Thursday, July 16, 2009
The Million Millionaire March
There are enough Rolex watches in that crowd to pay off the national debt.
CAPITALISM? When Ayn Rand wrote Atlas Shrugged, she never envisioned the response of Manhattan and Los Angeles liberals to an outright burst of totalitarian conquest. She was thinking about a rebellion of people who had actually done something to generate their wealth -- innovators, industrialists, neurosurgeons, technologists. She wasn't thinking about advertising executives, PR flacks, boob doctors, brokers with suspenders, or even (shudder) investment bankers. These aren't people who are prepared to make either a principled stand or mount a political counteroffensive. What do they do? They RUN. Either they flee to states with lower tax rates, or they run to Washington, DC, for the purpose of protesting the hardship of wives who can't have their roots done while they're being fitted for whole-body transplants and total head rebuilds.
The rich aren't quietly withdrawing. They're refugees in full flight. From New York City, from Los Angeles, California, from everywhere there are people who just can't believe that their savior Obama really does want to take all their money away.
Traffic is at a standstill on the Taconic Parkway...
Who knows where they're going? Are there cotillions in West Virginia? Country clubs in Missouri? Debutantes in Iowa? THEY DON'T KNOW. A kind of panic has set in. Can cellphone contact with attorneys and accountants acquaint them in time with the tax advantages of states like Forida, New Hampshire, and Nevada? No one knows. And what's more, no one is listening.
Already, their terrified flight has resulted in the sad phenomenon of "Obamavilles," pitiful ad-hoc communities where tired millionaires accumulate in spaces without even decent Internet service or Michelin restaurants:
Obamavilles. There's no one who can diagnose their unique limo ailments, fetch
caviar, differentiate local wine from what's potable, or procure adequate pate.
Yet such is their desperation that they continue to flee -- from Beverly Hills, from Manhattan, and from, uh, Manhattan and Beverly Hills, seeking the better life they told everyone else would flow from Obama even while they denied it came, in fact, from Reagan and the Bushes. Can you imagine how thoroughly pissed they are? They gave that creep Obama every cent of the money they were allowed to write off in order to make him president and NOW he wants to double their tax burden!? FUCK!
Which is why they're headed to Washington, DC, for the Million Millionaire March.
But even the rest of us should be upset (a little, anyway) about the millionaire internment camps the administration is smoothly rolling into place to prevent them from reaching the capital.
There's no botox, no champagne, no masseurs, no nips and tucks.
And they're even being hunted down in their native lairs, before they can get on the road and flee.
Like something out of '30s Berlin. They give up without a struggle.
Tragic, and yet the plight of millionaires proceeds, on and on and on, as if it actually mattered.
They gather in hopes of convincing the One they care like crazy.
As if people like this have anything whatsoever to do with the real businesspeople who create two thirds of the jobs in this country -- the owners of hardware stores and John Deere dealerships and electricians and plumbers and the fuel oil suppliers and the gas stations and the garden stores and all the other entrepreneurs who make the wheels turn and the gears grind. You know, the ones who really are going to pay for Obama's nightmare vision.
There ought to be a Millionaire March on Washington, DC. There won't be. The people who do all the real work can never get it through their thick heads that if they stand up and finally say, "NO!," things really would have to change. They're too busy working. Unlike the Obamas of this world. Who are always too busy scheming how to wring more bucks from the people who do the work they're too lazy or entitled or ignorant to do.
We never had a grifter president before. How does it feel, oh you shiftless, guilty, parasitic, fake-me-out urban millionaires? Pretty damn fine, eh?
Bailing out from the bail-out economy. At maximum speed.
Run, run, run, da doo run run. Or run run away.
Either way, we've pretty much had it with you.