All Things Being the Same

You motherfuckers are fools.

If I had $16 mil, I'd be banging down my door for the pussy alone.

Let alone how much you'd make even having my personal number after this shit blows.

After all, how many times does an entire new premium sector come along in the most desirable industry in the world?

If the future of auto manufacturing above $32.5K were available would you bite?

Movies above $40 Mil?

Crystal encrusted cell phone dongles?

That's where the fucking profit is dingbat—didn't you read Trading Up?

You feel some sort of allegiance to the middle class?

What the fuck are you doing now?

Mass mailings?

Actuarial audits?

Writing code?

Negotiating leveraged buyouts of Sunbeam and Ronco?

What the fuck are you doing that you couldn't get $16 mil in loans and at the very least go out like a fucking stud?

As if anyone ever went broke manning up.

You're not really in that love with Wal-Mart and thrift stores are you?

The Barney's Co-op brand? (That's some cheap-ass shit, too.)

Are you really that afraid of the tattooed checker at the co-op?

Feel that insecure around punk rockers?

Think bikers are that "authentic"?

That indebted to Journey and The Stones?

Well, let's put it this way--

They ever going to pay your motherfucking rent?

Are they ever gonna put braces on your kid?

Afford you the time to take four weeks off a year and ENJOY IT?!!

Forget seeing Cannes, or Sundance, or floating the Ganges at dawn.

Are they even going to pay your heat bill when you have that heart attack at 55 and your kid's only 15?

The one due because your new $750,000 mortgage is still on an ARM.

You think you're making real money?

You aren't making shit.

And you'll see that very clearly over an extended period of time.

While you work your fucking ass off and watch everything you love float off into a frozen soup of stress you can't even see the bottom of anymore.

What got you—a $400,000 loft? (You can't even get a house for that anymore).

A two bedroom until the other kid comes?

Some $50,000 mid-level Acura?

Three $2,000 suits?

Please don't tell me it was $200 shoes.

I know you didn't go out like that, player.

Can you even afford one painting you really want?

Did you even buy the heated garage space with the condo?

Do you even have a Harley to ride if it was sunny, there was little or no traffic, and your wife would let you?

No, I'm not talking about a studio where you could sit and consider applying oil paint to canvas like you always dreamed of.

Or even the time to learn about different laquers.

I'm not talking about writing a screenplay and then going out to LA for a week to shop it.

Can you even afford a decent bottle of wine on the French Riviera?

Can you even afford for your wife to stay home?

Or to pay cash for the kids college—anywhere?

It all cost money.

And it's more all the time.

And they're going to take for everything you want.

Plus 10%.

I guarantee.

How long you been doing this?

20 years?

Did it ever get better?

has it improved even one year?

It's not your dad's world anymore—where it's kinda cute and you bar-b-que with the kids on the weekend.

They mean it now.

You're in competition with the half-starved millionaires in Bangalore.

The Chinese.

Everyone.

And they just let the lid off over there.

They'll work 7 days—what do they care?

There is no club anymore.

You think they'll even invite your sorry ass backstage?

Do they give a fuck about you?

No, they don't.

So you might as well teach their sold-out, neurotic, frozen chest asses how to make money.

What that shit they're giving up is really worth.

I consider it a public service, myself.

Stupid-ass shit.

Go ahead, go slave away and feel proud when your wife pats you on the back for bringing home an extra $200 grand after working four years without a bonus.

After missing seventy two soccer games and virtually three years of your children's lives.

Maybe that will deliver the proper mix of whatever it takes to inspire within you something resembling a power move.