From the desk of the 1 percent
I have been informed by one of my simpering, sycophantic servants that “the people,” as the serfs of this principality laughingly refer to themselves, have recently risen in protest. On every corner of New York City, it seems, one cannot so much as raise one’s head from the velvet embrace of a gilded palanquin without being accosted by the stench of these ne’er-do-wells and their grade-school Marxism, each clawing for a sip of the proverbial chocolate milk. Fie, I say, this is my milk, and no discount baseball card or pennywhistle shall convince me otherwise!
It seems they suffer the misconception that the majority of this country’s wealth resides in coffers deep within the pleasure palaces of the so-called “1 percent.” For those of us privileged with the gift of literacy, it should be obvious that this wealth is in fact controlled by a far more exclusive cabal. I, a man of moderate means among those with the gumption to not have been born poor, have had the pleasure on multiple occasions of hosting a caviar affair at which more than nine-tenths of the wealth of this country was represented.
I recall many a time when the masses poked their heads from beneath the polished leather boot of their masters in industry and politic, their soot-caked faces pleading for their meager “rights” to be extended to the Irishman or the Catholic. What is to be done on this occasion, when, as my spokesmen in the television stations and their print counterparts have dutifully spoon-fed into the slack-jawed and drooling mouths of John and Jane Q. Public, the demands of these miscreants are unclear? Provide a boot with a slightly softer sole? This fails to satisfy these addled peasantry, besotted with the electronic novocaine we so gladly provide them in the form of digital phonographs and miniature Edison machines.
No, I say it is time for we captains of industry to reach out to the cold and huddled masses, reach out with a hand of friendship so that we may grab them by their filthy coat-tails and toss them back into the motorcar plants and pitch-black Emmentaler mines from whence they came. And so I say, to any provocateur who may be using this broadsheet as pitiful insulation against the coming winter: we welcome the opportunity to open a dialogue and discuss your complaints. Now get back to work. Dictated, not read, Prescott Quincy Wainwright Mark Wittels is a member of the Class of 2013.