Anyway, Jeremy is a 28-year-old University of Michigan grad who claims he makes $300,000 a year hosting such events as "Rich Guys & Hot Girls" — for which interested gentlemen submitted W-2s and women submitted five pictures. He claims his defining influence was the movie National Lampoon's Van Wilder. He drives a Segway. And he has an alterego, Richard Nouveau, who he claims is a "mockery of the white upper class." A mockery, eh? See if you can tell the Nouveau quotes from Jeremy's own, below!

1. "Society has taught us to not publicly acknowledge the obvious. Women want money in a man, men want beauty in a woman—this is a factual force of nature."

2. "It's sad and disgusting and it's superficial. [But] the only victims are the poor and the ugly."

3. "This genetic cleansing is how the wealthy stays beautiful."

4. "There are no more powerful things in our culture than wealth and sex. It's a female's best asset and a male's best asset."

5. "I started sleeping with a girl on the student council — not the most attractive girl, but she had an incredible libido."

6. "I lifted my dating embargo on Orientals. (I've decided to overlook the constant squinting.)"

7. "I'm here for the eye candy."

8. "I'm not looking for anything long-term, I don't think you'll find anything too high-caliber in fashion."

Confession: I added a quote from a 27-year-old investment banking intern attending Fashion Meets Finance, just for fun. Do you see the point? You wouldn't date a dude who said any one of these things, except maybe #7 in the context of escorting a nephew to a Magic The Gathering convention or something. Because nothing is more depressing than listening to the stillborn attempts at humor of people whose percentile in the ranks of relative social/educational/cultural/financial privilege is rivaled only by the score they got in "How Unexamined A Life Can I Lead." Well, nothing except the thoughts of a 20-year-old handbag designing attendee of "Fashion Meets Finance":

"You might ge a nice dinner out of it, so why not?"

• We agreed we would lie to our kids about our debauched pasts. There will be fewer than eighteen of them, trust.
  
• You could do a lot of debaucherous damage with these crazy underoos from the International Male folks.
  
• We didn't just talk about International Males, we discussed international and race relations, and vowed to try harder.
  
• We also gave some real talk about sex writing.
  
• More real talk: forgetting there's a tampon in your twat.

• We got to know virgin-hoarding cult leader Michael Travesser and his band of wack jobs.
• We got some LOLs out of douchefessionals John Fitzgerald Page and Paul Janka.
• We said goodbye to our own Jennifer, who is departing for greener Polo pastures. She will be missed!
• This weekend, pour one out for all the white wine drinking, on-the-toilet phone talking, track suit wearing mommas out there. Happy Mothers Day, moms; we love you!

A picture's worth 1,000 words. Check out some of these ladies' reactions shots.

Earlier: Paul Janka Did Not Rape Me Last Night

He thinks Naipaul subject his mistress to a "species of soul murder," and that the book will destroy his reputation. What becomes of a widely-accepted genius who is later proven to be a colossally horrible person? Wrong question to ask, guys!

So, to put you in the mood, is a story the Washington Post ran back when he won the Nobel in 2001 after writer Linton Weeks had tea with Naipaul and his fourth wife Nadira Alvi

He has never had children. "Never wanted any," he says in his
tea-with-cream tone. His first wife probably did want kids "at some
stage," he says, but "the thought was very disagreeable to me."

Laughing, Alvi tells of Naipaul seeing a baby in a carriage not too
long ago. He pointed and exclaimed, "Look, look, look! What an ugly
little brute!"

The mother, Alvi says, was mortified.

She holds this up as an example of her husband's wit.

"Quality of wit is something that is with someone all the time," Naipaul says.

He offers two more examples of his wittiness: Novelist and critic
Elizabeth Hardwick once asked him why Indian women wear the bindi mark
on their foreheads. He told her: "It means, 'My head is empty.' "

Naipaul and wife laugh and laugh.

Okay, so also in that story, Naipaul is quoted saying he didn't know why he had been awarded that particular year. "It remains a mystery. I think that perhaps the prize had run a little bit into, kind of, the doldrums." See, he'd sort of given up on winning in 1988, when he said: "Of course I won't get it - they'll give it to some nigger or other." He grew up in Trinidad, which he also blames for his lifelong distaste for music.

After years of using prostitutes, the turning point in Naipaul's life comes in 1972 when he finds a woman he desires: Margaret, whom he has met in Buenos Aires. She apparently refused to be interviewed for the book, but her archived love letters supply the missing narrative. They are rapturous, despairing, pleading, speaking of "his cruel sexual desires". She acknowledges that he is her black master, that he regards his penis as a god, that she will worship it, abase herself.

This word "master", used often in the letters, is interesting. It is a slave word. In role playing - and most of these love letters refer to highly eroticised power games - the master is regarded as dominant; but, paradoxically, it is usually the submissive person, the masochist, who has the ultimate power - maddening for the sadist.

Here is one instance. Margaret shows up unexpectedly in Wiltshire. Naipaul is displeased with her. He beats her and afterwards explains, "I was very violent with her for two days with my hand; my hand began to hurt . . . She didn't mind at all. She thought of it in terms of my passion for her. Her face was bad. She couldn't appear really in public. My hand was swollen."

"Margaret was Vidia's ideal woman," French writes. "He could string her along and mistreat her with her abject consent." He later writes, in paraphrase, "She said she had done things to Vido that would have made her sick with anybody else, and yet she longed for the time when she could do them again." It is no exaggeration to describe the relationship between Naipaul and Margaret as a version of The Story of O.

Eventually Naipaul told his wife Pat about the relationship, divulging some details and showing her intimate photographs. She was devastated but stayed with him and he was reluctant to offer a divorce. He gave her literary jobs to do, went on reading his rough drafts of his fiction to her - in which the sex scenes were based on the rough sex he enjoyed with Margaret.

And here's some more of that Post story:

He offers two more examples of his wittiness: Novelist and critic
Elizabeth Hardwick once asked him why Indian women wear the bindi mark
on their foreheads. He told her: "It means, 'My head is empty.' "

Naipaul and wife laugh and laugh.

Another time he was conducting an interview on the radio and he asked
an author a question. The author answered it. "Laudable, most
laudable," Naipaul said. "Now coming back to your wretched book . . ."

Naipaul and wife laugh.

...
He does cry. When he watches old movies like "High Sierra." And the
scene in "The Roaring Twenties" when James Cagney is dying and Gladys
George says, "He used to be a big shot."

One morning Alvi heard her husband weeping as he woke up. He was
remembering how hard it had been to get a start as a writer.

He likes for Alvi to read to him. She will pick up a book by her
husband and read aloud. "He's amazed by what he's written," she says.

And sometimes he's so moved, he cries.

I know, I know, I kind of want to read his books now too! Good thing I am lazy.

Paul Theroux claims new biography reveals monster inside V.S. Naipaul [Times of London]

While Straight's exact identity is still unclear — I'm hoping he turns out to be the same Benjamin Straight responsible for writing The Two-Finger Diet, because that guy looks like a studddd — I'm nominating him tentatively for the title of "Douche Du Jour." Because unlike the more exotic/pathetic brands exhibited by Paul Janka, John Fitzgerald Page, the Drunken Stepfather and such, there is something all too genuine and familiar in his misogyny. Note the special brand of contempt he seems to reserve for people (men and women) who work out and yet remain somewhat chubby in parts! Think he was rejected by a girl at the gym? Or does it take the military contractor to fuck a dude up this bad? Read and ponder, below.

From: Benjamin Straight Date: Feb 6, 2008 9:03 AM Subject: I am a law school girl To:

This accounts for some 80% of the gunch at law school. Of course- if you are a chick and read this- you will say, "He's not talking about me...." Yeah, just like Lil' Jon ain't talking about you while you are in your slut outfit at the club dancing to 'skeet skeet skeet' at 2 in the morning.

I am a law school girl (snatch, gunch, clam, whisker biscuit- pick your subject synonym).

Let's get one thing straight up front- I am not here to learn. I am here to prove something.

As you pretend to listen to me so that you can fuck me, I will probably tell you that either my uncle molested me or that I was raped when I was 15. I also never knew my father. I was high school class president, president of my sorority, student body president of my undergrad, a 4.0 student in my psychology major, maxed the LSAT, but chose UF because it is the cheapest for the best education. I also earned the money to pay for the brand new BMW that I drive (even though I am only 22). I am under-valued, overly-perfect, and haven't bothered to audition for American Idol because it would be unfair to the rest of the competition. I have tried every diet, perfect to the direction, but still can't lose the extra 5 lbs. stuck on my ass. However, I will pretend that the weight doesn't exist by sticking out my tits and dressing fashionable.

I am here to prove my fashion sense. I watch Sex in the City, therefore I am. Miranda and Charlotte wear Prada and carry Fendi bags, so do I- but just don't tell anyone I got them as knockoffs from a Chinese seller on Ebay. Miranda is a big-city power attorney and so am I- just in rural northern Florida. I wear the big Paris Hilton sunglasses because I want to look important. In fact, I am Paris Hilton. I am even this important in class, on rainy days, and at 8 in the evening. There may be a barrage of paparazzi just around the corner and I have to be prepared for their snapshots.

I hate Britney Spears, but I carry my Starbucks around like her and check the gossip columns every class to see what she is doing now. I even have a pet rat dog that I carry in a purse and bring to school to show how Bohemian I truly am. There is something I love about becoming rich for being a sex symbol, and I secretly want old men to jerk off to my image at 3 in the morning. Speaking of being a sex symbol, respect me for my mind. I may have fake tits, lips, and cheeks, but you are never to look at any of my plastic snap-on parts or I will consider bringing a sexual harassment claim against you with Dean Inman. I wear just enough clothing to cover my fake tits and love to show them off, even when it is 32 degrees outside. They are my table centerpiece. Every day is a Thanksgiving Spread and my tits are the stuffed turkey. I also love showing my legs that are either too skinny from starving myself, too tan from being fake baked in January, or have enough cottage cheese on them to make salad bar complete- so that you can look at them when I walk up and down the stairs in my high heels.

I wear high heels because I have to announce my coming and going and warn the paparazzi and fat girls to move out of the way. I also wear them to lift my ass so I can be 'bootylicious' like Beyonce. High heels make me feel important. Fat girls can't wear high heels, so I wear them to let the blind students know that I am not fat and an important person.

I have a tit job and botox, but I am constantly outside by the bike racks smoking cigarettes. This is called self-improvement. I smoke so I don't get hungry. I then lose weight and my fake tits look bigger. Now I just need a face lift because the years of tobacco abuse have likened my face to an old catcher's mitt. I have my priorities straight, so don't question them.

In the end, I am only really here to catch a good dickin', or hot beef injection. You see, my biological destiny is to whelp out a few puppies and use them as excuses as to why I never made it in the legal world. The law world is a man's world, and I will continue to remind people in class discussions that women make 75 cents on the dollar that a man makes, even though the areas of law I am concentrated in (Family, Pro Bono) are the lowest paying. And I will leave the workforce to shit out a few kids, feel my calling as a mother, stay out of work for 5 years, and then expect to come back as if I had never left (especially after my husband is sick of not getting blow jobs and trades me in for a newer and less-broken model). I figure that any guy that throws me a dick here will at least be on the hook for child support and will make enough money, by default, to pay me a modest monthly salary for purposely skipping my birth control the night he spent 200 bucks on me at the bar and then took me home. But I got Cosmos out of it, and Miranda and Charlotte love their Cosmos while out on socialite scene of 13th Ave.

My favorite hobby is shopping and cars should stop for me when I run out into traffic, with my Ipod on, during rush hour. What would your vagina say if it could talk?

Oh, bonus fact! That last bit refers to a female law school student who had been killed by a car during her morning jog. Stay classy, Straight!