Eat the Rich

Scott Adams, though (like the rest of us) he is a goober in many ways, certainly understands the crux of class warfare. The problem isn't that there are rich people, but that there are rich people who aren't us.

Me, I'm not bothered that there are rich people who are not me. But I am bothered when I hear other people get all hot and bothered about it. Want to be rich? Do something worthwhile that will make you so. Start some hopelessly doomed social media startup (I certainly know what that's like) or become one of those young entrepreneurs whom we read about in the paper but seldom encounter in real life.

I think this is something the Hermit of Iapetus is going to encounter:

Like convicted felons, I get love letters. There are many lonely women on Earth and Mars and Mercury and one persistently lonely woman on Titan who write me letters. They send me locks of hair and lockets to put them in; they send me letters in scented envelopes and packages containing condoms and bars of lavender soap. Many of them want to have my children.

Why, I ask them -- and I do ask every one of them, reminding them that despite the boatloads of soap sent to me over the years, I have not had but sponge baths in fifteen years, and only fifteen sponge baths at that. I do not shave. The refuges I have are tidy but odiferous, as there are many waxes and resins trapped int he crust and ice of iapetus to send out noxious odors that permeat everything I own, even the lavender soap.

But they write and write and tell me they love me and want to join me here if only, if only, if only I would say yes.

I give them the address of the federal prison on Mars and, for the most part, I never hear from them again.

Then there are the haters. Those who ooze out of the woodwork or concrete or steel to tell me they hate me because of my scraggly beard, my smelly refuges, my loneliness, my independence, my ruggedness, my taste in footwear and music and politics and reading matter and religion and the fact that I have not voted for a Democrat since I put myself in exile -- outside the political system -- fifteen years ago. It doesn't matter to them that I have not voted Republican either, nor for the Mars Independence Party, nor for Mercury Rising Patriots, nor anyone else for that matter. Nor that my ruggedness has devolved from melting refuges in Iaptetus' crust to going without ice cream.

They seem to hate me because I am here on Iapetus, free from the stucco box, as Orwell might say, as they toil in theirs no matter what orb they find themselves on.

"Please," one Earther writes, "moon me every day as you walk around on that crusty moon. Knowing that, somewhere in the cold void above my head, your ass hangs out of a space suit to mock me may make my days better. The best days are, of course, when I don't think of you at all. The worst days are when I know no matter what I try, I will never have your independence. So moon me, and may your ass freeze and fall off and leave a crater in the dust."

All that energy in hate. All that energy to write a letter and to find a post office that sells intrasolar postage -- the media have been kind enough not to reveal my electronic address, though the sellers of viagra and dating services find me well enough.

And so on. Something like that, anyway. Just an idea for now. But since my blog is my brain, better out than in, I say.