Don't get me wrong. I love money... but I just thought that it be wise to proclaim that my love of riches is an acquired taste . Money does not grow on that tree but you can, with an axe, take his house, and his wife, and bring all his birds and his bees to their tiny collective knees. After-all, even the last noble savage knows that his money can buy the guns he needs, to keep the bank from building a branch in his tree. Money buys: That sandwich you just ate, that country house in Greenwich, the one by that creek where your children would have loved to play. Without it, you might live in a crate and smell like piss and jack fruit paste. Without it, that prime rib and real estate, might just be out of your two handed, tigh fisted reach. Money buys: That foreign cheese you'd love to taste but without it, you'll have to keep smelling those limbs you like to call your feet. Without it, you can't buy clay pigeons and rat poison, George Clooney or Helium three, liverwurst or Damien Hirst.
Which brings me to the moral of this story, the money shot if you wish. Maren are you listening?
So, Damien Hirst loves cash money almost as much as diamond rings; and diamond rings love cash money almost as much as brides to be. So, he casted a pauper's skull in platinum and covered it with enough bling to spit, shine and polish every pimpish grill from Monrovia to Peoria. It will cost some guy a hundred million cash, but his gallerist will take his half and bureaucrats a hefty tax. But once these checks have cashed, he'll commission a replica; phone in some cats for a quick heist and switch the fake for his carats.
But someday, when he's old and grey; he'll call the cops, fess up and die. He'll stun the world with this last farce, quite possibly his best and last. So, in death, as in life, he'll have as they call it; the last laugh....
How I wish I had the skills to play the field as well as Damien Heist....! I wish mama had taught me how to cheat and lie, and look sincere for all the while....