Rich Old Balls Rot Rich Old Brains

Simon Moya-Smith

The rich age much differently than you and I.
 By the time the inordinately opulent oligarch reaches 70, he's spent a lifetime excessively indulging in anything money or muscle can buy. That's a lot of whores and hubris, caviar and orgies in the Caribbean. Yes, his mind has gone all to mush. Right. These people, the wealthy, have lived a life of mostly yes's and very few no's, and if at any point a 'no' dares challenge their gentry, their sense of entitlement, they immediately and brutally beat it into a 'yes' and then brag about it later to other inbreds over monkey brain risotto.

There is, in fact, little difference between a wallet and a truncheon to these bloodsuckers, these braggarts because life-long privilege does irreparable damage to that gentle organ which commands our central nervous system. Understanding the toxic, pickling effect of privilege can help you better comprehend thugs like Donald Trump, Dan Snyder, the Koch brothers and, lately, Rudolph Giuliani. Even a superficial examination of their actions is a savage trip into the narrow mind of greedy gargoyles who'd rather wipe their ass with dollars than share the wealth.

So, yeah, what to do ‘bout Giuliani? He seems to be imploding, foot in mouth, head up ass. He said President Barack Obama doesn’t “love America”, then, later, in a Wall Street Journal op-ed, the cynical crank backpedaled and said he just doesn’t agree with the president’s candor.

“I didn’t intend to question President Obama’s motives or the content of his heart. My intended focus really was the effect his words and his actions have on the morale of the country, and how that effect may damage his performance,” Giuliani wrote.

So, here, we learn that Giuliani is not a fan of constructive criticism without pairing it with American exceptionalism and chest pounding. Consequently, it’s easily safe to say that Rudy is the embodiment of my – our – blockade to shed God-like light on shitty sugarcoated holidays like Columbus Day and Thanksgiving, et al. “Don’t question my country,” his kind threaten. “In the name of God and country, I will strangle you into a patriot.”

Clearly, serving as the paid pit bull of the privileged has addled the complex gelatinous slab in his skull. The only other explanation would be that he suffers from syphilis, and that the disease has recently attacked his cerebellum.

(And the take away here, folks, is that there is a one-in-a-million chance that syphilis, not privilege, is at the root of all our problems. So, practice safe sex. Wear a rubber. Check it periodically to make sure it’s still there. Free rubbers for all! That should be someone’s campaign slogan in 2016. Fix this country right up and save the brains of billionaires in the process. “Senator! Jack Ass McCranky, FAUX NEWS here. I’m curious about your slogan. Some say it’s a bit inappropriate.” “Well,” the candidate says, “I think a lot of the country’s problems stem from a lack of condom usage. Can you imagine if we gave those things out for free? What if we instituted a rapid condom delivery service? I think it’s imperative that we have a mechanism where America can get their condoms as fast as they can a chicken tikka masala, don’t you?”)

Before we went off on pipedreams about condoms and candidates, we were talking about the seriously rich. Lo, they are the kind of predator that first fuck their prey before devouring them whole, sipping a glass of expensive red, staining their fangs in the process. Good, they say. It strikes fear down the food chain. The bottle of red itself could've paid for a week's worth of grub for a poor inner city family in Chicago, or maybe several dog beds for a no-kill animal shelter in New Jersey. And what have dogs done to these bastards anyway to deserve such cold-shouldery? And the family, struggling to pay both the utility and water bills, what have they done to these sour suits, these ostentatious shitwits? Wave green in his eyes and watch his junk rise. And it’s all junk. Head to toe. Heartless junk. Mindless natter between counting dollars. “Gotta hurry,” he says. “The next orgy is in 15 minutes.”

OK, then. You’ve been warned. Don’t say you haven’t. Here they come. They’re always coming. They hide behind rocks. Cash in their socks.

Simon Moya-Smith, Oglala Lakota, has a Master of Arts degree in journalism from Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism. He lives in New York City.

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