Obscenely

I live in an elderly building in Boston's Back Bay. In summer the place sizzles. In winter, it's hotter (unless, of course, the wind blows. Then there's no heat at all. I suspect our central heating unit is an obscenely large candle that gets blown out when we need it most.)

By the year 1765, Richard `Dickie' Tattersall, the absurdly romantic self-styled soldier of fortune and indulged son of an obscenely well-off Yorkshire squire, was brimming with gratitude[.]

A friend of mine who works in The City managed to pull this off quite diplomatically. He and all his workmates were on pant-wettingly huge salaries, but most of his friends from home were on modest incomes and struggling to pay their mortgages. So, rather cleverly, he invited all the City boys on an obscenely expensive weekend to the south of France, and a week later he had a pub crawl in London for his old friends from school. Both celebrations were just as enjoyable, and nobody felt like they missed out. Most importantly, everyone could afford to be there.