That sullen wench! Oh, what a harlot, a right old concubine. If word gets out at the country club… no, I shan’t even consider it. This would pale in comparison to the time I accidentally wore my tennis whites to last year’s junior polo tournament. I only recently stopped getting ribbed for that mortifying blunder.
The idea that the woman who birthed me a short eight years ago would canoodle with this house-hopping tramp is disgusting. I am shaking in my Ferragamo loafers at her complete and utter treason. My father is a great man and a sterling example of a husband.
He provided her with everything she could ever need to be happy. Her SoulCycle membership, nights out at the opera accompanied by the family butler, weekly shopping allowances. All the things I’m told women really want.
And despite his best efforts, she has the audacity to lock lips with an overweight and bewhiskered toy merchant? In our home no less! Right in the second foyer under the oil painting of father, President Trump and all those topless models. Who knows what else she’s been doing behind father’s back? Clearly her rampant infidelity knows no bounds.
My father, Cornelius Benjamin Roosevelt the First, is going to be inconsolable. He’s going to be so stressed, he’ll no doubt need to increase his thrice weekly visits to that underground massage parlor I’m not allowed to tell anyone about. My heart aches for him, but I have faith that in time he’ll recover. I know there’s a happy ending for him out there.