…that slick leather key ring that you always used to put on your index finger and twirl around as you invited the chicks you where trying to pick up during late nights out at the club? You know the one that goes to your fancy shag pad at the Grand Hotel Puccini on Corso Buenos Aires Boulevard in Milan. Nothing used to impress the chicks more than an offer to be flow to Italy for a weekend in your private jet. “A ride for a ride” as you used to say in shitty phonetic Berlitz Italian.
Well no matter how many stockbroker millions you have, no chick in the world is going to open up for a night at shitty Hotel Bernina on Via Napo Torriani ever. Forget the flying; it’s the hotel that gets them in the mood. You know that!
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