Welcome to the ten Minute Storyteller. That's me Bill Simpson, your host, narrator and author. We hear at the ten minute Storyteller endeavor to entertain you with tall tales or rendered swiftly and with the utmost empathy. We pledge to pack as much entertainment, emotion, and exploration into the human condition as ten minutes will permit. Mini novels on steroids. This week we meet the Last Supermodel. As a kid, because of her looks, she was used and abused, deceived and exploited. They used her to hawk perfume in blue jeens, underwear and dreams. But she was tough, resilient, ambitious. She channeled that abuse and exploitation to build her own company, to make millions, to beat them at their own game. But at what price? The Last Supermodel? The old Goat has coin? Oh yeah, the old goat has coin? Oh God? Does she ever stocks bonds, real estate, gold, even a bunch of bitcoin she bought on a whim when the crypto could be had for a song. Tens of millions, for sure, hundreds of millions, maybe even a billion or more. Nobody knows for sure, certainly not any of her children or grandchildren. They can only speculate, which they do, and have done at great length for years and years decades. It is the Old Goats coin the number one topic of conversation when any two or more of her progeny wind up in the same room. How much coin does she have? What's she going to do with it? Who is going to get it? Why the hell doesn't she give some of it away? Many of the old Goats sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters can grow quite heated during these speculations. They can call her a wide variety of derogatory names, refer to her not only as the old goat, but also as the old scarecrow, the ancient bitch, the hoarder, the miser the miserable, old wretch. She doesn't care. She's hurt at all over the years, through the grape vine, through a hole in the wall, from a daughter trying to curry favor, from a grandson who's never been able to keep his trap shut. All of it just tickles her. Funny bone, makes her guffaw, slap, her skinny arthritic knee. Just look at her. She can't weigh eighty five pounds, but back in the sixties. She was like the very first super skinny supermodel. Before she came along, the models were more buxom, more rounded, more Marilyn monroeish. She was built like a boy, no boobs, no hips, no ass. But oh that beguiling, belligerent smile. Halston, Remember Halston. He put her in a fragrance ad dressed her up as a boy with a page boy haircut. She got the job because she was willing to put out for the art director, a bearded clod who came in seconds under the photo of her standing on a deserted beach, her expression haughty and defiant. It read in gold letters, Halston, the fragrance for everyone, and the a sexual revolution was born. She posed in skinny jeans and no top stick, thin arms wrapped across her tiny little titties, kissing boys and later girls. She posed buck ass, naked, shot from the back, nothing but thin gold chains around her neck and right ankle. She was hawking then for Pucci, but nobody remembers what he was selling. She was still just a kid, just seventeen. Her father ran the show, signed the contracts, kept most of the dough for himself, looked the other way when the doors closed and locked. She was used and abused, deceived and exploited, But she was smart, savvy, had a head for business. She finally dumped the old man and made herself a nice buck, posing for the cameras, exposing every inch of her skin save her nipples and her pubic hair. Those she kept in reserve. The real money came later when she started her own house, her own labels, hired the best designers, churned out gowns, dresses, shoes, hats, suits, jewelry, fragrances. In her early thirties she married her CFO, a quiet, undemonstrative gentleman closer to fifty than forty. In seven years, they had five children, and except on the day she gave birth, she never never missed a day of work. Now in her eighties, she still goes to work every day, Every every single day she goes to work. No, she doesn't go early. She's never been an early bird. She likes to sleep late, lie in bed, read the papers, have sex, at least back in the day. Too old for sex now a dried up old prune. Still she does two or three times a week, put her stable of vibrators and dildos to good use. Why shouldn't I give myself a little tickle? Oh God? She had lovers before and during and after marriage, a thousand one night stands in New York, Rome, Paris, Istanbul, Marrakesh, only the finest looking boys, with smooth skin and long muscles. She taught them all a thing or two about a lady's needs and desires. She took what she desired and didn't give a damn for giving. She had lady lovers as well, long leggy fashion models in Hollywood starlets. She found them mostly needy, poudy, and impossible to please. Minaseetoi was tried, but quickly abandoned. She preferred to be the center of attention, the star attraction. She drank martinis, smoked grass, snorted coke, popped pills to make her happy, sad, fiery, stardonic. She told every man who crossed her path that she was smarter, bolder, and had far bigger balls than they could ever even imagine. They laughed but trembled. They all secretly wanted so badly to fuck her, subdue her, suppress her. But those days were over. Silly little boys, she called them in big, violent, aggressive man bodies. In a long and rambling interview, she told Rolling Stone, the vast majority of women make me sick. Nothing but cry babies, whiners, martyrs, victims. Get off your asses and take what's yours. You have what they want, what they desire, what they need, what they covet. So use it for Christ's sakes, to your advantage. Sure, God gave man more muscle, but he, or maybe she gave woman the minge, the muff, the kiddie, the bean, the twat, the pussy. The most valuable hole on earth, she gave it to women. Maybe in the whole crazy universe it is the most valuable hole. So use the damn thing to get what you want, ladies, to achieve greatness and of course independance. She caught a lot of grief for the interview, mostly for men. But business boom to kaboom. The money rolled in like water over Niagara. The women of America, of Europe, of Brazil and Argandina wanted what she had. The swanky, sexy dresses, the mini skirts and the low cut blouses, the guts, the gall the balls, the panache, and now well now the kiddies wanted the money. That is the moolah the batjack. She's held onto it in their view long enough time to spread it around to share the bounty. She disagrees. She finds them a bunch of flunkies, lackeys, toadies, fucking sinka fats. She gave them jobs, stock options, health insurance, retirement packages. What more do they want? They live, all nineteen of them, high on the higher than most, but they want to live even higher. They think, because of the biological connection, that her dough should be their dough. So tonight, tonight, the Old Goat has a little surprise for them. She's invited them all to dinner at her palatial estate, going to serve them the finest wines and steaks, treat them the way they think they deserve to be treated. She's also invited several members of the press, important personas with clout, editorial writers, anchor women pundits with big mouths to help her spread the word. So after the tasty meal, everyone at least mildly soused, she taps her wine glass with a spoon and asks for quiet. I have an announcement, she says, about the money, my money, my dirty greenback's milute, my legal tender they wait. No one draws a breath, pin drop quiet in that snazzy, over decorated dining room. I'm giving it all away, she announces. I'm giving it all away, every nickel, every red dime, every stock and every bond, every ounce of gold, every property, the Tuscan Villa and the bel Air Mansion, the Fifth Avenue penthouse and the Bahamian beach house, all of it, all of it to anyone here who can tell me the key to happiness. A collective gasp, and then the first stab. Family. No, you idiot friends, God know you silly sap. Meaningful relationships, don't be ridiculous money. Then it must be the money. Is it the money? Power? It must be the power. Pride, you stupid fools, shouts the old goat. Pride, dignity, self worth, self respect, self esteem, all the rest of it bullshit. Exhilarated now, she begins to cough. A moment later she grabs the arm of her chair, and then a moment later, her frail chest. She gasps for air, Her eyes roll back on her head. She falls off her chair and hits the extraordinarily expensive four hundred year old hand knodded Persian carpet with a dull thud. Hey, thanks for listening to this original audio presentation of the Last Supermodel, narrated, of course by the author. If you enjoy today's story, please take a few seconds to rate, review, and subscribe to this podcast, and then go to Thomas William Simpson dot com for additional information about the author and to view his extensive canon. The Ten Minute Storyteller is produced by Andrew Pleglici and Josh Colotney and as part of the Elvis Duran Podcast Network in partnership with iHeart Productions. Until next time, this is Bill Simpson, your ten Minute Storyteller,

Welcome to the ten Minute Storyteller. That's me Bill Simpson, your host, narrator and author. We hear at the ten minute Storyteller endeavor to entertain you with tall tales or rendered swiftly and with the utmost empathy. We pledge to pack as much entertainment, emotion, and exploration into the human condition as ten minutes will permit. Mini novels on steroids. This week we meet the Last Supermodel. As a kid, because of her looks, she was used and abused, deceived and exploited. They used her to hawk perfume in blue jeens, underwear and dreams. But she was tough, resilient, ambitious. She channeled that abuse and exploitation to build her own company, to make millions, to beat them at their own game. But at what price? The Last Supermodel? The old Goat has coin? Oh yeah, the old goat has coin? Oh God? Does she ever stocks bonds, real estate, gold, even a bunch of bitcoin she bought on a whim when the crypto could be had for a song. Tens of millions, for sure, hundreds of millions, maybe even a billion or more. Nobody knows for sure, certainly not any of her children or grandchildren. They can only speculate, which they do, and have done at great length for years and years decades. It is the Old Goats coin the number one topic of conversation when any two or more of her progeny wind up in the same room. How much coin does she have? What's she going to do with it? Who is going to get it? Why the hell doesn't she give some of it away? Many of the old Goats sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters can grow quite heated during these speculations. They can call her a wide variety of derogatory names, refer to her not only as the old goat, but also as the old scarecrow, the ancient bitch, the hoarder, the miser the miserable, old wretch. She doesn't care. She's hurt at all over the years, through the grape vine, through a hole in the wall, from a daughter trying to curry favor, from a grandson who's never been able to keep his trap shut. All of it just tickles her. Funny bone, makes her guffaw, slap, her skinny arthritic knee. Just look at her. She can't weigh eighty five pounds, but back in the sixties. She was like the very first super skinny supermodel. Before she came along, the models were more buxom, more rounded, more Marilyn monroeish. She was built like a boy, no boobs, no hips, no ass. But oh that beguiling, belligerent smile. Halston, Remember Halston. He put her in a fragrance ad dressed her up as a boy with a page boy haircut. She got the job because she was willing to put out for the art director, a bearded clod who came in seconds under the photo of her standing on a deserted beach, her expression haughty and defiant. It read in gold letters, Halston, the fragrance for everyone, and the a sexual revolution was born. She posed in skinny jeans and no top stick, thin arms wrapped across her tiny little titties, kissing boys and later girls. She posed buck ass, naked, shot from the back, nothing but thin gold chains around her neck and right ankle. She was hawking then for Pucci, but nobody remembers what he was selling. She was still just a kid, just seventeen. Her father ran the show, signed the contracts, kept most of the dough for himself, looked the other way when the doors closed and locked. She was used and abused, deceived and exploited, But she was smart, savvy, had a head for business. She finally dumped the old man and made herself a nice buck, posing for the cameras, exposing every inch of her skin save her nipples and her pubic hair. Those she kept in reserve. The real money came later when she started her own house, her own labels, hired the best designers, churned out gowns, dresses, shoes, hats, suits, jewelry, fragrances. In her early thirties she married her CFO, a quiet, undemonstrative gentleman closer to fifty than forty. In seven years, they had five children, and except on the day she gave birth, she never never missed a day of work. Now in her eighties, she still goes to work every day, Every every single day she goes to work. No, she doesn't go early. She's never been an early bird. She likes to sleep late, lie in bed, read the papers, have sex, at least back in the day. Too old for sex now a dried up old prune. Still she does two or three times a week, put her stable of vibrators and dildos to good use. Why shouldn't I give myself a little tickle? Oh God? She had lovers before and during and after marriage, a thousand one night stands in New York, Rome, Paris, Istanbul, Marrakesh, only the finest looking boys, with smooth skin and long muscles. She taught them all a thing or two about a lady's needs and desires. She took what she desired and didn't give a damn for giving. She had lady lovers as well, long leggy fashion models in Hollywood starlets. She found them mostly needy, poudy, and impossible to please. Minaseetoi was tried, but quickly abandoned. She preferred to be the center of attention, the star attraction. She drank martinis, smoked grass, snorted coke, popped pills to make her happy, sad, fiery, stardonic. She told every man who crossed her path that she was smarter, bolder, and had far bigger balls than they could ever even imagine. They laughed but trembled. They all secretly wanted so badly to fuck her, subdue her, suppress her. But those days were over. Silly little boys, she called them in big, violent, aggressive man bodies. In a long and rambling interview, she told Rolling Stone, the vast majority of women make me sick. Nothing but cry babies, whiners, martyrs, victims. Get off your asses and take what's yours. You have what they want, what they desire, what they need, what they covet. So use it for Christ's sakes, to your advantage. Sure, God gave man more muscle, but he, or maybe she gave woman the minge, the muff, the kiddie, the bean, the twat, the pussy. The most valuable hole on earth, she gave it to women. Maybe in the whole crazy universe it is the most valuable hole. So use the damn thing to get what you want, ladies, to achieve greatness and of course independance. She caught a lot of grief for the interview, mostly for men. But business boom to kaboom. The money rolled in like water over Niagara. The women of America, of Europe, of Brazil and Argandina wanted what she had. The swanky, sexy dresses, the mini skirts and the low cut blouses, the guts, the gall the balls, the panache, and now well now the kiddies wanted the money. That is the moolah the batjack. She's held onto it in their view long enough time to spread it around to share the bounty. She disagrees. She finds them a bunch of flunkies, lackeys, toadies, fucking sinka fats. She gave them jobs, stock options, health insurance, retirement packages. What more do they want? They live, all nineteen of them, high on the higher than most, but they want to live even higher. They think, because of the biological connection, that her dough should be their dough. So tonight, tonight, the Old Goat has a little surprise for them. She's invited them all to dinner at her palatial estate, going to serve them the finest wines and steaks, treat them the way they think they deserve to be treated. She's also invited several members of the press, important personas with clout, editorial writers, anchor women pundits with big mouths to help her spread the word. So after the tasty meal, everyone at least mildly soused, she taps her wine glass with a spoon and asks for quiet. I have an announcement, she says, about the money, my money, my dirty greenback's milute, my legal tender they wait. No one draws a breath, pin drop quiet in that snazzy, over decorated dining room. I'm giving it all away, she announces. I'm giving it all away, every nickel, every red dime, every stock and every bond, every ounce of gold, every property, the Tuscan Villa and the bel Air Mansion, the Fifth Avenue penthouse and the Bahamian beach house, all of it, all of it to anyone here who can tell me the key to happiness. A collective gasp, and then the first stab. Family. No, you idiot friends, God know you silly sap. Meaningful relationships, don't be ridiculous money. Then it must be the money. Is it the money? Power? It must be the power. Pride, you stupid fools, shouts the old goat. Pride, dignity, self worth, self respect, self esteem, all the rest of it bullshit. Exhilarated now, she begins to cough. A moment later she grabs the arm of her chair, and then a moment later, her frail chest. She gasps for air, Her eyes roll back on her head. She falls off her chair and hits the extraordinarily expensive four hundred year old hand knodded Persian carpet with a dull thud. Hey, thanks for listening to this original audio presentation of the Last Supermodel, narrated, of course by the author. If you enjoy today's story, please take a few seconds to rate, review, and subscribe to this podcast, and then go to Thomas William Simpson dot com for additional information about the author and to view his extensive canon. The Ten Minute Storyteller is produced by Andrew Pleglici and Josh Colotney and as part of the Elvis Duran Podcast Network in partnership with iHeart Productions. Until next time, this is Bill Simpson, your ten Minute Storyteller,