October 7th, 2011
Dig through your closets, guys, and find your old blow-up sex dolls. Dress them up in gray wigs. Desexualize them with granny dresses. Take them to your Wall Street protests. They will represent your grandmother who’d like to be out there with you, but is bent with age.
Find a wheelchair, a gurney, or a simple wagon and stuff an old leisure suit with straw. Let that be your dad or your grandpa. Us old folks, handicapped or otherwise incapacitated, would like to be represented. The more space the protests occupy, the better.
Cobble up some effigies. Why not a pumpkin-head banker on a stick. Put a big cigar in his mouth for effect. Then foreclose on him. Bust the thick orange head with bats until the pulp falls out. Like at a child’s birthday party.
I know, I know, peaceful demonstrations, so the have-nothings can be spoken of respectfully by the bought media. Is Amanda Knox a bigger story than this? No. Michael Jackson’s doctor’s trial? No. This is front page news. Right up there with Steve Jobs — one of the few rich men who earned his money giving the world something useful.
Tom Wolfe archly named the bankers “Masters of the Universe.” It was satire, but the sociopathic ego is untouched by satire. “Yes, of course we are the Masters. Thank you Tom, whoever you are.” That was in the 80s and things have only gotten worse. As a student of the Third Reich, Master has a familiar ring. Would a Rick Perry enjoy adding three or four zeros to his 234? I don’t know. I don’t want America to find out.
We as a nation have been led to believe that we can be as rich as our masters — that’s why we didn’t bring these bullshitters down when Reaganism was taking hold. 100 million people believe that Christ will lift them up to heaven if they behave and do as their wealthy churches tell them. Nope, their money’s already been raptured up to the penthouses. But they’ll never join it.
My sincere thanks to the Occupy Wall Street protesters. Please keep it going. I hope to join you soon.