I have been chuckling over this article I ran across in the New York Times recently, not only the article, but the priceless expressions on three billionaires’ faces caught for such antics as: running a gay sex club out of his Manhattan penthouse with furnishings borrowed from the Spanish Inquisition; having underage girls come to the mansion to give special massages; and my personal favorite, building a multi-million dollar sex grotto on the same property where his unsuspecting wife probably threw fund raising teas and tended her begonias.
To quote the New York Times:
The latest in a long line of lurid Lotharios is said to be computer chip mogul Henry T. Nicholas III, who allegedly built a $30 million underground grotto, complete with hidden doors and secret levers, at his equestrian estate in Laguna Hills, California. According to court documents unearthed by the Los Angeles Times, Nicholas is said to have planned a "secret and convenient lair" where he could indulge his "manic obsession with prostitutes" and "addiction to cocaine and ecstasy."
The article goes on to explain that the 47-year-old Nicholas (a billionaire who co-founded Broadcom Corp) used his private jet to transport prostitutes from other cities like Las Vegas to his hideout, nicknamed "The Pond," where he provided his guests with drugs, according to the complaint. The Times continues:
In addition, the complaint dug up by the Times alleges that Nicholas used the lair as his “personal brothel” until his wife caught him in the act with a prostitute, according to the paper. [Pwned!] His wife Stacy Nicholas has since filed for divorce.
Nicholas’s attorney Steven A. Silverstein told the Times that “all of the allegations are denied.” In 2000, Nicholas told the paper that the underground facility was a “pump house” to handle runoff from his horse trails…”
Nobody ever suggested it wasn’t a “pump house” Mr. Nicholas.
But it is suggested you are a “horse’s ass” of mammoth proportions.
It is unclear whether these fellows fancy themselves to be James Bond, Auric Goldfinger, or a mind-bending combination of both. Meanwhile, having contemplated A View to A Kill, our girl Stacy (who will probably need years of therapy now – retail and otherwise) is singing "Diamonds Are Forever" in her best Shirley Bassey rendition.
She will need this therapy for taking a wrong turn in the garden one day, possibly stepping on a hidden lever and seeing a door open before her like some fairy mound. Stepping into the darkness, she may have followed light and murky sounds, words whispered, "This is For Your Eyes Only" … until the unthinkable horror revealed itself. It was pussy galore!
In one instant, Stacy’s reality splintered as she confronted the sight of her husband in flagrante delecto with Miss Goodthighs, having finished with Xenia Onatopp and with Bambi and Thumper waiting nearby. They were flown in from Casino Royale in Las Vegas.
“Henry!” she may have shrieked, her voice echoing through the Pond, but then we can only imagine. Who knows what thoughts went through Stacy’s mind at that moment, but I’ll wager she wanted to knock The Living Daylights out of the lot of them. In the end, she relented and decided to Live And Let Die.
"You Only Live Twice!” Henry may have blathered pathetically, his breath choking from the weight of Miss Goodthighs energetically playing horsey on top of him. “It’s not what it seems, my dear! They’re only here for the odd job!”
Stacy probably considered offing Henry on the spot, but considered he could Die Another Day.
And so the curtain closes on our lurid little drama of early 21st century extravagant peccadillo hyped up on drugs and fueled by bottomless cisterns of money. For the divorce lawyers, Tomorrow Never Dies.
Never Say Never Again.