Letters From The Heart

Dear reckless driver who tried to kill us today by nearly clipping me from behind at 90 mph,

Thank God the shoulder of the highway was empty, giving you at least 2 inches of room to pass me, even if it was on two wheels, eh?

Sincerely,
I got your license plate number, bitch

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Dear pretty girl wearing a short skirt on a windy day,

Thank you.

Sincerely,
A gentleman with unexpected pep in his step

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Dear middle-aged man dressed in a long black duster, black shirt, black cowboy boots, black khakis and black flat-brimmed Stevie Ray Vaughan hat with a multi-colored sparkly hat band,
Could you look any cooler?

I miss Stevie Ray Vaughan and his hat.

No, you could not.

Sincerely,
Mr. Bluejeans & a t-Shirt

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Dear University of Colorado,

You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?

Sincerely,
I’m so sick of homework

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Dear Butter,

You are so good on toast.

Sincerely,
Cinnamon Sugar

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Dear IRS tax refund,

What a pleasant surprise it was to see you this year.

Sincerely,
My wife’s finally getting new tennis shoes

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Dear Watery Allergy Eyes,

You make me look like Mr. Sadpants.

Sincerely,
Pagliacci

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Call Me Thor

I feel like I might be a superhero, but can’t explain why.

I wasn’t bitten by a radioactive spider. I’m scared of spiders.

I wasn’t exposed to a massive burst of gamma radiation by an evil scientist. I’m not even sure what gamma radiation is.

My parents weren’t murdered outside of a movie theater by thugs while I watched helplessly, either. There’s no dark, dysfunctional rage bubbling underneath my bubbly exterior making me desperate to fight crime using my multimillion-dollar inheritance, a belt-full of techy gadgets and my Kung Fu know-how. In fact, I think the most traumatic thing that ever happened to me is that an absentminded waitress once brought me a glass of Diet Coke instead of regular Coke.

The giant evil computer robot Commutron prepared to destroy the White House with its fiery death ray, an act of hate so severe it was destined to plunge America into the black hole of socialized medicine and free public health care that had already laid waste to Europe and Canada.

I hate Diet Coke. It tastes metallic, and according to my sister-in-law, who’s a little too “granola” for most people, it contains “Excitotoxins.” Excitotoxins sound dangerously enticing, like exploding Pop Rocks or Warheads candy, but my sister-in-law says they’re the deadly chemical cousins of ecstasy and meth, especially if you suffer from ADHD.

As awful as Excitotoxins might be, however, I don’t believe I can build an entire superhero career on the premise that I’m going to rid the world of inattentive waitresses who are hell-bent on making America hyperactive.

I don’t seem to have any budding superpowers, either.

I can’t see through walls, although I’ve tried to for years, especially at the gym. I can’t run faster than a wind-blown trash can lid, let alone a speeding train. And these days it takes all my strength and concentration to step over a tall curb without tripping, so I’m pretty sure leaping tall buildings is completely out of my league.

If I do have a developing superpower, it probably involves writing. Writing in the only thing I do moderately well, so that must be it.

For instance, I can easily imagine carrying a technologically advanced iPad with me to crime scenes. My iPad 7500 with G-1000 connectivity would be powered by a glowing Arc Reactor created by billionaire playboy/genius engineer Tony Stark and billionaire playboy/genius marketeer Steve Jobs. Using my blazing-fast texting thumbs, I would render global tragedies harmless by rewriting current events on its virtual 3D keyboard:

“The terrorists reached for their weapons, but discovered they were packing Gummi Worms instead of Glocks, and Oreo cookies and chocolate Jell-O in place of bombs. Whereas their original plot meant destroying The Great Satan, suddenly they were about to serve Dirt Pudding desert to a group of giggling Tweens.”

Or:

“The giant evil computer robot Commutron prepared to destroy the White House with its fiery death ray, an act of hate so severe it was destined to plunge America into the black hole of socialized medicine and free public health care that had already laid waste to Europe and Canada. But then Communtron mistakenly opened an e-mail from a Nigerian prince, releasing a malicious virus that instantly attacked its feeble Microsoft Windows operating system. In milliseconds, Communtron’s eyes were as blank and lifeless as the dreaded Blue Screen of Death. Not even Best Buy’s Geek Squad could fix it now. Commutron was as worthless as a rusty 1987 Yugo.”

Powerful stuff, the written word.

Mightier than a plasma Lightsaber.

Not that I’d be invincible, mind you.

What if I forgot to charge my iPad, for example?

I’d be forced to go old school and switch to a much slower Bic pen and spiral-bound notebook. Or even street chalk. Do you know how long it would take to rewrite an alien invasion with chalk? Millions of innocent people might be anally probed before I could intervene, some of them unwillingly.

But here’s my greatest fear:

“Prepare to die, Lex Luthor! Your days as an evil crime lord terrorizing Gotham City with Excitotoxins are over!”

“Oh, not this time, PenPal! Not today! Not this time! Do recognize this innocent-looking block of stone?!”

“Is that…”

“Exactly, you pedantic pussy. It’s a 2-inch block of pure KryptonWrite from your home planet! Let’s see you scribble me into my grave now! Bwhahahaha!”

“No! Dear God, no! Not…not…a Writer’s Block! Arghhhh!”

The End.

Finale.

Finito.

Scenarios like that make me happy I’m still an ordinary, mild-mannered citizen—just another nerdy Clark Kent on his way to work.

Or so you think.

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Me, With Hats

Hats are one my favorite things to put on my head. I believe a simple chapeau can improve your look and your outlook, turning an ordinary day into something special.

This is my English driver’s cap, also known as a cabbie’s hat. I probably wear it more than any other hat, and so does my father. I don’t mean he wears my hat, of course—although I’d let him borrow it anytime—but his own cabbie’s hat, which is extremely similar to mine. I like my cabbie’s hat—his, too, just to be abundantly clear—because it’s lightweight, it stores flat, and you don’t see them very often in America.

Yes, I’m rebellious and trendsetting like that. 

Also, I’m pretty sure I look a lot like actors Hugh Laurie, Kevin Branagh or Simon Baker (of TV’s The Mentalist) when I’m wearing my cabbie’s hat. I know Baker’s not English, but for the purposes of this hat and my looks, he’ll do.

Someday I hope to add an authentic English bowler to my collection, and I’ll wear it, too. A bowler is one of the coolest-looking hats on earth, especially when it’s paired with an umbrella.

In this photo, I’m trying to look steadfast yet approachable, which is a very British attitude. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m half English, half American, and half  whatever country Johnny Depp is from. With that faux affectation of an accent he uses, I can’t tell anymore. Not that it matters in his case, and that’s my point.

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This is my Rastafarian hat. I love the feel of the long braids on my neck and the sound of the beads, which click and clatter when I move.

Sometimes I wear it to work, or when I’m at home writing. But I always wear it on Halloween, usually with a set of nasty-looking Billy Bob false teeth, which are exactly like the nasty-looking real teeth my uncle Billy Bob wears all the time. I tell people I’m a white-trash Rastafarian, and then wait for them to laugh. The most I usually get is a pitying smile, but the joke makes me laugh, and people often laugh when I laugh. Making people laugh at me may be the only thing I’m really good at.

Like the Rasta hat, reggae music relaxes me and helps me focus.

Most Rastafarians probably don’t care when hats were invented, but one of the earliest depictions of a hat was found in a painting in an ancient tomb in Thebes, Greece. It shows a man wearing a conical, Chinese-style straw hat similar to the hats Chinese farmers still use today. I have no idea what a Chinese farmer was doing in ancient Greece, and neither does anybody else.

In this photo, I’m trying to look relaxed and happy while I hold my breath so I don’t look like I ate a family-sized bag of Doritos. Which I might have. I’m not telling.

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This is my French cycling cap. I like France and French food, especially fries, and always watch the Tour De France on television.

I used to cycle a lot, and I’m thinking about taking it up again, even though I look silly in my super-tight cycling shorts. It might help me to be fit in case I need to duel anybody with an Épée or foil, say on October 21st in Trafalgar Square.

You might be interested to know that the farthest I ever rode in one day was 85 miles, through Colorado’s hilly foothills for the MS150 charity race. That’s not a lot for a real cyclist like Lance Armstrong or even most 6-year-old children who are off their training wheels, but it was 104 degrees Fahrenheit that day, and the pavement was so hot it literally stuck to my tires. Two-thirds of the riders dropped out of the race before they got to the finish line, but I motored on until I made it. I’m not athletic and it was the crowning physical achievement of my life.

In public, anyway.

Hat makers are called milliners. The word apparently first appeared in print in 1529 in Milan, Italy, which is right next door to France. Haberdashers there became famous for selling Milan’s ribbons and straw, which were used to make fanciful hats all over Europe so that modern moviemakers would be able to do Academy Award-winning films about Mozart.

In this photo, I’m trying to look casual and European.

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I don’t like baseball caps as much as some other hats, partly because they’re so pedestrian in America, but mostly because they make me look like a pinhead. I may be a pinhead, but I don’t want to look like one.

Sometimes I wear a baseball hat in an attempt to blend in with regular guys. If I’m going to hang out with guys—and I rarely do—I usually memorize a few sports stats and the names of some star players the day before so that I won’t accidentally slip up and start talking about my favorite television show, Divine Design with Candice Olsen.

Over the years, I’ve discovered that every time I broach the topic of home decorating with other men, I find myself standing all alone in a corner wondering why the other guys are pointing at me and whispering. And then I inevitably end up in the kitchen with their wives and girlfriends. Which is probably what I had in mind in the first place, to be honest. I like women better than men, and not just because they’re better looking.

In this photo, I’m trying to look like everybody else, and I think I’ve succeeded.

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This is my all-time favorite hat. It’s an expensive, authentic Indiana Jones fedora, fully lined.

I feel super-awesome-studly-cool when I wear it, even though I know I actually look like a total nerd who lives vicariously through the exciting accounts of a fictional character’s life. I wanted to get a bullwhip, too, but my wife thought I was taking my fantasy a little too far.

I wear my fedora in wet weather, which I love. I pull it down low and tight on my forehead and lean into the wind, feeling old-fashioned, and invincible.

I also wear my fedora to big cities like Chicago and New York City. No man should go to NYC without a fedora, and no woman should accompany her man to NYC unless he’s wearing a fedora. It just isn’t right.

I don’t know exactly how many hats I own, but it’s probably less than 10. I decided to post a handful of pictures of my hats just for the fun of it, even though I knew it meant also posting pictures of myself. I’m not entirely comfortable with my looks, which is a British way of saying that I hate the way I look, especially now that I’ve aged miserably and filled out a tad. And, no, I’m not fishing for compliments. There’s nothing anybody can say to change my mind.

I do think the appearance of my tête is greatly improved by the presence of a hat, at least.

In this photo, I’m trying to look hardened and tough in a way that evokes the mythic man of yesterday’s world, which is also how I’m going to describe my new cologne once it’s perfected. After glancing back at all the photos, though, I see that I look pretty much the same every time, except for the hat.

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Hot Fries Are Hard To Resist, The Final Act: Destructive Lies & Myths We Believe Despite All Evidence To The Contrary

Look, I don’t mean to keep harping on this, but lower-income bracket people like us are painfully stupid when it comes to dealing with upper-income bracket people like them.

So stupid, we ought to tie ourselves into giant burlap bags and throw ourselves into a lake to help cleanse the gene pool.

But we don’t.

Greed is good, right?

Instead, we blindly accept an income-tax system that allows the federal government to take 30 percent of the wages from the hard-working secretary of billionaire investor Warren Buffet while he pays a mere 17.5 percent. Look it up. Even Buffet, the world’s third-richest man, believes it’s grossly unfair, especially now that the mob bosses who own this lousy joint are proposing to cut taxes on the rich even further.  

We also blithely accept three great lies that rich people repeatedly tell to keep us from storming their manors with pitchforks and torches because we’re sick and tired of getting ripped off.

They use this mantric psycho-babble on us to keep us happy. Happy enough that we’ll keep standing on the line at the bottle-capping factory, anyway. 

They’re also afraid of us. And they should be, because there are a lot more of us than them and we were raised with such bad manners that it wouldn’t bother most us in the least to lop off a few of their heads and cart them around the city on poles.

Lie #1: Hard Work Equals Wealth
American children are raised to believe in the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus and, although they might not know it, the influential ravings of a late 18th-century B-rate writer cum armchair philosopher named Horatio Alger. He captured the public’s greedy imagination with a string of best-selling children’s books about poor young men who grow up to be rich because they’re determined, honest and hard working.

Most of us kids quickly find out we were lied to about the bunny and the fat man in the red velvet suit. But because we’re as dumb as tree stumps, we never stop believing Alger’s myth is true.

ARE WE OUT OF OUR FUCKING MINDS? WHAT IS IT ABOUT OUR LIVES OR THE LIVES OF ANYBODY WE KNOW THAT WOULD MAKE US BELIEVE THIS BULLSHIT?

Here’s the plain truth: Hard work equals hard work. Period. The American Dream only comes true if you stay asleep.

Think about that grease-covered guy who rides around on the back of the garbage truck. He works his sorry ass off every day, hoisting an endless stream of stinking cans filled with rotting meat and dirty diapers. He does this whether it’s hot, cold, wet or dry. He works hard, harder than almost anybody we know. But he’s never getting rich, not unless some maid accidentally throws away a few Hefty bags full of money the Master of the House absentmindedly set on the back porch. Nope, the best thing garbage man can hope for at the end of the week is a $20 tip and a hug from a happy housewife with a nice rack.

His son’s not getting rich, either.

A 1978 study found that only 23 percent of the sons of uneducated, poor American fathers grew up to become well-educated workers with high-paying jobs. Today, thanks to the widening gap between rich and poor that’s shrinking the middle class out of existence, less than 10 percent now make the jump. And the number is shrinking every day.

Want to improve your odds?

Move to Europe, where about 60 percent of young workers have a shot at a better life. Yep, those Euro-trash socialists, the ones with six weeks of guaranteed vacation and free public health care, actually live the American dream more often than we do.  

 

Lie #2: God is a Capitalist
I could summarize this argument for the super-rich, who are constantly invoking the Christian God as The One True Path to Riches, but why bother when I have that fabulous conservative talk radio-show host Rush Limbaugh to do it for me?

There's nothing filthy about lucre.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we now know why there is this institutional opposition to low tax rates in the liberal wing of the Democratic Party. It’s because low tax rates are Biblical in nature and in root,” Limbaugh says. “When you can trace the lowering of tax rates on grain from 90 percent to 20 percent giving seven fat years during the days of Pharaoh in Egypt, why then you are tracing the roots of lower taxes and rising prosperity to religion…You can trace individual prosperity, economic growth back to the Bible, the Old Testament. Isn’t it amazing?”

Yeah, it’s fucking awesome!

Except that it isn’t true!

Take that scripture Limbaugh referred to. It’s from Genesis, Chapter 41, and it’s about the wisdom of instituting taxes, not cutting them. After Egypt’s Pharaoh had a dream that prophesied seven fat years to be followed by seven lean years, Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat advised the ruler to “appoint officers over the land, and take up the fifth part of the land of Egypt in the seven plenteous years…and lay up corn under the hands of Pharaoh.” In other words, he urged the Pharaoh to implement a 20 percent grain tax to help the land avoid starvation when the locusts arrived.

It worked, too.

But even if Limbaugh was right about that scripture, stop and think for a second about what we know about God.

Remember the Sermon on the Mount—you know, the one with the blessed this and the Beatitudes that? There were a lot of hungry people there. A capitalist would’ve tapped that market and charged admission, selling front-row tickets at eight times their face value, and forcing people to buy watered-down beer for $6 a cup. But Jesus put on free fish fry for 5,000.

But wait! What about the Big Boss, God?

Yeah, sure, the Heavenly Father looks like a capitalist on first glance. He lives in a mansion way up on the hill in a gated community where the streets are paved with gold, for instance. But we’re all invited to live there with Him. Rent fucking free! And there’s going to be an all-you-can-eat buffet!

Hmm.

As weird as it might sound to us, it looks like God might be more of a socialist than a capitalist.  

Lie #3: Greed is Patriotic
English writer Samuel Johnson once declared that “patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.”

Not anymore.

We have blinded ourselves with the American Dream.

Now it’s the first refuge. Every time their warped thinking is challenged, the rich people who own this country—and much of the world—immediately wrap their lifestyle in the American flag and label their critics traitors to the Stars and Stripes.

Cowboy up and pull yourself up by your own bootstraps, they say.

Greed is good, they say. If you want it, go get it.

Never mind all that bullshit about America being of the people, by the people and for the people. It’s really of yourself, by yourself, and for yourself. Because here in the U.S. of A-holes, every day is Independence Day, and it’s every man, woman and child for themselves.

But rich people are wrong.

Their way of life is killing civilized Democracy, the one good thing that set America apart from the rest of the world and made it great. We Poorletariats have all but lost our voice, our ability to use the power granted to us by the Constitution to prevent a certain class of people from becoming an Aristocracy—the fucking Landed Gentry—and effectively ruling our country by concentrating all of its wealth and power in their hands and their hands alone, a practice that was tried and failed centuries ago by Europe’s fuedal lords and kings and queens. In political terms, America’s new aristocracy have become Death, the Destroyer of our World, and we’ve all known it ever since the fictional businessman and antihero Gordon Gecko uttered these prophetic lines nearly a quarter of a century ago in the 1987 film, Wall Street:

“The richest one percent of this country owns half our country’s wealth, five trillion dollars. One third of that comes from hard work, two thirds comes from inheritance, interest on interest accumulating to widows and idiot sons and what I do, stock and real estate speculation. It’s bullshit. You got ninety percent of the American public out there with little or no net worth. I create nothing. I own. We make the rules, pal. The news, war, peace, famine, upheaval, the price per paper clip. We pick that rabbit out of the hat while everybody sits out there wondering how the hell we did it. Now you’re not naive enough to think we’re living in a democracy, are you buddy? It’s the free market. And you’re a part of it.”

Yeah, we’re a part of it, all right.

The dumbest fucking part.

A note: I’d like to dedicate this incredibly long and abrasive series of  polemics to my good friend, Jayne Martin. Jayne lives in California, which is probably going to be destroyed pretty soon by either an earthquake, a tsunami or radiation. Perhaps all three at once, making political arguments like this kind of pointless. Nevertheless, Jayne’s tireless passion for justice is inspiring.

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Hot Fries Are Hard To Resist, Part Deux: How Rich People Stay Rich On Our Expense Account

Want to know the difference between us poor Americans and them rich Americans?

If you teach a poor man to fish, and he’ll drink beer and fish until he passes out.

Hell yes! Par-tay!

But if you teach a rich man to fish, and he’ll convert the fuckin’ lake into an exclusive private resort where his odds of meeting investment partners like Paris Hilton and the Prince of Monaco go up a thousand percent.

Awesomely funny photo artwork created by Micheal Adamsen.

Yep, that’s how much smarter rich people are than poor people. They’re dancin’ on the yacht, we’re chum.

You see, rich people know that if they’re lucky or dishonest enough to get rich, the next thing they gotta do is form a good-old-boy club where they and their fellow moguls can mix and mingle while they tingle for the jingle. Po folk like us only get glimpses of these clubs in media like People magazine and Entertainment Tonight. They look like a ton of fun, though, especially compared to the “staycations” we bottom feeders took while we were waiting in the unemployment lines in 2008, 2009 and 2010.

Amazingly, swanky clubs prospered even at the height of the recession. Many of the world’s most extravagant resorts reported that demand for their best rooms boomed when everything around us was going bust, allowing them to raise rates an average of 10 percent in 2009. And just to be crystal clear—or perhaps I should say acrylic clear—we’re not talking about getting a coveted poolside room at the Holiday Inn Holidome. We’re talking about shit-kickin’ joints like the Presidential Suite at New York City’s Plaza Hotel, where a night’s stay will set you back $20,000. Although to be perfectly fair and balanced, the rate includes seven bathrooms and complimentary use of the hotel’s Rolls Royce.

But there are other types of high-society clubs that are far less publicized, yet much more interesting.

Consider Yale University’s 179-year-old Skull and Bones society, for instance. Highly secretive, the fraternal organization doesn’t just stage an awesome horror house every year. No, it’s a shadowy front said to be dedicated to furthering the careers of its members by making sure they get key jobs that give them control over America’s politics and financial markets.

It sounds a little far-fetched, I admit.

Conspiratorial, even.

But, hell, we’re working stiffs.

Thick as bricks.

So let’s put on our tinfoil hats and take a cockeyed look at a partial list of some of the Bonesmen’s members. They include:

President William Howard Taft.
President George H. W. Bush.
President George W. Bush.
Senator John Kerry.
Stephen A. Schwarzman, founder of Blackstone.
Austan Goolsbee, chairman of President Obama’s Council of Economic Advisers.
Harold Stanley, co-founder of Morgan Stanley.
Frederick W. Smith, Founder of Fedex.
U.S. Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart.
Henry Stimson, U.S. Secretary of War.
U.S. Secretary of Defense Robert A. Lovett.
Britton Haden and Henry Luce, co-founders of Time magazine.
William F. Buckley, former CIA agent and ultra-conservative founder of The Nation.
John Sherman Cooper, a former U.S. senator and member of The Warren Commission.

Hah! I threw that last Bonesman in just to prove my theory that the feds conspired with the mob to suppress the second-shooter evidence.

Yale's Bonesmen. Do you really want scary-looking guys like this running the country? Too bad, because they already do.

But Holy Shit-O-La! You have to admit that these boys seem a lot better connected than the dogs we hang with at O’Reilly’s Pub when the 5 o’clock whistle blows on Friday afternoons. And those are just the names we know about.

Rich people understand that clubs will only get them so far, however.

That’s why they also use their networks and influence to rig the system in their favor. This means finding more sophisticated—if barely legal—ways to steal money than sucking us into their get-rich-quick pyramid and Ponzi schemes.

What we Poorletariats might call a scam.

A sure-fire scam.

Non-competitive government contracts are a good source of income, for example, especially during wartime. War’s bloody expensive, and few activities fill the silk-lined pockets of the Masters of War with gold faster than a good slaughter, especially if you can sell weapons and other services to both sides of the conflict.

When W and his group of freedom fighters decided to fight simultaneous wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, for instance, it also chose to outsource as much of the military operations as possible. That meant giving private companies fat government contracts for everything from construction projects to hiring mercenaries to provide security for diplomats.

As a result, private military contracts soared from $145 billion in 2001 to $390 billion in 2008, benefitting top executives at corporations such as Raytheon, Blackwater, Northrup Grumman, Lockheed Martin, and BAE Systems. Another huge benefactor: Halliburton, a multibillion-dollar company with sketchy business practices that W’s vice president, Dick Cheney, headed until he ran for office. Cheney severed his ties with the company before he swore to serve his country.

Oh, except for a couple of things.

Like his deferred salary of more than $150,000 a year. Or the 433,333 shares of unexercised stock options they saved for him until his term was up.

Can anybody say Conflict of Fucking Interest?

Naw, only numbnuts like us would say something ignorant like that. Cheney might not have a heart—really, he doesn’t have a heart, how weird is that?—but he’s all heart, a real-life patriotic hero fighting to keep America safe from terrorists.

And profitable.

Profitable for the rich, anyway.

Really, really expensive for the rest of us.

Because guess what? We’re the ones footing the estimated $1.3 trillion tab for the wars so far, a figure that doesn’t count the cost of the ribbon magnets we put on our cars or the costs of burying the actual heros who get shot and killed while our corporate executives meet at the golf course to trade tips about the tax-free off-shore bank accounts that cost our Treasury $70 billion in lost tax revenue every year.

Over the last 30 years, though, America’s Capitalist Czars have stepped up their game a notch because war profiteering alone isn’t good enough anymore. Never mind that the average corporate executive’s salary is 364 times higher than the average worker’s salary, up from a 20 to 1 ratio in the 1970s. Never mind that with an average yearly salary of more than $9 million, the leaders of America’s largest corporations can retire comfortably at any time even as the national unemployment rate hovers around 10 percent and roughly 11 million Americans are in foreclosure on their homes. Or that the richest 400 Americans now have more wealth than 150,000,000 of the rest of us barnacle scrapers combined.

Rich people want as much of our money as they can get.

And we’re such fucking mouth breathers, we’re letting them take it as fast as they can, before we even notice we can’t afford a six-pack of Keystone beer anymore, let alone good stuff like Coors Light.

Now the people who own this country lock, stock and barrel have decided that not only the system shouldn’t penalize the rich, but that it should favor the rich with tax breaks and investment incentives. That union-busting is more fun than polo. That teachers and federal employees are overpaid and should be put out to pasture. That hammerheads like us are obligated to fund billion-dollar bailouts for our bankers and brokers, forcing us to eat bologna sandwiches out of plastic baggies while they belly up to the bars at in our capitol’s steakhouses, where they spend more on a power lunch than we spend on a week’s worth of combo meals at decent eateries like Wendy’s and Taco Bell.

Motherfuckers.

But more about that irritating load in the third and final installment of this rant, on Thursday. Swing by and read it if there isn’t something better on TV, like a test pattern, or the channel guide.

A note: I’d like to dedicate this series to my good friend, Jayne Martin at InJaynesWorld. Jayne is an outspoken liberal who constantly brags about her size-4 ass, which irritates the living shit out of her politically conservative friend, Jen at Redhead Ranting, whose ass apparently is…well, let’s just say Jayne says that if Jen’s ass represented our growing national debt, we’d all be scared shitless right now. Petty girl fights aside, though, Jayne’s tireless passion for justice is inspiring.

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