Go Find Yourself Another All-Purpose Scapegoat!
The Economy
Issue date: 4/24/09 Section: Business
Okay, so I might have goofed up a little. There were a few times where a "my bad" on my part was certainly warranted; I squashed a few dreams, ruined a few lives, and perhaps even dropped a baby or two. But that baby dropping occurred when I got excited that "Slumdog Millionaire" won all those Oscars-it gave me hope that people would stop blaming me for all their problems once they saw how slum life could look appealing if only filmed through the right high-definition lens.
But back to the matter at hand. I am tired of people blaming me for all their problems. To paraphrase the inimitable Samuel L. Jackson, "I'm tired of these motherfuckin' whiners always on my motherfuckin' case." In the first place, stuff isn't that bad. McDonald's still sells McFlurries, we have an African-American in the White House, and there's still no country in the world that has more guns per capita. My children might not be able to go to college, but they'll always be able to get a job as a greeter in the third or fourth local Wal-Mart. The fundamentals of our economy-obesity, alcoholism, and prescription drugs-have only grown stronger in these trying times.
But even if I stumbled, took a misstep or two, and deserve some blame for evaporated 401ks and the return of powdered milk to kitchens across America, there is a limit to what you can blame me for. Erectile Dysfunction? Bitch please-Viagra from the Internet was still cheaper than a family-size box of Lucky Charms the last time I checked, and unless watching CNBC used to arouse you, I'm not taking the fall for that one. Contrary to popular belief, Bernie Madoff was not my accomplice-he screwed me over when I tried to invest some of my wife's inheritance without her knowledge.
The coffee at Starbucks is not terrible because of me: some of the barista's disdain for all things pedestrian just happened to slip into your cup. The roommate who leaves his back hair all over the shower is in no way affiliated with me. Even though the guy in the reeking Volkswagen Beetle who took your flea market parking spot is poor, he has been in that altered state ever since he licked a small piece of paper with a smiley face on it in 1968.
But back to the matter at hand. I am tired of people blaming me for all their problems. To paraphrase the inimitable Samuel L. Jackson, "I'm tired of these motherfuckin' whiners always on my motherfuckin' case." In the first place, stuff isn't that bad. McDonald's still sells McFlurries, we have an African-American in the White House, and there's still no country in the world that has more guns per capita. My children might not be able to go to college, but they'll always be able to get a job as a greeter in the third or fourth local Wal-Mart. The fundamentals of our economy-obesity, alcoholism, and prescription drugs-have only grown stronger in these trying times.
But even if I stumbled, took a misstep or two, and deserve some blame for evaporated 401ks and the return of powdered milk to kitchens across America, there is a limit to what you can blame me for. Erectile Dysfunction? Bitch please-Viagra from the Internet was still cheaper than a family-size box of Lucky Charms the last time I checked, and unless watching CNBC used to arouse you, I'm not taking the fall for that one. Contrary to popular belief, Bernie Madoff was not my accomplice-he screwed me over when I tried to invest some of my wife's inheritance without her knowledge.
The coffee at Starbucks is not terrible because of me: some of the barista's disdain for all things pedestrian just happened to slip into your cup. The roommate who leaves his back hair all over the shower is in no way affiliated with me. Even though the guy in the reeking Volkswagen Beetle who took your flea market parking spot is poor, he has been in that altered state ever since he licked a small piece of paper with a smiley face on it in 1968.
Be the first to comment on this story