Friday, March 13, 2009

Vitriol For Capitalism and the Man

Today was messed up. I can’t explain, but I watched a slew of people I know walked out of the front doors and out of a job because another small group of people mismanaged and miscalculated their business model.

That’s life, I’m told. That’s how the world works.

For just a few moments, and a few sentences I want to take off my adult hat and my knowledge of how the world of American business functions, and I want to be a free member of the human race and of the universe. I want to think and feel; as usual. Bear with me:

I absolutely loathe money. I have hated it since I was conscious. I hate business, I hate banks and suits and privilege and wealth and excess. I hate the nine to five workday and I can’t stand spending the best years of my life making money for other people. Remember, businesses aren’t faceless. Humans make the decisions. The economy is in turmoil not because of abstract ideas like capitalism, the economy, interest rates and the stock market; it is your fellow humans that did this to us. To all of us. We all helped. Why? Because, as a culture, we want to roll around naked in money.

Business rewards liars. Salesmen are all liars. Business rewards the sneaky, the conniving and the soulless. Those are the tenants of managerial material. In fact, to succeed in business, you must subtract all that makes you human and unique. It is required to play the game.

But we know what will happen when things pick up again. The economy will behave a little differently and Americans can’t be the top dog like they want to be anymore, but it will all go back to the same materialistic gang bang mentality it has always been. Things count more than people. It is a sin and a crime to be poor. Business runs the world.

So, I’m back. That felt better. Well, a little bit.

I also want out. I want out in a big way.

Here are 16 things I’d rather do with the rest of my life:

Be a lumberjack. But only the fictional ones that eat a lot of pancakes. Not the real ones on Ax Men with missing limbs.


Design homes. I would specialize in homes for spies and people who want to emulate spies. Lots of trap doors and secret rooms with secret panels controlled the movement of classic American literature.


I want to be a bacon sommelier. Just be a world expert in sampling pork bellies.

An explainer. I want to explain aspects of American culture to others and take snapshots of their confused faces. And then make collages out of those photos.

I want to be List Czar. A government appointed master of all internet lists concerning sexiest women, coolest movies, worst songs and best place to eat a burger in the rain. All lists must be submitted to me for validity. (Most will not make the cut.)

A stationery stand up comedian. Come to my house. Grab a snack and I’ll tell you the jokes. Then you can go out and get shitfaced and smoke elsewhere.

Flying invisible ninja.

Professional Spell Check. I already do this for free. Time to get paid.

I want to be the guy who keeps children from falling off cliffs while they play in the grain fields. (I think I heard this from somewhere.)

I want to run a pizzeria. Only if I can wear an old school Pisan aprons and know everyone that walks in the door. And play the White Stripes in the restaurant.

Make movies based on door to door visits. I knock, I walk in, and I ask everyone to tell me a movie they’d like to see made. I pick the dumbest idea and make $300 million.

I’d like be a guy at the zoo that helps distract visitors when the bears are humping or the monkeys are throwing poop.

Copy writer for NFL players. Four sentences for post-game interviews and I’d be done for the season.

I want to be a crisis counselor and mediator. Only for problems that occur in the home surrounding Monopoly and trivia disputes.

Any one of those plus a slice of universal health care and you wouldn’t hear a peep out of me.

If you haven’t, catch Jon Stewart rip finance-whore Jim Cramer a new one.


  1. This is my favorite of your essays (or whatever the hell you wanna call 'em) yet.

  2. One's wealth is most often proportional to the product of the degree of one's willing to be an asshole multiplied by one's good luck.