Not Joan Rivers, silly. Who, incidentally, is beginning to look more like Jocelyn Wildebeest everyday, non?
Anyway, the Joan I’m referring to is neither a blonde nor a posterchild for plastic surgery gone wrong. This Joan is none other than the former Queen Bitch of Dynasty: Joan Collins.
I have a new respect for Ms. Collins after reading her article, “Why I Don’t Like Rich Men,” in this month’s Harper’s Bazaar magazine. I must say, of all the articles in this issue, this is the one that immediately caught my eye. Not because I don’t like rich men. Really, I have no frame of reference, since I tend to like men a little rough around the edges, and generally speaking, opulently wealthy ass-kickers are few and far between. But after reading this article, I can see why I’ve never experienced the rich playboy type—even if the opportunity were there, it’s highly unlikely I could suffer it.
In her article, Ms. Collins wrote:
I never met a rich man who wasn’t in some way flawed. Selfish and arrogant toward their woman (or women), too many of them feel the need to conquer and subdue, and once they have succeeded, they are too often contemptuous of their conquests.
I imagine these days, many rich men are even more insufferable knowing in their smug little 
hearts they can always buy themselves a better model. Sadly, marrying for money has become a legitimate career option, and the trade off is perfectly fine for most older, less fit, but very wealthy men: isn’t a prime piece of ass worth a few mil? Women—especially beautiful women—are yet another object to be acquired, a dalliance to pass the time until some more stimulating and intriguing challenge materializes in their stratosphere. Really, how hard does a rich man have to work at a relationship when he knows there will always be another sycophantic little strumpet who will blow smoke and everything else at his beck-and-call?
hearts they can always buy themselves a better model. Sadly, marrying for money has become a legitimate career option, and the trade off is perfectly fine for most older, less fit, but very wealthy men: isn’t a prime piece of ass worth a few mil? Women—especially beautiful women—are yet another object to be acquired, a dalliance to pass the time until some more stimulating and intriguing challenge materializes in their stratosphere. Really, how hard does a rich man have to work at a relationship when he knows there will always be another sycophantic little strumpet who will blow smoke and everything else at his beck-and-call?So I say no thank you. While stacks of cash would keep many a woman in the lifestyle she’s always dreamed of, I can’t imagine that dealing with an egotistical old toad would be worth it. And sleeping with one certainly isn’t. Ms. Collins seems to agree, as she wrote:
When I was dancing at a Hollywood party with a young millionaire with whom I was ‘going steady,’ my mind was elsewhere, and I wasn’t hanging on to his every word. He suddenly snapped, ‘You are a fucking bore,’ to which I replied demurely, ‘And you are a boring fuck.’ Which actually holds true for many rich men, so I’ve heard.
Touché.
Thank you, Joan Collins, for calling a spade a spade.
