fabian basabe: a real class act
A certain New Yorker who will remain unnamed managed to lure me into the class-war-cheerleading-squad that is Filthy Rich Cattle Drive and now I cannot stop watching it. Thank God it is over next week, because I actually feel guilty about the amount of my life I am wasting by watching it. I just hate Fabian Basabe so much that I can't stop tuning in...because it's amazing to me that every week he manages to become MORE LOATHSOME. I can only pray that when the blood of the oppressors runs through the streets in crimson rivers of working class justice, my white middle-class ass will be spared long enough that I will be able to see this tool eat machete before I do. He's like every one-dimensional John Hughes 80's movie rich-boy character ever...except WORSE.
He says things like "I'll have your JOBS!" every time he feels at all threatened. Threatened by things like SOMEONE ELSE GETTING A BIGGER SERVING OF CHILE CON CARNE THAN HE DOES.
I almost hate him as much as i hate the we all loved the house gambling addict from A&E's Intervention. You know, the dude whose parents had to sell their house to cover his gambling debts? But he still managed to feel like the victim of the situation because "that's what parents are supposed to do for their 30 year old never-employed gambling addicted sons"?
"Quit whining about the house! Yes, yes, you loved the house. We ALL loved the house!" like, JESUS, MOM AND DAD. IT'S ALL ABOUT YOU, YOU, YOU.
Anyways---- my favorite Fabian moment, culled from the web. (This is after he broke Lizzie Grubman's Jimmy Choo sandal after shoving her, which is almost awesome and commendable)...
a witness relates: "Randy, the security man, repeatedly asked Fabian to calm down and stop banging into other people, and Fabian threw his black American Express card at Randy's feet and said, 'Don't worry about what I am doing, here's my Amex!' " At that point Randy escorted Basabe outside, where the insufferable "it" boy "became very violent and aggressive." Basabe, who had left a sweater inside, started screaming at the black bouncers, "I want my navy blue Prada! I speak six [bleeping] languages, I have diplomatic immunity . . . Do you understand me, Negros? You [bleep]ing Negros!" "There was an audible gasp from the crowd," said a spectator.
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