¡ Ay dios mio! It's been a hard year darlings, even for a classy chihuahua like myself. This time 12 months ago, I was letting my nails dry by the pool, dripping in diamonds, and getting my ass sniffed by Marley. (WOOF! That dog can make a bitch bark, if you know what I mean.)
But la familia Posner is not what it used to be. Now I'm ownerless, surrounded by idiots who get paid millions to scoop my shit but still can't do it right. To top it all off, some pinche cat stole my ginger wig while I was passed out on Quaaludes last weekend. Whoever took it, just remember: I'm Mexican. El Chapo Guzman's guard dog is a friend of mine. ¿ Me entiendes?
The whole piñata started to fall apart last winter, when Gail Posner's cancer grew worse. I remember the day she died in March.We were wearing matching Bebe outfits: Mine said Yo Quiero Taco Bell in Swarovski crystals. Señora was funny like that. But no amount of Botox could keep the look of death off her face any longer. Her last words to me were: "This is all yours now, Conchita."
I was like: "Well duh, it already is." But who would buy me my cashmere sweaters now?
I think Gail was happy to go, however. Lord knows I was glad for her to stop babbling in her sleep about what her father, Victor Posner, the infamous corporate raider, did to her as a little girl. Eight years after his death, that pendejo was still haunting his daughter. Even for a status-whore like myself, a $100 million inheritance is not worth the nightmares.
After Gail died, her son Bret Carr came around the Miami Beach mansion to complain that I got $3 million and an army of servants while he only got a measly $1 million. So I bit his ankle and pointed out that more people had seen my sex tape (Marley & Me II: Doggy Style) than his horrible Hollywood film flops. But the ungrateful bastard filed a lawsuit anyway. Before I knew it, Victor's ex-girlfriend, Brenda Nestor Castellano, filed for some of my cash as well. All I can say is: They better lawyer up because I'm ready for a dogfight.
Then, earlier this month, when my pedicurist was halfway done painting seasonal snowflakes on my paws, I heard the news: Gail's twin brother, Steven Posner, died in a high-speed boat crash on Biscayne Bay. Stevey was always a little insecure. That's why he drove a 1,200 horsepower speedboat. I guess it's fitting that a man who won his money by flipping a coin with his father would die in a 100 mile-an-hour catamaran race. As a fur lover, I'll miss his pompadour.
Now it's just me, Brenda, and Steven's estranged wife, Susan Goldman, left to fight over the family fortune. But Brenda already runs the Posner business empire, so she doesn't need any more cash. But I do. After all, Victor's favorite phrase was: "I didn't get where I am by being Santa Claus." Then again, the feds barred him from running a company ever again because of securities fraud.
So Feliz Navidad, bitches. After a downer of a year, 2011 will finally be about me.