The Collapse of Our Plastic Altar

Dear George,

Now is the time for decisive action! Men go to Wall Street; real men go to Geneva and open a Swiss bank account after converting whatever’s left of their assets into gold. Today is the day I thank God for the gold caps that conceal my rotting teeth.

Speaking of God, we’ve got a little problem here. You tell us God wanted you to be president, to which I must ask, “What in the hell did we do to piss off God?” We emblazon our currency with, “In God We Trust”. Don’t you think God could return the favor instead of letting it tank?

It doesn’t make sense. We join the Church of St. Milton of Friedman expecting heaven and we end up in hell. Okay, maybe St. Milton wasn’t one-hundred percent correct in everything he said, but there has to be reason for our economic meltdown other than the purity of his theology. Maybe he made a wrong call when he said economic freedom leads to political freedom. It’s a nice theory but in practice the results are the exact opposite. Economic leads to political oppression because the ultimate act of economic freedom is theft, and those that got won’t hesitate to use the power of the state to keep what they have.

I’ll give you credit for giving it your all to get the bailout passed. You haven’t lost your touch when it comes to mongering fear. The only problem is that to monger fear successfully, you’ve got to have credibility, and yours in is the crapper.

In truth, I’m not sure the bailout would have made any difference had it passed. The meltdown was inevitable, because capitalism is a monster unlike any the world has ever seen. It is a monster impeccably dressed and coiffured; its skin moisturized and flushed with the blossom of Botoxed youth. Periodically, its lips, augmented with multiple injections of hyaluronic acid, move sluggishly as they whisper a single word, “More!”

And the monster’s minions, driven by an instinct that goes deeper then sex, pile the monster’s plastic altar higher and higher with worthless paper with in a frenzied ritual reminiscent of a scene from Hieronymus Bosch’s triptych, “The Garden of Earthly Delights,” until the altar collapses beneath the weight. There follows a loud gnashing of teeth and rending of garments as the minions engage in a circle jerk of blame, blaming each other for the collapse. And in all the chaos and confusion, none of them hear the quiet voice suggesting that maybe the collapse was the monsters fault.

So, they glue the altar back together and, once again, start pillaging the land for more worthless paper to pile on the altar, as the dance begins anew. And the further they move away from the collapse, the further memory of the crash recedes, lost in the fog of the eternal now that sees only the altar and hears only the monster’s whispered, “More!”

Your admirer,
Belacqua Jones