patrick.net

@Scearpo
The doofus bimbo trophy wife is possibly one of the greatest expressions of wealth a man can display. Her entire existence is an affront to sense, stability, and cohesion on a level that can only be kept in check by an income so disposable it negates all possible consequences.

Look at her. Every aspect of her life is built around maintenance and prevention. She’s deep frying frozen pizza in a kitchen she’s likely never used before, a decision that would torch a working man’s house into a pile of smoldering ashes, an entire life’s net worth swallowed up by a grease fire. But a rich man could tank it. A man wealthy enough to afford stronger housing and a maid staff to circumvent the constant outcomes of his dumb wife’s unhindered retard impulses.

A stupid airhead bimbo deserves a wealthy husband. One is not complete without the other. The wealthy man possesses a momentum of equity which surpasses any need for a normal woman. What would you have her do? Your chef could cook better than she possibly ever could, your maids will clean more thoroughly than she’d ever bother, your accountants are infinitely more competent than whatever financial nagging she’d accomplish while poring over taxes on the kitchen counter.

There would be no delusions of “partnership” like you get from so many modern couples’ intuition coming from sitcoms, as wives and girlfriends badger their men into a subdued prison of aqua blue sea shell decor and neutrally furnished one bedroom apartments. No, a rich man deserves a beautiful retarded bimbo, whose only purpose for existing is maintaining her appearance for as long as humanly possible, grasping onto some semblance of looking 45 into her 60s.

But of course how do you occupy such a creature? When left alone to guzzle wine and shop for antiques, inevitably a wealthy bimbo wife needs some preoccupation as she starts to pass the peak of her life. This is where you honor the age old tradition of buying her a business to run. Usually it’s a restaurant, bakery, or catering business. No, signing up to sell real estate or starting up her own Etsy is for poor people. You don’t want her doing actual work or filling up your house with clutter. You need to get her a full scale business she can pretend to run entirely on her own while you hire a manager whose entire existence is to eat shit and listen to her dumb ideas while keeping the place afloat.

And to me that’s beautiful. That is an absolute raw expression of power, the complete reduction of potentially dozens of people into the human dolls for a mental little girl on the brink of menopause to play with. It’s one thing for some snot nosed 17 year old to be getting high in the maintenance closest off of weed pens at such a job, he’s a transient. But it’s another for some 35 year old still stuck working food and beverage to be a manager at one of these places. It’s intoxicating thinking about the sheer helplessness of his situation, a grown man being forced to exist as the plaything of some rich guys retarded wife whose mental pie chart of how to run a restaurant is 70% what wall decorations we need to buy and 30% what cute desserts she wants on the menu.

Those kinds of people are just one of several categories of seethe that orbits the dumb bimbo wife of a rich man. She exists as a walking hurricane, destroying everything she touches in sheer airheaded thoughtless impulse. At the center she exists in the eye of her own storm, absolutely calm stillness with complete ignorance of what she’s doing. Around her is the raging chaos of wind and destruction represented by how many people are enraged by her existence, men in service jobs stomped on by her neediness, women furious at how much she gets to have for simply existing.