Lara's scheme

Dear Mrs. Eric,

I may call you Lara, mayn't I?  Good.  I see where you justified Big Daddy's treacherous abandonment of the Kurds by saying that "the average American" (which can mean anyone who doesn't enjoy your view from the heights) doesn't even know who they are.  Two minutes online will supply all the information you need .  Did you know, for example, that the military commander Salah ad-Din, a/k/a Saladin, who kicked some Crusader ass in the twelfth century, was a Kurd?  I love Google.  But I wouldn't  expect you to risk your manicure or your precious ignorance that way.  Typing is hard!  And really, that's not what this is about, is it?

This is about making sure Rat Boy stays in the will.  News alert:  There's nothing but debts.  Big Daddy has been living off loans, crimes and selling his office -- what the Constitution calls "emoluments" -- since he bankrupted his last casino.  All that dies with him.  After the reading of the will, expect to exit the attorney's office into the arms of some big, tattooed guys named Sergei.  Russian moneylenders don't take you to court.  They take you to an abandoned warehouse.  Rat Boy and Junior are not qualified for much, and you can't expect a man to deliver pizza with two shattered kneecaps.

What I'm saying, Lara, is you should be putting away a few dollars out of the housekeeping money every week instead of scuttling over to Fox to impersonate Kellyanne Conway.  Maybe learn to use Excel or look into Uber.  The hours are flexible and the money is adequate.  I'm not sure you're cut out for nursing home work.  Even the gravy train doesn't run forever, and one day you'll step off into Shit Station.  Wear boots.