We Are the One Per Centby John Kenney
November 28, 2011
Average wealth of the top 1 percent was almost $14 million in 2009, according to a 2011 report from the Economic Policy Institute.
—Washingtonpost.com.
“Shit is fucked up and bullshit.”
—Sign seen at the Occupy Wall Street protest in lower Manhattan.
We, too, have mobilized.
We come from near and far, by any means necessary, some on private jets, others on extremely large private jets.
But you will not find us sleeping in a park and waiting in line at a Burger King to urinate. Have you heard of Mustique? Because that’s where we have mobilized. Don’t bother trying to Google Earth us, though, because we have proprietary military software that prevents you from doing so.
Our numbers may be smaller than those demonstrating in New York and other cities, but we are still a movement, coalesced around a cause, sleeping two and sometimes three people to a villa.
Perhaps you are wondering what our cause is. Perhaps you’re wondering why we, the richest people on the planet, have come together. Perhaps you’re curious whether what we’re undertaking couldn’t technically be called a vacation. These are all good questions.
We’re angry. We’re angry at something we’re calling “imagined frustration.” By this we mean that, except for Congress, the White House, banks, major lobbyists, and the editorial boards of Fox News and the Wall Street Journal, no one is listening to us. And we’re tired of it.
You claim to know something about us. You think we are rich beyond comprehension, that we can do anything we please at any time, go anywhere we want at a moment’s notice, wander the earth in a state of constant bliss, enjoying abundant and fabulous sex. Perhaps you do know us.
There are those in the more liberal press who have questioned whether the wealthiest one per cent truly understand how difficult life is for so many Americans right now, and to that we would say— Oh, look, someone just brought in lobster and a Bollinger Grande Année.
Except for money and the almost unnatural flawlessness of my skin, we are no different, you and I. I don’t know who you are or what you look like or how much money you have in the bank. Nor does it matter. Because we’re just men. Unless you are a woman. Or a child. Or a pony. But ponies don’t read magazines, do they? Unless they’re precocious ponies, like Mister Ed. And he wasn’t real. But I think you get my point. And that is: we are the same, except for the coarseness of the skin on your elbows. Do you know that feeling, upon waking at 4 A.M., heart racing, your mind looking twenty, thirty years down the road, wondering how you are going to make ends meet? Worrying about what would happen if you lost your job, asking yourself how you’re going to pay for your kids’ college or retire? Well, I don’t. But I read a story about it once and remember thinking, I’m so glad that’s not me.
from the issuecartoon banke-mail this.What do we want?
Here is our manifesto, still very much a work in progress, as it’s cocktail hour and several of our protesters are out at the pool:
—All wealth should be shared equally among the wealthy.
—Eradicate poverty. (Note: Maybe a clearer way to say this would be “Eradicate the poor.” Need to discuss.)
—End business as usual. (Note: Several members like the sound of this, but they don’t know what it means. A suggestion has been made to add the word “hours” after “business.”)
—Implement a rule whereby the public cannot look at us and must keep a distance of at least twenty feet at all times.
Yes, I have more things—more homes and cars and planes and art and underground passages and satellites and private militias and a person whose only job is to grow hair that is genetically identical to my own. But when you take off your pants and I take off my pants and we stand facing each other as naked as the day we were born, except for socks, all I would ask is that you feel my skin and tell me it’s not the softest skin you’ve ever felt on a man. And also realize that we are the same, except for the fact that I have four submarines.
Shit is fucked up and bullshit.
We agree.
Except that we would substitute “money” for “shit,” “awesome” for “fucked up,” and “squash courts” for “bullshit,” and add the words “cannot be used for more than ninety minutes. Please respect club rules. Thank you.” ♦
Read more http://www.newyorker.com/humor/2011/11/28/111128sh_shouts_kenney#ixzz1eVJQ8xPt
Yes communications are good. Thanks for the invite Williams. The funny thing is that I too have been contemplating a myspace account and was thinking that my out going qoute would be "The war in Iraq has made the world safer and more stable". I would like to post some political stuff where everyone could read it. Or more people than I hear it with now, ie no-one.
Interesting information for anyone who cares (just a disclaimer so read on brown). Guess what I have realized this year? I learned that it is easier to be a socialist when you don't have an income and just sit around getting high one or three times a day. At least I read that somewhere or something.
That does not mean that I have lost respect for my old boheiman ways. It only means that I come home late in the day and feel the life not ripped out of me, just slowly sanded out. Which is where you guys come in. Ah friendship.
ps. I got a myspace account. My name is Ideotechnical. Props to all who know why.
I concur. Communication is good. Although I will not sign up for myspace. I'm not sure why. I think I fear being found by old allys turned enemies. There are a lot of people out there that I ended communication with for a reason. And the last thing I want is them showing up on my myspace page with a bunch of superficial questions about "What I'm doing?" while they quietly judge me. Wow. Blogs bring out some demons.
Like the bear I started my own blog (you basically have to to sign up.) So I think we can visit each other's blogs and post comments.
Love, Faust of "Faust's House Blog" located at http://adamfaust.blogspot.com/
Well surprise surprise, Lee has been a socialist since his junior year of high school. Although former roommates could attest to that after asking him to buy the next round. His casual nod and request to stay right here always left me wondering if he would actually come back or if I should go ahead and give him my money for our next round of drinks. Love you dude.
Williams, congrats on the new job and location. I am sure your former roommates in Tennesse are sad to lose the three way split on the bills. I think I'm down for New Years. I'm sure we can embarrass ourselves in any city.
My big fear with the blog arena is the opposite of Faust's fear. I know non of you all will quitely be judging. In fact, I doubt anyone will pass up the opportunity to judge out loud. Looking forward to it fellas.
Lordy lordy look who's forty. Lee is gonna be that middle aged man driving around in a 5 year old civic with about eleven bumper stickers. All the stickers will be carrying the same theme. The theme being something along the lines of "Out with government in with cool" "Taxes are for pussies" "I didn't vote for him" "Turn them off. TV's own You" "Sharks stole my baby, where's my peyote?" I love you Kid A
Hey brown remember when Lee & Brad fought in our disco kitchen over the war. AMAZING. only time in my life I've witnessed Lee act like faust.
cheers-
Well hello there my so called friends...just playin fellas. I am officially popping my blogger cherry. I really wasn't into creating my own b/c well i didn't want to put in the effort. Now I am here and loving it as I spend many lonely days with the most vulgar and dirtiest men on the planet. I had a guy tell me a story that involved the phrase "fuckity fuck fuck...fuck those motha fuckers" only to end with "well fuck me in my ass those fucking bastards". Classy.
I am getting this tingling sensation in my pants and it's not the herpes...i mean...shit
This is a perfect means of communication. Good job A-dub Hub but names gotta change. Anyway I am going to walk around the boat aimlessly and see if I can pick up any other interesting phrases to tell my boss.
Sincerely,
The Bone
(don't know where the nickname came from but it's growing on me like genital warts...my mom would be so proud)
Myspace is great for networking and making yourself look cool. Plus there is soo much 'vag' out there its ridiculous. To date, I have fucked 56 bitches from my friends list. Nothing tastes sweeter than intergalactic pussy...