A comment from a spelling-challenged reader who keeps sending me inappropriate advances for things usually reserved for newlyweds (read my profile on the right):
I also was scheduled to fly on 9/11, returning from a 3rd-world country that has been occupied by the US for sixty years, where the chief cause of death is self-hanging and cholera, while the US troops just a mile away play miniature golf beside their two swimming pools.
Instead, I watched two hi-jacked planes change the world. That morning I woke to the fact that a former CIA operative and son of a billioaire wants to remind me not to forget.
I took it personally. I fight poverty, something stock brokers haven't the slightest thought of in pump-and-dump.
Quit your bitching. Sell some paper.
And I respond:
Delorus, if your comment made better sense, I'd have a pithy response. As an alternative, allow me to pass a suggestion: Phonetically spelling words you don't know how the meaning of adds nothing to whatever connection you're trying to make with a "son of a billioaire[sp]", my travel habits and what some soldiers in various parts of the world do when they aren't managing the local's lack of desire to live in the sh!thole they call a country. Maybe if we added a few more sweatshops to the landscape of Junkonesia, we'd be able to offer more jobs to malnourished kids so they could engage in the joys of capitalism by getting blistered fingers weaving the designer clothes that are paid for by my "stock broker" commission-only income.
Believe me, Delorus, I'd much prefer having a job like yours, one that offers a predictable, guaranteed bi-weekly paycheck that ensures that my dealer won't have to front next week's weed. I'd love to know that for the 12 hours a week that I punch a clock, I'll emerge with just enough money to justify the "woe is me" story that allows me to squelch money from the breeders who squeezed out that Census' average 2.3 money-suckers and paid for my liberal arts degree just so they could tell stories to their coffee friends about "how hard he's trying to find a job teaching peace studies in Japanese Braille to Portuguese kids with no hands."
Instead, I'm a white male with a high school education who understands that the only difference between the human race and what you see on Animal Planet is that humans get their sustenance in a moderately less bloody fashion than a cheetah. While this may not resonate with someone who spends a slab of their week directing people to Beaverly Hills Cop 9, the people who employ you understand that if they aren't excelling in their business of being a smut hut, they'll starve. Hate capitalism all you want, but know that by indulging your eyeballs on a post that I tossed together between closings more than 6 weeks ago, you just made a stack of Google shareholders enough money to pay for your sex change and the 12 months of gene therapy that proceed it. Hang around long enough and you'll have enough for a year's supply of eyeliner.
While you allow your life to be directed by guilt, I've never found it to be a convenient emotion. It gets in the way of fulfilling my dreams and keeps me from enjoying the fruits of my labor. Guilt even has the tendency to make me feel sorry for the people who stand on my local corner with both feet, holding a "will work for food" sign with both hands. My heart goes out to them, right up until the point I remember that one of my favorite restaurants is run by an Asian monoped who just got off a boat 37 seconds ago and speaks in smiles and handshakes. So, while I decide whether the money I'm allowed to keep after paying taxes should go to my next Chai tea or a guy with enough money to pay for a Sharpee and not a sandwich, I marvel at the immigrant who waited in line and who has the energy to learn the language of 200 year-old country who doesn't officially have one, instead of the broken version glorified on MTV and the Oscars. Give me the tea, with an triple shot of spite.
I find it mildly amusing and thoroughly pathetic that of all things in the world a pacifist in the U.S. decides to "fight", it's the only thing that is 100% preventable - poverty. While you march for the crybabies who were born two miles from the most productive parts of a state - the metro area - allow me to celebrate the people born 2 feet from an earthen latrine who decided to construct their dream 10,000 miles away in a sweaty kitchen, mainly because they didn't have the kind of music that celebrated the delinquent choices that cemented their static role as the world's richest poor people.
So please, the next time you decide that my being inattentive to my blog is a sign of weakness, remember that just because my heartbeat isn't detectable doesn't mean I'm unprepared to strike.