Whom do you dislike the most when they talk down to you?
Is it men? When, from the perch of their patriarchy, they pontificate on issues all and sundry?
Those are not good folks.
But are they the worst?
What about money itself? Lots and lots and lots of money. All the PowerBalls run together.
Combined. In the hands of a handful.
When that handful of zillionaire hoarders decides to let you know what’s what, do you like it?
Used to be, they retreated to the Hamptons, Martha’s Vineyard, or St. Barts, discreet. They didn’t deign to speak to you except through layers upon layers of lackeys and domestics.
Much safer to launch a lackey into leadership, you see. Fund ‘em, train ‘em, trot ‘em out on the stage to run the old film-flam routine, I speak for you, we stand united, why the “CleanMakeAmericaFamilyChildSafePuppyCommunityTogetherHappyWorkResponiblity” Act is comin’!
And it will amaze you, folks! Pass it and we’ll really turn a corner! [Applause, tears, donations].
Four years later, when things look just as grim, just trot out a new lackey. Rewind. Hit play.
For a long time, the show went on. To rave reviews. But lately, it came to feel a bit stale.
“Why pretend any more?” the zillionaires thought. “Why continue this stupid charade of having our lackeys pretend not to be our lackeys? The country is ready for the truth. Our truth.”
And so, a zillionaire strode forth, eyed the lackeys of the past assembled backstage, and chortled. He donned his clown make-up, hoisted his obese frame onto a unicycle, and tottered out into the spotlight, machine-gunning lazy, vulgar one-liners left and right. And the crowd roared.
On the other side, next door, meanwhile, it was the same ol’ same ol’. The hired gun of the zillionaires strode forth once more with the familiar act. Responsibility, security, strength, experience. It sure felt comfortable. The audience nodded, smiled, slipped gently toward slumber.
But then something strange happened. In the back of the theater, an unkempt, wild-haired old white guy stood up.
“Why do we keep watching this same old stuff?” he asked. “Why do we keep letting them do this to us, on and on, over and over, endlessly? Why don’t we stand together and make our own show?”
How rude! How shocking! The people stirred, looked at each other, querulous, uncertain. A few bolted out the window and down the fire escape into the adjoining theater to watch the zillionaire.
The rest shuffled their feet. Several got up to stand with the old bald white guy with the weird eyes. Then a few more. Pretty soon a little less than half of them were gathered around, smiling, chatting, enjoying the new sensation of themselves being the spectacle.
But most of them shrugged and turned back to the show on the stage. It was, after all, what they knew. It was safe. The same words, the same act, the same stilted gestures, the same promises so artfully hedged everyone knew nothing would ever come of them.
They paid little attention to the rumbling in the back of the theater, and soon slipped back into a sleep so deep the disturbance evaporated from their memories, and even their dreams…
And after a time, the lights dimmed, the canned music softened, and inch by inch the curtain softly descended, drifting down like snow.
Soon, the ushers gently woke the dozing public and prodded them efficiently out the exits. Once they were all gone, the theater was quickly boarded up, closed for another four years. Which was good, for the people could not afford tickets for another show anyway. They would remain in their homes watching various explosions and various very pretty people on various screens in various rooms.
Thus concluded yet another successful run of The Rich-Splaining Reality Show.
Unless this year it has a different ending. We still have time to write a different ending.
from The Federalist Papers http://bitly.com/2EkxNgC
via IFTTT You’ve Heard of ‘Mansplaining’ – Now Get Ready for ‘Richsplaining’ http://bitly.com/2EkxNgC