I used to commute to my crappy fast-food job in my '74 Pinto and explain to customers why we couldn't call the product we sell "meat". That was before I discovered TiPb. Now I handle investment accounts for some of the world's most powerful people, commuting in the comfort of my Gulfstream IV. Gone are the polyester uniforms with the name tag, they've been replaced with bespoke clothing from some of Saville Row's most exclusive tailors (the extra girth I've acquired "down there" after registering with TiPb makes the custom suits necessary).
I no longer repel women with my disgusting body odor. Now a fresh, clean, lilac-tinged scent emanates from every pore. In fact, Anne Hathaway recently remarked on how nice I smelled, then asked if I'd like to get a drink later. I replied: "Why don't we make it a weekend at my palatial villa in Monaco, bring Katherine Heigl, too." (thanks TiPb)
While walking out of the Met the other day, a homeless man asked me for money, but I was only carrying my Amex Black card. "I don't have any cash, sir," I said, "but perhaps you'd like the keys to my Aston Martin DB9. You can drop me off at the Bugatti dealership; they should be finished embroidering the TiPb logo on the seats of my new Veyron." That's how I roll since I discovered TiPb.
There was a time (pre-TiPb) when dinner and a movie for me meant a can of beanie weenies cooked over a sterno flame and a viewmaster. I was just reminiscing about that while hosting Martin Scorsese, Jean-Luc Godard and Wong Kar-Wai to a screening of Renoir's "Rules of the Game" in my private screening room.
No longer do I have to forage in the dumpster behind Outback Steakhouse when I want to eat a steak. I now send my private chef to Kobe to pick out only the finest cuts. He then prepares it on my Viking seven-burner grill with a custom grate specially forged to char "TiPb" in the center of the steak.
To think my life changed this much in just one day of being a TiPb member, I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings!