Welcome, lady I am endeavoring to allure, to the blessed corridors of my Connecticut House. I pour you a watery mixed drink. I guarantee it was a formula developed by Straight to the point Sinatra, however it returned from the of a container of olives. Try not to spill a drop on my high contrast marble parquet. Goodness, truly, my whole structure tasteful is “washroom at an extravagant gambling club.”
As I lead you into my lounge your eyes meander over my seven Waterford ceiling fixtures, a chimney sufficiently enormous to cook a bear, lastly, you see the thing I have characterized myself by.
I am a man with an excellent piano.
“Obviously I play,” I state as I lean calmly against the strong hard rock maple instrument. What sort of lunatic would possess a Steinway Model D show terrific piano on the off chance that they didn’t invest some energy stimulating the ivories? As you awkwardly roost on a velvet chaise, you take in every one of the 8 feet 11 ¾ creeps of unadulterated pianific brilliance. It overwhelms the room so effectively you don’t see I have two confined pictures of myself with Jesus. He looks intrigued.
I am a man with a great piano. I allude to anybody I pay cash to as “the assistance.” I wear a formal hat to the drug store. I haven’t addressed my mom in seven years. That is her decision.
Will I play you a tune? I lick my lips as I delicately finger the blacks and the whites. It looks sexual on the grounds that it is. I pull a decorated string and my head servant George rises up out of behind a suit of protective layer. I advise George to set up the piano. He should totally clean and tune the piano when each playing. Around evening time, George fantasies about choking me with the wire from my piano. Some time or another he will.
I am a man with an amazing piano. At my gatherings, nobody makes some great memories aside from me. I own three Lamborghinis, yet I can’t drive. At the point when I give blessings they are so extreme they become a weight. A thousand mylar inflatables? Filling a pool with roses? A live bird? Just for my niece’s fourth birthday celebration.
As George cleans the piano, I give you a little history exercise on music and craftsmanship. All that I state isn’t right.
At long last, I am prepared to play. I inquire as to whether you have a most loved writer. You state Mozart. I state I’d preferably play one of my own structures, in a tone that intensely suggests I believe I’m superior to Mozart. You state fine. I start to play, substantial ungainly plunks, similar to a winged animal hitting a window a hundred times in succession.
I am a man with a terrific piano. I’ve lied about each collaboration I’ve at any point had with a VIP. I don’t claim a lion, however I could. Each time I finger a lady, I state, “It would seem that those piano exercises proved to be useful.”
My melody closures and I give myself an overwhelming applause. I continue applauding an entire moment after you have halted. I inquire as to whether you’d prefer to resign to the room. As I’m going to pull the decoration to gather George to set up my bed for sexing, you yawn. You state you have work toward the beginning of the day. You see yourself out. I am left here in my Connecticut Estate, just me and my terrific piano. I sadly touch the ivory keys. A show for one. At that point I screw the piano.