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How many of you readers out there sincerely want to be very rich? The get-rich tip is only for Takimag faithful, so keep it under your belt: You go to something called Seeking Arrangement, and when a certain David Geffen contacts you, take his call. The bad news is there’s some hanky-panky involved, the kind I know nothing about but is the one celebrated by a multicolored flag for a whole bloody month. You then sue him, and you tell your lawyers that he plied you with drugs and told you that your relationship with him would be genuine and enduring. Then say you believed that you had finally found someone who cared. Do not, I repeat, do not sign any prenup.
Okay, I’m obviously joking, but I cannot understand how a Hollywood shark like Geffen can fall for the oldest of tricks, pun intended. Geffen is 82 and white, David Armstrong is 32 and black. Geffen is a billionaire mogul and Armstrong was a go-go dancer and part-time hooker. They married and were supposed to live happily ever after. Hollywood was thinking of making a family movie of their happy household. (I actually made that last bit up.) Now it’s in the hands of the lawyers, and love has flown the coop. Oy vey!
“Get-rich schemes have a way of turning sour, unless you’re a go-go dancer, that is.”
Now here’s my confession: I have never looked at seekingarrangements.com and didn’t know it existed until I read about the lawsuit. But I have met David Geffen—once—and he could not have been more polite and complimentary. My sailing boat Bushido, a real beauty, was anchored off shore next to his gigantic and ugly-as-sin behemoth near Antibes. That evening Geffen was seated next to my wife at a dinner party, and he told me how beautiful he thought my boat was. I thanked him, did not mention how horrid I thought his superliner was, and never saw him again.
In view of his kind words about my boat, I will not reveal what I think about an 82-year-old homosexual marrying a 32-year-old go-go dancer, except to say that it’s as fascinating as a lengthy history of orthodontics. They say that desire is the pain of ignorance, and David Geffen has shown ignorance of an alarming magnitude. Mind you, if Monsieur Geffen came to me for advice (as likely an event as me marrying a black go-go dancer), I would encourage him to settle for around $20 million with his husband and then get on his boat and sail away for a very long time.
Why twenty big ones? Why not? If Geffen is reported to be worth around 5 billion, 20 million is peanuts. He should also convince his soon-to-be ex that anything he wins in court will go to the lawyers, known for skinning the richest of cats. Of course, there’s another way of making a quick buck, this one practiced to perfection by one Antonius Saint Julian, age 6 and my grandson.
Instructed by his grandmother to bring her telephone from her bedroom, he discovered lotsa cash attached to the contraption. He pocketed the moola but delivered the phone. Nobody suspected nuttin’, as they say, until the next day when my wife decided she had lost her wallet with all its contents. I was sitting down to write about Geffen and the go-go dancer and took a look at my grandson. He is a beautiful little boy with blond curly hair, but I noticed a gleam in his eye as his granny searched for her cash. So I put the 6-year-old to the Shylock test, offering him 5 percent of the missing loot as he had no idea how much he had lifted. We shook hands, he turned over the spoils, and everyone was happy.
So there you have it: Get-rich schemes have a way of turning sour, unless you’re a go-go dancer, that is. Or Jeffrey Epstein, probably the world’s most disgusting blackmailer, now being used to embarrass The Donald. But take it from Taki, Trump never had anything to do with that scumbag except for the most superficial of social contacts and conversations. Prince Andrew, Larry Summers, Bill Gates, even Bill Clinton, they were all friends with Epstein, but not The Donald. Trump liked full-bodied models; the scumbag liked underage waifs. And while I’m at it, I knew Ghislaine Maxwell while her crook father was being courted by the Brit royals and most of British society in the ’80s and ’90s, and she wasn’t as bad as she could have been. In other words, compared with the arrogance and bad manners of her crooked old man, she was better. She became downright servile once the Maxwells lost their ill-gotten loot, which I found very embarrassing, especially when she once cornered me in Saint-Tropez and begged me and the wife to attend a cocktail party she was giving with the scumbag. We refused and in fact sailed away that afternoon.
No, I wasn’t afraid of that crook, just disgusted to be in the same port with him. Epstein made his moola by blackmailing Les Wexner, a rough and powerful Jewish mogul from Philadelphia. Wexner is dead, but while alive it was either a murder or Epstein buggering him that made him cover up, give lotsa moola, and present him as a financial adviser. I’d say it was both murder and buggery, for that matter. Ghislaine will now say anything to get out—who wouldn’t?—but she will be speaking with forked tongue.