Planespotting:Rupert Murdoch is a Bum

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Oh, the homeless. They’re so stylish and hip and chic, what with their minimalist boxes, their Mary-Kate Olsen/boho-inspired clothing, and their private planes. Yeah, we said it; so don’t adjust your glasses, ‘cause you heard us right—it’s no longer considered “odd” or “wacky” or “not economically feasible” for a destitute individual to be the proprietor of his/her own jet. Now that we’re on the same page, let’s get down to the specifics of this totally hot, new trend, pioneered by none other than Rupert “Planes Are For Poor People—And I Mean That In A Good Way” Murdoch and his wife, Wendi “No ‘E’” Deng. M ‘n D, who were last seen piloting their PP (Private Plane) to Australia for LDU (Land Down Under) Prom King and Queen Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman’s nuptials, told The New Yorker last month, “We are homeless. We stay in hotels, whichever one gives us the cheapest rate.” While waiting renovations to be complete on their Fifth Avenue townhouse—last owned by the late Laurance “I Just Missed The Cutoff To Qualify For Food Stamps” Rockefeller—Murds and Big D had been shacking up in the Pierre Hotel. When their lease ran out, they temporarily relocated in a $90,000/month penthouse in Trump Park Avenue. As the latest hovel comes unfurnished, the Murdochs have been forced to “borrow couches and beds from model apartments in the building.” What’s more, Rupes’s wife told Australian Women’s Weekly that her guy has been wearing nine bucks-a-pop shirts bought at…Wal-Mart. As you can clearly see, street life is fucking rough, man. Which is why this new homeless-yet jet-bearing paradigm is so ingenious: when things get bad on the streets, you can always take to the skies. Start buying high and selling low now, people. You will be penniless/broke/on the skids and own a plane AND YOU WILL LIKE IT.
In other news, our inboxes continue to flood with more salacious requests made by Google founders Sergey Brin and Larry Page, per the interior design of their new PP, to their ex-designer, Leslie Jennings. Jennings, who was fired some months back, and is embroiled in bitter suits w/ B ‘n P, naturally turned a blind eye to his signed confidentiality agreement, leaking of veritable grab-bag of titillating tidbits. We’ve got a whole bunch of the demands, but we’ve decided to dole them out in teeny, tiny, adorable bite-size batches, starting today and continuing every Tuesday/Thursday thereafter, just because we’re in the mood to make you beg. You are, after all, Planespotting devotees and, therefore, gluttons for punishment (the good, S&M kind). Enjoy them, Love Slaves, and we’ll see you next week:
~An enormous ‘G’-shaped Jacuzzi. Only instead of being filled with water, we require that you shoot Bill Gates in the neck with a blow dart, strap him down, and drain the blood out of his body. Then sterilize said blood—that guy’s got to be diseased—and heat it to precisely 99.7 degrees, nothing higher, nothing lower. We are unwavering on this point.
~Midgets. Lots and lots of midgets.
~A fleet of twenty stewardesses, each bearing a banana-split, ten for each of us, at all times. These should be classically crafted banana-splits. We’re talking vanilla, chocolate and strawberry icecream in a row over the split banana, pineapple on the vanilla, chocolate syrup on the chocolate and strawberry topping on the strawberry, crushed nuts, whipped cream and maraschino cherries. NO SPRINKLES. For every sprinkle we find, we shall kill you.

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