 ft. Mega-Yacht in Monte Carlo, I think I’ll be just fine.
*Throws off oversized sunglasses and wipes tears off of face with Chado Ralph Rucci handkerchief*
[Insert emotional music]
*Reaches into Louis Vuitton chest and grabs funeral-style Chanel-netted hat, and throws over-sized Balenciaga sunglasses and protects restless eyes*
Please, if you are not doing so I would recommend changing into Funeral Couture, I endorse Fendi, Givenchy and Giorgio Armani for this tragic ceremony.
Thursday, November 4th 2004.
Yapping on Vertu phone, petting my puppy ‘Coco Chanel’ through her Louis Vuitton Doctor Pink Sac De Nuit doggie carrier. Quite a normal day on Park Avenue, although something didn’t feel right. An eerie feeling...not a panic but a chill.
“Maria, what’s wrong?” *Squinting my Dior moisturized eyes*
“Como?”
“Sweetie, something just doesn’t feel right” I respond as I model my freshly delivered Christian Dior D’Trique snow boots in my Classic Aged Gold Scegli Lo Stilista Mirror.
“Sweetie, you partied too hard with Paris last night at the Bungalow 8, take a nap”
Feeling very confused and quite drowsy, I poured Evian water into Coco’s Burberry doggie-bowl and hit the Versace sheets.
Approximately 4:35 p.m.
I throw on my Christian Lacroix bucket hat, buckle on my Salvatore Ferragamo boots, grab the SmartKey from the ‘Versace Home’ butterfly table and run out the door.
The valet brings my SL65 down, opens the door and I carefully entered the roadster (Cautious of my pointy Ferragamo’s scratching the stainless-steel door sill trim)
I gash onto the aluminum pedal courtesy of Ferragamo, and zoom off onto Park.
My Platinum Edition Vertu blows up. What could this be? OMG, a reminder! I totally forgot about “P.Diddy’s Royal Birthday Ball!” I begin to panic. What in the name of Hermes do I have to wear? The invitation strictly read “Throw caution, conservatism and trend to the wind, You must show your assets. Be a style icon. Dress as you have never dressed before”
Hands shaking, I reach for COMMAND and dial my personal shopper.
I finally grab hold of the B**** and start to hyperventilate! What in the name of Gianfranco Ferré Couture could I wear to this event? The New York Press will be present, and I would be quite suicidal if I were to be featured on the PageSix or the New York Post tomorrow morning posing as the poster boy for *gasp* last season! She assures me of a new shipment of Dior Homme via Hedi Slimane, so I trust her.
I stomp on the AMG pedal making my way down to 5th, causing a scene. The traction was just BEYOND, smoke clogging the air as the Continentals’ began to spin! Even the active-charcoal filter could not block out the foul smell!
People began to stare as the V12 Bi-Turbo growl echoed through posh Park Avenue.
I arrive at Saks Fifth Avenue, and was promptly whisked by security into the private fitting room where my assistant had my Dior ready-to-wear laid out in font of me. I nodded my Frederick Fekkai cropped head in acceptance, clutched onto the ensemble with my Chanel-manicured nails and ran out of the store!
I arrive at my complex; the bellboy rushes my Connelly leather wrapped Dior Homme outfit to the 50th floor, while I struggle walking down the red carpet in my high-heeled Texas style Yves St. Laurent Rive Gauche croc boots. I pass the ****tail bar as people’s eyebrows began to rise, open the gold-lined Gattinoni painted door, ran into my Versace decoured corridor and begin undressing.
(Guys, please control your hormones, remember you are supposed to be weeping with me)
*Sniffs, reaches for Gucci tissue and adjusts oversized sunglasses*
Anywho, I begin to frantically change my outfit as if I were a model at a Louis Vuitton show in Paris. Hurry, Hurry I say to myself as I try to slip the trousers up my beautifully sculpted legs. I grab my Costume National man bag, and run downstairs while holding my Jean-Paul Gaultier boots with my Mariella Burani exfoliated hands.
To cut a long story short, we arrive at Cipriani's, pose for the press, send my gifts to Puffy, meet my friends and then leave. As the party came to an end, I was certainly in no mood to drive. Where’s my driver when you need him? So I ask my model-friend Becky to navigate the AMG back to Russell and Kimora’s Saddle River Estate, so we could charlar with our dear friends. As I settle into the Napa Leather Seats I doze off, but wake up as she made a sharp turn onto the highway.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask.
“Totally fine” She responds with her Collagen-injected lips.
I begin doze off as the Dynamic multicontour seatbacks keep me in place from the bone-jarring ride. Only to wake up to the sound of Becky screaming!!!
“OMG” I muttered, as everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.
I turned to my left as my silky smooth hair flipped across my beautiful face—only to notice bright Xenon’s shining through my Fendi sunglasses. A *gasp* leased Certified Pre-Owned BMW 325i, ran into my Mercedes-Benz! Slightly unconscious, I poke at the ‘SOS’ button with my Chanel-manicured nails.
As I try to fight the deployed airbags off of my Hussein Chalayan coat, I immediately began screaming. The pauper in his very slightly damaged BMW comes out of his non-Nappa, non-Navigation equipped 3-Series and begins to speak defensively as if he were talking to his Wal-Mart personal shopper!
“Do you know who you’re talking to?” I ask.
Curse words began FLYING out of his crusty, Walgreens moisturized lips as my Botoxed eyes widened with surprise. I reach my hand in the air, and slap the 3 for $1 Burger-King taste out of his mouth.
“How dare you?” I yell.
He calms down, and apologizes. He then acknowledged he was at fault.
I walk back over to my V12 Mercedes-Benz while my Costume National boots began click clacking through the silent New Jersey streets. I start inspecting my vehicle, and notice the whole left side damaged and his god-awful no-cost option Topaz Blue paint smeared onto my car!
I couldn’t look anymore. I grabbed my Louis Vuitton emergency bag out of the retractable luggage straps and shuffled within, searching for my oversized Marc Jacobs sunglasses. My eyes felt terrible! I’ve had enough; I don’t even want to think for the rest of the night.
I phoned Gustav (Family Assistant) and he rushes to the scene, while Mercedes-Benz sends help. Gustav deals with Mercedes-Benz and gives me a lift back to Manhattan in his Designo Graphite E55 AMG (Birthday Gift). Mercedes-Benz dropped Becky at her estate while I was whisked back to Manhattan.
Certainly in no mood to walk myself, Gustav lifts me up and carries me to my King-Sized vintage Versace bed and lays my Greek body down on the linens. I ask him to dim the lights to level 3 and not bother me thereafter.
I fall asleep…..
The next day, I was awakened with the sound of my Bang & Olufsen phone by a technician trying to give me estimates.
“Estimates?” I scream!
“You think a socialite/heir of my stature would drive around in a *double-gasp* repaired car?”
I slam the phone down, pick up my Cartier glass, and sip my Moët & Chandon while gasping for air.
A day later and still in bed, Maria comes to my bedside worried. I ask her for some anti-depressants, and she quickly dismisses me as a “Drama Queen.” I wasn’t too happy.
In the span of 5 hours, Sean Combs, Donatella Versace, Paris Hilton, and Paulina Porizkova call me, wishing me well. I was quite pleased the white roses sent to me by Paulina!
I finally had the strength to get out of bed; a force within gave me the power. I felt revived, as revived as Tom Ford post-YSL/Gucci Group depression. I reach for my bedside table, attempting to grab the SmartKey, hoping this was all a dream! Unfortunately no Keyless-Go card, or Smart Key!
Oh great, now I have to drive the Ferrari! Ugh, the Rosso Metallico brings out the bags under my eyes. I think I’ll order the F430 in Blu Pozzi or black, I said as I began to come to my senses.
[Insert inspirational music]
I got out of bed, pulled aside the Bottega Venta silk curtains and admired the beautiful fall colors of Central Park.
For I have a mission in life, and I’m not going to let some $0 down, $100 a month 325i lessee ruin me!
With my doctor’s prescribed bed-rest on my 265 ft. Mega-Yacht in Monte Carlo, I think I’ll be just fine.
*Throws off oversized sunglasses and wipes tears off of face with Chado Ralph Rucci handkerchief*
and then? what happened? doctor's prescribed bed-rest? are you some kind of a handicap person or something? poor fellow
11-13-2004, 09:59 PM
#21
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SLK55 AMG
Originally Posted by IngenereAMG
Mid Terms must be over and PR boy is back!
To be honest this tale was pretty weak....possibly not as weak as his wrists! He must be a student at FIT with all that fashion BS.
I didn't know that the there were gay cyber cafes in Soho....Try harder PR.....
To be honest this tale was pretty weak....possibly not as weak as his wrists! He must be a student at FIT with all that fashion BS.
I didn't know that the there were gay cyber cafes in Soho....Try harder PR.....
is the F40 for sale?
12-05-2004, 06:40 PM
#24
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Damn, are you for real? I admire one thing though, you must have one hell of a kind imagination, do you know every single brands outlet? 
Good story, must have taken you several of hours of your precious time.
Andrée H
Good story, must have taken you several of hours of your precious time.
Andrée H
12-05-2004, 07:27 PM
#25
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Mercedes C32SC AMG
Cut him some slack. He can't be more than 12 yrs old. Poor kid...not smart enough to play Halo 2 with his buddies, his acne won't let him pick up even the ugly chicks, plus mom's too busy screwing the neighbor to pay attention to him since dad's working 2 jobs to pay for his ADHD meds. He has to go somewhere....so instead of finding a productive hobby or logging on to a board where his below-average intellect may wow someone, he chooses an automotive board where adults come to discuss car talk about a vehicle he doesn't even own. How sad is that?
I guess this is fun for you,PRChris...counting the hours until you get out of class so you can race home and see if anyone responded to your post. What a rush! Wow, someone typed something back! Isn't that AMAZING??? No one will talk to you at school, but here are ADULTS - with Mercedes - who will talk to you! You MUST be special now!
I think you've made your run here, kid. Why don't you find another forum to post on? Or better yet, why don't you make some friends at school? You're gonna be a pretty messed up adult if you keep this up. Ask mom and dad to take you to therapy, ok?
I guess this is fun for you,PRChris...counting the hours until you get out of class so you can race home and see if anyone responded to your post. What a rush! Wow, someone typed something back! Isn't that AMAZING??? No one will talk to you at school, but here are ADULTS - with Mercedes - who will talk to you! You MUST be special now!
I think you've made your run here, kid. Why don't you find another forum to post on? Or better yet, why don't you make some friends at school? You're gonna be a pretty messed up adult if you keep this up. Ask mom and dad to take you to therapy, ok?
