Why did no one come to Gatsby’s Funeral?

There's a delightful little get-together you may have heard of, a teensy-weensy shindig called Gatsby's funeral. Ring any bells? No? Well, of course not! Because, as it turns out, barely anyone showed up to bid adieu to the enigmatic millionaire. Instead, they were off chasing the next shiny object or washing their hair, or whatever people did back then when they were busy pretending to be important.

You see, the Roaring Twenties were a time of excess, parties, and, as it happens, extremely fickle friendships. The moment Gatsby stopped providing the free-flowing champagne and extravagant soirées, suddenly, these "friends" of his vanished like the contents of a bathtub gin bottle at a speakeasy. How convenient!

Allow me to paint a picture for you: Jay Gatsby, the man who threw the most opulent parties this side of West Egg, an enigma wrapped in a riddle, wrapped in a crisp linen suit. His house, a veritable temple to wealth and extravagance, was like an all-you-can-eat buffet of luxury for the ungrateful socialites who flocked there to indulge their hedonistic desires. And what did they give in return? A big, fat nothing.

But when Gatsby's time came to an untimely end, you'd think, for old times' sake, these supposed friends would muster a few crocodile tears and attend the man's funeral. But alas, no! Gatsby's send-off was about as well-attended as a prohibition rally, and let me tell you, that's saying something.

In fact, I'd say it's almost comical, if it weren't so utterly tragic. Here was a man who built his entire existence around the pursuit of wealth, thinking it would buy him love, admiration, and the key to the elusive green light across the bay. And in the end, all he got was a one-way ticket to a lonely grave, with nary a soul to mourn his passing.

To be perfectly candid, the tale of Gatsby's funeral serves as a poignant reminder of how shallow society was back in the day, when people were more interested in their bootlegged liquor and Charleston dance moves than in forming genuine connections. Though, let's not kid ourselves, shall we? It's not like we've evolved into paragons of virtue in the century since.

So, what's the moral of this sordid story? Well, it's simple, really: money can't buy you love, or even a decent turnout at your funeral. But hey, at least Gatsby had a nice car, right? That's got to count for something.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a high-stakes poker game to attend with some very important people who I'm sure will remember my name in the morning. Or not. Who can say?