Moneyguy

 

Ok, what’s the deal with these guys?

People whose entire purpose in life seems to be the acquisition of money, and the wretched and petty power over other humans that goes with it.

I mean really? Really, Moneyguy? Is that really the best you can do?

And the answer to that would appear to be such a resounding and thunderous “yes,” that Moneyguy is fundamentally incapable of, down at the lowest levels of his internal wiring diagram, seeing or conceiving that some alternative view of things might actually exist out there, in some mythical place or other.

To say that Moneyguy is convinced of his rightness is to understate things to a comical extreme.

Moneyguy is a complete fucking idiot.

But he just happens to be a complete fucking idiot who has gathered unto himself the ways and means of making other people’s lives far less enjoyable than they would be had Moneyguy not entered the picture.

But of course Moneyguy not only wants to be in the picture, he wants to be in the exact center of the picture, and also raised up above all else around him to an absurd extent.

Moneyguy is not only an idiot, he’s also deeply fucked up psychologically.

And you and I, dear reader, have, therefore, to put up with his lies and manipulations on a constant basis.

Moneyguy will step directly on your neck as he goes about his malevolent business, and will do so with a breathtaking lack of concern for you, your neck, or anything else for that matter.

And down at the bottom of things somewhere, that word “business” would appear to be one of the foundation stones that the rest of this bullshit stands upon.

Whether it is even true that he said it or not, Napoleon’s famous slur against the British stands as a warning against the places Moneyguy is coming from, and the places Moneyguy is going to:

“A nation of shopkeepers.”

Consider that one for a while.

Follow the multiple chains of reason implicit in that marvelous nugget of brevity out to their farthest ends.

Out to where the sharpened hooks are.

And then consider your own yielding flesh, to see if perhaps a few of these very same hooks might be embedded therein.

Who might be pulling on them from the distant end of the chain?

And where might they be seeking to pull you?

Running a business is all well and good, and if it’s food you’re selling, the people around you might have a bit more to eat as a result of your efforts. A laudable thing, to be sure.

But turning an entire town into a false and tacky tourist trap, complete with fake surfshops, fake steel-drum bands, hell, even fake beachsand, overflowing with drunks, condominiums, hotels, and rental cars, is not so very well and good, and turning an entire nation into a vast prison for wage-slaves, ala Walmart, ala the Koch Brothers, ala et al., even as it concentrates more and more wealth into the hands of fewer and fewer owners, is even less well and good.

Moneyguy don’t give a rat’s ass.

Moneyguy is here to take and here to dictate and if you don’t like it, well then tough shit for you, loser.

How did it ever come to this?

How did Moneyguy get this way?

Moneyguy had a childhood, once upon a time, and he may even have been pretty nice company to keep. Hell, Moneyguy might even have surfed.

And surfing is one of those things that people tend to associate with a relaxed view of things. A sense of the aesthetic. A joie de vivre. An understanding that life is for living.

And yet, somehow, Moneyguy winds up in yet another wood-paneled office smelling of new furniture, surrounded by other fuckwits in three-piece suits, discussing yet another plan for squeezing their neighbors out of a bit more money and power.

What a cold dark little world that must be!

And yet, in Moneyguy’s eyes, it’s the apex of existence. The top of the heap. As good as it gets.

Whatever in the name of holy fuck went wrong, Moneyguy?

Moneyguy can’t tell you.

Moneyguy’s been lying to himself and everybody else for so long, he’s completely forgotten what the truth might be, or how it might even be expressed.

Everything, everything, EVERYTHING, is seen through the prism of acquisition, is passed through the filter of “how does it benefit me personally,” is viewed only as a number on a ledger sheet, closely guarded and hidden in a back office, only to be seen by a very few trusted sets of eyeballs.

All else is ignored.

IN TOTO.

And in his supreme arrogance, Moneyguy believes himself fully authorized, nay mandated, to bulldoze and pour concrete anywhere he wants to. To bully his employees and pay them next to nothing, forcing them with steel pincers into lives of desperation and privation, even as he brags about “creating jobs.” To build towers filled with wallets and purses looming right next door to that single-family dwelling that has been there for the last fifty years, shrugging his shoulders and smirking as the inhabitants, the people who live in that single-family dwelling, futilely seek redress for their unasked-for, and spitefully altered, circumstances from a system that is rigged against them by Moneyguy's fellow lawyers from the ground up.

And there is never any end to any of it.

Moneyguy never has enough.

Moneyguy has never taken enough.

Moneyguy always needs more.

Those of us who read our history know how this one must everlastingly play out, and it’s never a pretty picture when it happens.

The people, eventually, no matter how long it might wind up taking, will have their say.

But it’s a shame to note just how often people having their say involves bullets and flames.

Why Moneyguy?

Why?

 

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