Having already established herself as whore (I don't say that to mean, I say that to be accurate), it shouldn't be that surprising to find out that Sheryl Weinstein gave awayall the"best" parts of her story re: banging Bernie in the excerpts leading up to the book's release, leaving us with little reason* to actually purchase the thing. But, like fools, we did anyway (less than a week after coming out it's already 20 percent off). So you don't make the same mistake, and fund this crazy bitch's existence, we're going to just run through what I guess she figures are the money shots now. Also, those "intimate" photos we were promised? Not a single one of the climax generator. All the pics of Ponzi Boy are ones we've seen already, printed in little known publications like the Post. Perhaps feeling like she owed us something, Sheryl threw in a handful of her own family, including her wedding to the guy she cheated on with Bernie (and is still married to), and her son's Bar Mitzvah. Because nothing says "I'm sorry" like plastering your husband's face next to a line about blowing some other dude. Moving on, here's a fun (harrowing) bit by Sheryl about taking Berns down a few notches:
We sat discreetly holding hands in one of the plush upholstered banquettes, quietly discussing the possibility of a rendezvous in Florida..."I didn't realize you had such small hands," he suddenly announced.
"I've been told I have a small mouth, too."
"I never noticed that," he said.
I smiled at him in a telling way. He got the message, and nervously cleared his throat. It was a dig. Every once in a while I liked to bring him back to earth when he was becoming too full of himself.
Nice! If you're a crazy ho. Which, Sheryl will have you know, she wasn't. Actually, she doesn't address her mental instability, but she does make it clear to us, like she did to Bernie, that whatever conclusions might've been drawn to apply the term "skank," what we have on our hands is a woman of straight class.
"Why don't you come over here and give me a massage," he said. He was clothed at the time. "No," I told him, "I don't like giving massages." This was not the reason I was refusing. I didn't like the tone he used. It didn't have enough of a request in it. It wasn't like he was ordering me, but it felt like an order. It sounded more like he was talking to the hired help and not making a request from one lover to another.
"Especially the kind you prefer," I added. Bernie had told me about his little pastime. He indicated that he like his massages "deep and painful." I was not interested in that particular kind of interaction. Giving Bernie a massage would have made me feel cheap.
*Hi, do you think people are spending $19.95 to read a whole chapter on how the outfit you planned to wear on outfit the first time you and Bernard were going to play "hide the Ponzi scheme" but you couldn't because it was at the dry cleaners, so you had to go with something else? Or your psychological evaluations of men with small packages, and how your research in the field has led you to determine that "having a small penis is probably worse than being too short or going gray at an early age"? The statistic that "about 90 percent of women actually prefer a wide penis to a long one"? I do like the part where you note that "men with this problem can view what they have as a hardship...and making love can be something they fear rather than take pleasure in." Hey Freakshow, maybe they're just quaking in anticipatory fear you're going to write a book about them! I don't know, I'm not a doctor.