It was a crushing moment, surely, a black hole of existential despair. How can you be a VIP when everyone is equally VI? What is this, communism? Did they not see her shiny Range Rover? Did they not see her shiny chiffon dress? Did they not hear the money in her voice? Did they not know how far she had come, from the bleak, windswept existence slinging hash at the truck stop, that lifetime ago, before she got her nose and hooters done? Why was she being treated the same as all the other rich people on their way into the Big House? What kind of God would let her simmer in the lane, with no VIP entrance to the Romney rent party, where she had to wait in the same line as everybody else?
Was she the worst person to attend Ron Perelman’s country manse? A little bit. She was a little bit the worst person, except maybe for the woman who explained her husband’s charitable heart as letting a Miramax exec stay on his yacht because there were no rooms at the inn. Or the woman who moaned that nail ladies are fucking idiots who probably shouldn’t be allowed to vote. Most of the men kept their mouths shut. It was their ladies’ time to shine — equally with all the other ladies. As God most certainly did not intend. [LAT/NYT]