The news broke yesterday that nine out of the ten top AIG bonus earners had returned their payments. Never one to avoid the obvious question, I couldn’t help but wondering who you were, the tenth person.
Is it sexist and racist for me to assume you’re a white male? Maybe. I’m picturing about five chins from eating too much, and additional appetites for hookers and luxury box seats. All things I could see myself engaging in more than I’ve been able if I was focused only on, “wealth building.”
We’re told that there’s an American Dream for everyone, that the playing field is increasingly leveled, but we both know that’s not true. You and your secret handshake buddies from Yale/Harvard/wherever have many advantages. Some of you were born into wealth, some have family connections to it, or Ivy League diplomas and the networks they bring. Your much bigger advantage over many of us, though, is your utter lack of scruples.
You raped our financial system. There’s no better word for it. You grabbed what you could, set the building on fire, and got the fuck out before the cops showed up. Or at least that was the plan.
Honestly, I couldn’t care less whether you pay back the bonus money. It’s a drop in the bucket compared to the damage you’ve caused. I’m actually pulling for you to keep it, because eventually everyone will know who you are. A secret that big won’t stay hidden forever. Either way, I hope to see soon some of your crew playing bridge with Madoff and others who put their greed above any concern for the whole.
I saw you on the street today rocking that canary yellow shirt with gigantic, seventies collar, a Pendleton, brown polyester pants and New Balance kicks. You looked exactly like me ten years ago, except I flew the Pumas and scruffy beards weren’t so much in fashion back then. About the only people who had them were the Pedro the Lion fans, and they tended to wear theirs sans moustache.
Now I understand, you may feel you’re way too cool for an industry event like SXSW. It’s actually cooler to stay home and diss it than to go, unless you’re in one of the bands or sleeping with them. But you’re missing out on secret shows, pool parties, and secret shows at pool parties. You’re also missing out on the chance to see how your hipster moves stack up against rock stars from all over the country.
Next year, please try harder. If you’re short on cash, hitchhike. You must know someone who knows someone in Austin who will let you crash in their garage. Or just sleep in the park, that would be pretty punk rock. It’s not like you’ll be planning to wash your hair, anyway.
The UPI is reporting that you finally caved. You’ll now, “share information on bank accounts with other countries on individual cases.” WTF?
Admittedly, we both know I don’t have money to hide overseas. I’m too occupied with racking up credit card debt to even think about saving, let alone jumping through all the hoops it takes to get a Swiss bank account. I’m a busy person. I have episodes of Secret Diary of a Call Girl stacked up on my Tivo.
But hey, it could happen. I could find a bag of drug money, or blackmail a politician, or just start selling drugs myself. I’ve seen Scarface like twenty-seven times. The world is mine.
The one thing I could always count on is that if I did manage to get my hands on a bunch of cash that I didn’t want redistributed to the unwashed masses, I could hide it in a numbered account. As long as I wasn’t messing around with Nazi gold I was good to go. Until now.
You’re trying to pretend there’s still secrecy, but we both know that’s spin. Once you’re willing to divulge information about an individual account to a government, it’s game over. There’s already a line of potential jailbirds. When I have my next money laundering fantasy, I’ll guess I’ll have to turn to e-gold.
I saw your performance Wednesday night on Hardball. At first I was going to say that segment made me want to throw up in my mouth, but that would be wong. It made me want to throw up in yours.
Mr. Fleischer, it truly boggled my mind that you could sit there smiling and utter the words “Bush recovery” together, until I remembered your previous employment as a paid liar. I’m not sure there can be a bigger straw man than an oxymoron, but for the sake of argument let’s assume you believe at least a tiny bit of what you said.
Let me offer the photograph above into evidence. I took it two days ago in downtown Portland, Oregon. You’re reading that correctly, it says eighty percent. That’s how sadly fucked this store owner is. Its a brutal time to be in retail, period, but this person happens to own a luggage store. It turns out that people don’t need a new suitcase for their staycation.
I’m not saying the Bush administration was bad for everyone. If you’re Erik Prince, for example, you probably spent much of the last eight years laying in bathtubs full of benjamins sipping dirty martinis. Prince was born into money, though, so he probably would have been doing that without Blackwater, just with smaller bills. Meanwhile the other ninety-five percent of us were staring at our blood running down the bathtub drain.
As disgusted as I was to hear your rationalizations, I’m very glad you’re out there talking up GW. Chris Matthews didn’t invite you on his show out of generosity. It’s a big help to President Obama to have a bunch of Bush cronies trotted out in front of the cameras right now. Try as you might, you can’t spin your way out of responsibility for this financial mess. The American people know better.
