I will admit it took us the longest time to get properly introduced to Mr. Madoff, but that was part of his appeal. For years, our friends the Jerkoffs - the ones with seven houses, the ones whose kids taught our kids to believe that taking a helicopter is the only socially acceptable way to get out to the Hamptons house - wouldn't let us in on their big secret. When they finally did tell us about Bernie and his hedge fund, we jumped right in, and boy were we pleased. Soon Bernie was making us such piles of money - on paper anyway - that we had to budget in some extra for Mr. Writeoff, our accountant. Of course, that was nothing compared to what we were soon paying for our jet and its pilot, Mr. Takeoff, our live-in personal stylist Miss Clipoff, our reality chef Mr. Cookoff and our pair of nannies from Bulgaria, Miss Dropoff and Miss Pickup, trained at an Irish nanny school. Their uniforms and brogues did wonders for our image, and always really worked those jealous Pistoffs into a lather.
Last week, though, some auditor hired by the government called us. His name is Mr. Cutoff, and he says we don't really have any real money at all. He says Bernie MADE OFF with our savings! He said Bernie's sons Ripoff and Runoff just turned in their dad, and that his miracle hedge fund, valued the same as the GNP of the country of Vietnam, was just a big Ponzi scheme.
Can you imagine? No. You can't imagine how we feel, you really can't. Don't even try.
T
omorrow morning, we will have to fire Clipoff, Cookoff, Takeoff, Dropoff and Pickup. Our only consolation is that the Jerkoffs have already let all their household help go too. I actually saw Mrs. Jerkoff driving herself down Fifth Avenue yesterday, I knew it was her even with the blonde wig and sunglasses, because I'd recognize that silver Bentley anywhere.
Well, we do have one ace up our sleeves. We have just enough money in the Manhattan apartment to hire Mr. Bumpoff.
We'll get through this, you'll see.