Kevin (erf_) wrote,

  • Music:

get a job, yuppie


No, asshole. Fuck off. I ain't got no handouts for you. What do I look like, a fucking venture capitalist?

Prospectus, huh? Oh? You got a prospectus? "Leveraging our market share to capitalize on synergistic growth opportunities." That's real funny. Real funny. Where'd you learn English, dipshit, the Yale MBA program? Come back when you learn to speak American.

Like I give a fuck that you just bought a limo on your expense account. Maybe you'll be a little more responsible with your money next time. Oh? You've got to make payroll for fifty thousand employees? Really. Really now.

Look, pal. I see you out here sitting your ass out in front of this Starbucks every day, waiting for some fresh capital. I ain't stupid. I know you ain't out here bothering hard-working, decent Americans because you want to invest in new product or get a bite to eat. You white-collar types are all the same. "Oh, look at me, I'm just an honest, upstanding member of society trying to make a decent living! Please give me some money so I can live the American Dream!" Fuck you. You don't know shit about the American dream. If I give you fifty bucks you're just going to blow it on booze, hookers, and cocaine. I bet you'd run straight to the club in your fancy black silk shirt the moment I paid you. You wouldn't even wait until I was gone, wouldn't you.

Answer me. Wouldn't you?

I see scum like you out on the streets every single day. You don't work. You don't pull your weight. You contribute fuck all to society. Whenever you are not flying from city to city in your sorry little luxury jet asking people for money, you are sitting behind a polished mahogany desk in a nice little air-conditioned office ordering people around. While some of us are fixing toilets, writing software, or curing cancer, you are getting paid six figures to guess which stock is going to make your company ten times as much money as the profit it makes selling useful goods and services. And when you're wrong, you don't have to suffer the consequences--your workers do. Look at you, eating at a different French/Korean fusion restaurant every day, sitting in front of your 72-inch plasma TV in your fancy midtown penthouse watching Sex and the City with your three Asian girlfriends. You've never had to cook. You've never had to clean. You've never had to worry about anything but your own ambitions, or give time and effort to being part of a community, or even wipe your own ass. When you fall on your ass a dozen lackeys push you back up from behind and say, "Oh, It's okay! Everyone makes mistakes! In fact, it was our fault! We're so sorry!"

Look. Look me in the eye when I am talking to you. You sorry motherfucker. You don't even know what consequences are, do you. Company loses money, fire some employees. Company goes under, file bankruptcy. State covers it. You always come out on top. Look at you, sitting on that $3000 leather couch, smoking a bowl in your tie and your dress pants. Not a care in the world. You paid people to tell you you're smart, you paid people to tell you you're beautiful, that you made it to the top by hard work and intelligence, and you believe it. Almost.

I bet Mom is real proud of you, isn't she. Real proud. "Oh, look at my son, look how wonderful he is. I'm so happy I raised a fat lazy slob who does nothing all day but eat organic nachos and play Solitaire in his $5000 ergonomic office chair, because he makes six figures and we paid his way through a brand-name business school and that's all that matters to parents like me." I bet she doesn't know about the countless hours you spend alone in your apartment, day after day, surrounded by tasteful Ikea furniture and shelves full of books you never read, staring up into that thirty thousand dollar painting that has never gotten you laid. I bet she doesn't know why you feel so empty when you go to the opera with your personal assistant and can't relate to a single thing that's happening because the entire realm of human experience is alien to you, because you see war and poverty and romance and strife and are reminded only of memorized factoids from your high school history textbook. I bet she's pleased that you've never dated a woman who didn't love money, though I don't think she'd be so pleased if she knew why. I bet she doesn't know about the nights when the party is over and the last of your friends have gone home, and you're sitting on your couch nursing eight half-empty flute glasses of Remy Martin and the rain is thundering against your picture windows at hundreds of miles an hour and you wish you had the balls to punch through the glass and let that shit in.

I bet she doesn't know you've never deserved a single thing you've earned.

Listen to me. Listen to me. You so-called "successful" people make me sick. Sick, I tell you. Our country wastes billions of dollars of taxpayer money on industrial subsidies, trade tariffs, and useless pork-barrel public projects just so that people like you can keep on having champagne and TiVo nights every Wednesday. Wherever you go, the trade in drugs and prostitution flourishes. You drive up land values, sell out our livelihoods to foreign companies, and shackle the invisible hand of the marketplace with monopoly and false competition. The world could be ending all around you, the poor and the desperate could be screaming out for relief, and you, quite literally, could afford to not give a shit.

That's how you deal with it. Isn't it. Write a check, send it to a charity, done. Never have to get your hands dirty, do you. Never have to bring yourself down to bring someone up. You will never have to look into the eyes of someone who needs your help and hates you for it.

I've wasted enough time on you. Some of us have real jobs to go to. Some of us have to dig through trash cans for our evening meals, and have nothing to sell but our own dignity. You really want to turn your life around, you seriously want a hand up, you do it yourself. Sell your shares, quit your post, and start producing some fucking goods and services. Leave the penthouse and the TiVo and the call girls and smack behind. Write a song. Build a house. Flip some burgers. Or leave it all and see how it really feels to be forced to live off the generosity of others. Let's see how well you really go when you've nothing to lean on but your own merits. Let's see how meritocratic you think the job market is then.

Get off me.
Tags: wall street, writing
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