I went on Oprah and she decided to give me a celebrity makeover so I can work on Wall Street and get all the honeys — you know, sophisticated ladies that shit in toilets instead of old cat litter buckets. Girls that smell like alcohol and dryer sheets instead of armpits. Stassj is really getting me down — she doesn’t have the drive to kill like I do. I want to be somebody, and she justs wants to sit on her unambitious ass and drink tea. I want to be a billionaire and hurt people and sit in my jacuzzi with little teenage girls wearing cheerleader outfits and throw chili on them.
So Oprah did me up and took me from looking like this:
Before (fucking scumbag)
To this!
After (Allowed in fancy restaraunts that serve calamari)
God I’m a sexy man — look at that freakin tie! You ever seen anything like that? Pretty soon, I’ll be running my own Ponzi scheme and manipulating Third-world governments and shit. I think I’ll hire someone to polish my shoes (iguana-skin shoes!) … with their tongue. Yeah — I’m a big suit now. And I love it. I’m the master of my own destiny and I’m fighting up the ladder. Look out fuckstick — my iguana skin shoes are gonna stomp your smiling face and take your job and your wife and I’ll have my goons throw you in a puddle.
Thanks Oprah!