A new wave of hate mail came in this morning. A small army of college students (they must be college students, because the e-mail addresses all contained a .edu suffix) wrote to call me the usual laundry list of nasty names, and to look down their oh-so-superior noses at my shameless, out-dated, bourgeois attitudes about everything from Illegal Immigration to the Heartbreak of Psoriasis.
There's a general consensus amongst these Complete-Strangers-I've-Never-Met that I must be a fat, rich, Conservative, Christian hater, so lacking in basic human compassion and "awareness" (whatever the fuck that means), that I can spew forth the most vile and venomous hatred imaginable -- and that I'm probably getting fatter and richer while doing it. I know your "Professor" probably put you up to it, if only because your missives were all eerily similar; there's no way you came up with this utter bullshit on your own.
What can I say? You've caught me out! You're all so fucking clever! Boy, I wish I had gone to college and got me some of them kinna smarts! But, in my defense, please allow me to offer the following explanation for my disgusting misdeeds, so that you may better understand me and the great pain my privileged lifestyle causes. It is the burden of this incredible wealth that makes me such an asshole, you see.
You see, I awake every day at about 11:00 a.m. I do this because, well, I don't need to work, what with my enormous stake in all those child-labor-intensive tennis shoe factories in India. And the Chinese Recycled Puppy Organ factories (the ones my brokers got me into. That IPO just took off, dude!), which enables me to draw the most incredible dividends without having to lift a finger. Earning wealth? Why, I'm stealing so much wealth from the Deserving Poor, that I no longer need The-Job-I-Used-to-Get-Paid-Six-Figures-For-But-Which-Now-Belongs-To-Some-Douche-in-Hong-Kong-Who-Gets-Paid-15-cents-a-Week.
I make the Catholic Church, AIG, and Haliburton all seem like penny-ante operations!
Once I count up the overnight receipts, I get into my $3,000 Armani jogging suit (only fine South-African-Baby-Skin for me!), and take the gold-plated elevator down the 11 stories to the ground floor. I step gingerly out the front door, taking nary a step before I'm certain my Filipino Umbrella Boy is there to protect me from the deadly rays of the Sun. I walk down the flight of stairs at my front door (Whew! Four steps! I simply MUST put in an escalator), and gingerly step over the bodies of the thirty-or-forty people who died there overnight for lack of health insurance, ready to step into my sparkling, fossil-fuel-gulping stretch SUV.
I'm told it gets something like 4-feet to the gallon, highway
My transgendered-half-Haitian-half-Nicaraguan-three-quarters-Tibetan chauffeur, whom I beat three times a week, and pay 17-cents a month, opens the door for me before taking me for my morning constitutional to the local Starbucks -- four blocks away. However, because I fervently wish to destroy the planet with Carbon Dioxide, I instruct the driver to take me on a quick jaunt through Philadelphia. There, I make certain that I stick my middle finger out of the back window and laugh at "the working poor", who's only job seems to be collecting aluminum cans out of other people's trash cans, or fashioning crackpipes out of common household materials.
Still, it's an honest day's work, I'm sure.
I send Driver into the Starbucks, and he returns a short time later with my Double-Latte-Triple- Caramel-Mochiatta-with-extra-whipped-cream, only to have him make me box his ears because he's forgotten the 4 pounds of Madeleines that I will stuff down my gullet this afternoon while I lay in my hammock, and the Two One-Quarter-Liberian-Three-Fifths-Azerbaijani-One-Seventh Thai girls I keep on staff fan me with oversized-ostrich feathers, and feed me peeled grapes and Beluga. Naturally, when I've had enough of that, I will of course rape them and dispose of the bodies, knowing that if the police come looking for me, I can simply buy my way out at trial.
Done it at least a dozen times, you know.
When we arrive home, I find 10 more dead bodies on the croquet lawn -- probably illegal aliens seeking landscaping jobs -- three having apparently kicked the bucket giving birth to crack babies. No matter; when Manuel, the humpbacked four-sixths-Cree-Indian-two-one-hundredths-Mexican-eleven-twelfths-Pacific-Islander-groundskeeper-that-I-pay-no-Social-Security-taxes-on is released from his damp-and-darkened basement lodgings, he will simply clean them up with the rest, or I will sell his children into slavery.
I then spend the late afternoon at the pool, where my yacht "Mother Gaia's Twat" is tied up. Wait, did I say "pool"? Sorry, I meant my private inland sea that I created by the simple expedient of digging a large hole in front of my palatial, beach-front estate, and then sending Mamaluccaboboday, the one-fifth-Kalahari-Bushman-two-fifths-Iranian-seventeen-forty-seconds Cambodian, who makes $5 a year, in my private jet to the North Pole to kill polar bears with an RPG launcher and a dull butter knife so that the ocean levels rise just enough to fill it.
For shits and giggles, I instruct the crew (32 of them, all of Yemeni-Maori-Eskimo descent) to put the pedal-to-the-metal, sending all six of the 13,000 horsepower engines into overdrive to send my 132' dinghy crashing over the salty waves at a brisk 7 knots-at-32-gallons-of-diesel-fuel-a-second, while I sip Muay Thais out of Blood-Diamond-encrusted goblets -- a personal gift from Ken Lay before he passed on. If we're lucky, we run over an Atlantic fur seal or twelve during our circuit, and I have the pelts fashioned into pocket handkerchiefs with which to blow my nose. Once.
Alas, evening falls, and I must retire to the main dining room -- which has more incandescent light bulbs than the Las Vegas strip -- to dine upon a succulent feast of Dolphin, Spotted Owls, and Siberian Tiger, prepared for me by my three-quarters-Korean-one-half-Hungarian-five-ninths-Cuban chef, who spoon-feeds me every last morsel, and then lets me shit in his hands and thanks me for the privilege. I check the stock quotes (made another 5-mil off the Laotian Embryonic-Stem-Cells-for-food Program, today -- thanks for the tip, Bill Clinton!), and then watch the O'Reilly Factor during my evening Shiatsu. I am now ready to retire to my luxurious Super-King-Sized-stuffed-kitten-fur bed -- complete with a canopy with pictures of Glenn Beck, Sarah Palin, Bernie Madoff and Adolf Hitler, all of them my childhood heroes, emblazoned upon it -- visions of dollar signs and starving Sub-Saharan waifs dancing behind my eyelids, a smile upon my lips.
And so ends another productive day of Raping the Earth for Personal Profit.
However, the drudgery only begins anew the following morning. Oh, the horror of this dull routine! And look at this financial news: Kazakh Sex Slaves down another 4 points this morning! However do they expect me to pay for ObamaCare and still have fresh ostrich eggs for breakfast every morning at this rate?
It's no wonder I'm such a miserable bastard...
Well kids, there you have it. I know Professor Dickhead, who found this site quite by accident, and only turned you on to it as a valuable lesson in the fine art of Hurling-Invective-At-Strangers-Safe-Behind-The-Anonymity-of-the-Net-as-Political-Discourse-Project for your Toilet Training 201 course, but really, is this how you think? Or rather, is it how you're told to think by an aging hippie who didn't have the talent for a real job?