Hot Fries Are Hard To Resist: How We Let America’s Artistrocracy Turn Us Into Peasants

I like money.

So do you.

Rich people, too.

But the difference between them and you and me is that we’re as dumb as monkey snot.

Yep, I just called us morons. Worse, actually. Here’s why:

About 90 percent of America’s wealth is owned by less than 2 percent of the population, contributing to the worst gap between rich and poor in America’s history. That means that for every $100 we have in our wallets, rich people have…well, I dunno, I’m not so good at math. And besides, I can’t imagine what I’d do with $100 in my wallet. Thanks to the recent recession, I can barely remember what a Benjamin looks like.

Kinda happy, as I recall.

I guess I’ll have to use an analogy dumbfucks like us can relate to. This split between the haves and the haves not is so lopsided, it’s like taking your date to McDonald’s, forking over a day’s wages for a large French fry, and then sitting there with a dumbass grin on your face while she eats a fistful of fries and you only eat two. Plus maybe one or two of the soggy stragglers that fall into the bottom of the bag. 

You wouldn’t do that, would you? I mean, sure, we both know you’d do it if you were trying to impress your date to get laid. But not if you were hungry, and those fries were steamin’ hot and fresh out of the fryer. Hot fries are hard to resist. So out of 100 fries, you’d take at least 40. Maybe 50. Or even 60.

But guess what, dipshit?

You’re letting the rich people eat your fries!

And you’re not even gettin’ laid!

You are getting screwed, though.

Here’s how the dirty bastards do it.

First, they get rich. I’m not going to tell you exactly how, because I’m saving those tips for my new best-selling book, MegaMoney: How to Get Filthy Stinking Rich Working 1 Hour a Week Even if Your Entire Investment Portfolio Consists of an Expired Pita Pit Coupon for Buy-One-Get-One Free with the Purchase of a Large Fountain Drink. But I will tell you that rich people are always prattling on about how they got rich because they have good ideas and work hard.

What a gilded crock of bullshit!

Ever hear of Robert Kearns? He had a good idea. A great idea—the intermittent windshield wiper. It’s the gizmo on your car’s steering wheel that lets you get to your local AA meeting in a light rainstorm without being driven to drink by the obnoxious squeak, squeak of rubber on glass.

But Kearns didn’t get rich until he sued Ford and Chrysler and more than 20 other companies for stealing his invention. Even then, it took him nearly 30 years because those money-grubbing car thieves and their legal wheelmen fought him for every dime and dollar. By that time, he’d lost his day job, his marriage, and most of his sanity.

Truth is, a lot of Americans get rich because they’re functional sociopaths. They learn early on that the quickest, easiest way to put a huge pile of money in their bank accounts is to steal it. And because they don’t have a fully developed conscience to slow them down, they do.

Truth is, a lot of Americans get rich because they’re functional sociopaths. They learn early on that the quickest, easiest way to put a huge pile of money in their bank accounts is to steal it. And because they don’t have a fully developed conscience to slow them down, they do.

John D. Rockefeller rode the gravy train to Midasville by creating a monopoly that once controlled more than 95 percent of U.S. oil production. How? By sabotaging his competitors, hiring spies to infiltrate the businesses of his enemies and using secret contracts to put independent operators out of business. Joseph P. Kennedy helped build the fortune of his famously political family through insider stock trading and, according to mob sources, bootlegging.

But what about that quintessentially modern self-made man, Donald Trump? You know, the loud-mouthed real estate mogul/reality television star/beauty pageant host/walking hair disaster who wrote The Art of the Deal and Think Like a Champion?

Turns out The Donald received a very nice start in business from his father, a successful real estate developer many people considered an ethically challenged slumlord. Pappa Trump once owned about 27,000 apartments and row houses in New York City and was worth some $250-$400 million when he died in 1999. During his career, he also padded his development costs to obtain excessive federal mortgage money, a practice that wasn’t exactly illegal, but wasn’t exactly honest, either. The elder Trump fell into disrepute. Soon after he was also accused of fraudulently lining his pockets with state funds, returning $1.2 million under a cloud of suspicion, he turned his business over to The Donald.

Nope, most rich people get rich because they steal their money, inherit it or get lucky and fall into it.

Now, if this discouraging news contradicts everything you were taught about the holy purity of Our Lady of Self-Correcting Capitalistic Market Forces and the orgasmic wonders of achieving the American Dream, SHUT THE FUCK UP! What are you, a socialist? Or worse, a Liberal?

Whoops, sorry about that last spew. I got caught up thinking about money for a moment and accidentally channeled that daft prick Rush Limbaugh.

Not that I hate Limbaugh.

In fact, I feel a great deal of affection for the talk-radio host because his brain’s so wonderfully fucked up. Most people have a filter in their heads that prevents them from saying out loud what they secretly think about sex, race, politics, religion and their bosses. But Limbaugh got a bullhorn in place of a filter, and it’s a good thing because we’re such numbskulls that we only hear what conservatives really mean when they scream it at us.  

Thankfully, as Chief of the U.S. Department of Bloviation, Limbaugh makes it shamefully clear what America’s ruling elite thinks about the rest of us humps.

Limbaugh, on women: “Feminism was established to allow unattractive women easier access to the mainstream.”

On race: If we are going to start rewarding no skills and stupid people–I’m serious, let the unskilled jobs, let the kinds of jobs that take absolutely no knowledge whatsoever to do–let stupid and unskilled Mexicans do that work.”

On our recession and unemployment benefits:  ”Folks, we are not going to survive as a nation…with this kind of sloth and laziness. I mean some people are so lazy that they will only be unemployed if they’re paid to be unemployed.”

I love that last quote because it opens the warehouse door to a crooked line of fuzzy thinking Capitalist Apparatchiks use very effectively to keep ignorant Poorletariats like us standing contentedly on the line at the bottle-capping factory. But we’ll take a closer look at those issues in parts two and three of this screed. Look for the second installment on Tuesday if you’re not too busy powdering your ass or scratching your balls.

A note: I’d like to dedicate this series to my good friend, Jayne Martin. Jayne once told me that her heart died a long time ago, but I know she’s full of shit. Her heart may be a little sensitive, and she may have it wrapped up tight for protection, but it’s still beating strong. Her tireless passion for justice is inspiring.

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Please Sit Down. I Have Serious News To Share.

Huguette Clark.

Please sit down.

Please, I’m serious.

I need to share what may be surprising—and perhaps sad—news with everybody.

All 11 or 12 of you who regularly read this blog, anyway.

Although my wife, Kerry, and I have been married for 30 years this coming Monday, we have decided to call it quits and get a divorce. It’s me, not her. Kerry’s a beautiful, loving woman, and I couldn’t have asked for a better wife.

Unfortunately, I recently fell in love with another woman. Her name is Huguette Clark, but I call her Huggy for short. I find her adorable in every way. She has long, blonde hair, and is incredibly feminine in a traditional way, a wearer of frilly frocks and lace, what you might call a woman’s woman. She’s fond of music, well educated, collects dolls, and speaks perfect English and French.

I’ve always been drawn to simple, intelligent women with foreign accents.

I first met Huggy through the newspaper. It sounds old-fashioned, I know, given the fast-paced world that we live in. But Huggy is a somewhat shy woman who clings to the best of the old ways. There I was, reading about her life—it’s interesting, trust me—when suddenly I just knew in my heart with unshakeable conviction that I had to talk to her, meet her, take her out to dinner, dance a slow dance with her. One thing led to another, and now we’re madly in love. It sounds silly to you, I’m sure, but inside I feel like a 16-year-old schoolboy who’s about to get his first kiss.

Huggy and I have much in common.

I love New York City, she lives in New York City. I’m attracted to mature women, she’s 104. I’m a dysfunctional co-dependent caretaker, she’s pretty much nonfunctional, bedridden and hospitalized. I love money—really, I do, and I mean a lot, more than I care to admit, actually—and she’s an outrageously wealthy heiress with no heirs of her own who single-handedly owns the titles to a $100 million estate on the Pacific Coast in Santa Barbara, a $24 million country house in Connecticut and a $100 million, 42-room apartment on Fifth Avenue in New York City that overlooks Central Park.

I don’t want to overemphasize the size of the vast, comprehensive ocean that is Huggy’s fortune, but she shells out $342,000 a year just for the taxes and upkeep on her Manhattan apartment, which is the largest apartment in that part of the city. $342,000! More than I make in, oh, forever. She’s fucking loaded. She probably uses $1,000 bills to wallpaper her guest bathroom, $100 bills instead of toilet paper, $10 bills in place of Kleenex tissues, and $1 bills to pick up kitty litter and dead bugs.

But we all know that money’s not everything.

No, everything is love, all you need is love, and love is what makes the world go ’round. Love, love, love, love, love. And that’s precisely what I’m looking for in a woman. I want a loving, passionate, highly profitable and extremely brief relationship. I’m sure Huggy isn’t looking for anything long-term, either, mostly because she doesn’t have much choice at this stage of her life and will take what she can get.

So, here again, we’re perfect for one another.

Love.

Love, love, love, love, love.

Michael hearts Huggy, and Huggy hearts Michael.

It’s a matchmaker’s dream, and I intend to marry Huggy just as quickly as the two of us can find a willing county judge with a liberal attitude about presiding over May-December nuptials and an experienced estate lawyer who’s prepared to make sure both our wills are in iron-clad order.

I know what you’re thinking–that I’m a cad suffering from a mid-life crisis, or that Kerry is emotionally devastated by this development in our lives.

But don’t worry about Kerry.

Kerry’s a modern woman, and not at all clingy. We’re still very good friends, and she’s extremely supportive of my relationship with Huggy.

Extremely supportive.

In fact, while I’m off taking a bite out of the Big Apple and making Huggy mine, all mine, Kerry’s going to keep the house and the cars and the flat-screen television while I wholeheartedly enter into the welcome bonds of matrimony with my darling Huggy. And Kerry’s promised to remain in close contact with me—very close contact—just in case my second marriage ends even sooner than I expect and I need to rebuild my life.

With Kerry.

In our new apartment.

In New York City.

Overlooking Central Park.

While we wipe our asses with $100 bills.

Good God, how I do love you, Huggy!

Love, love, love, love, love.

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