It’s finally happy hour on a Friday afternoon. A client asks if I’d like to grab a scotch and a bite to eat after an exhausting day of diligent business and considerable success. We cab it over to a new Irish pub in the business district and walk into a sizeable crowd. Good music streaming lightly over the rumbling voices, a nice view of the city streets from the atrium, and an abundant selection of scotches that would please anyone from Michael Douglas to Johnny Walker himself. Now mom always said, "you don’t talk about politics, religion, or money with people you’ve just met," but sometimes it happens to be the most interesting of conversation one can have with another. Sometimes not, especially when you walk into a clustering flock of moronic and opinionated individuals. After all, Miami is all about money, tainted politically, and in dire need of some serious religion. As we start to mingle near the bar a friend of mine notices me and walks over to engage in our quarrel with new acquaintances. As he approaches you'd immediately notice his Prada suit and fat-knotted Ermenegildo Zegna tie loosened as if he’s had a long day. I only notice this because it happens to be my own personal preference in menswear, along with his Gucci shoes and diamond encrusted cufflinks. And the watch, forget about it.
Meanwhile as we engage in conversation I notice that some of the people we’ve met are very bitter about life in general. I feel as though their main objective is to venture out of their homes or offices and into the public grousing about their disgruntled mediocrity in life, blaming it on every one else but not taking responsibility for any of it. Often I meet people who are blatantly racist, obviously uneducated, pretentious beyond belief, or simply dumb. Someone reads a political article on Yahoo’s home page, and they talk to me like they write for the New York Times. Well I read the Times almost every day, and when someone tries to inspire me with some ignorant rant about Obama, the Middle East, oil prices, healthcare, or even Wall Street, I just humbly smile, listen, and wait. They continue to complain about government spending, wasted money on the space program, tax breaks for the wealthy, and especially the private purchase of my Prada friend’s new 85 foot Ocean Alexander motor yacht. And honestly, it’s their freedom and right to whine and criticize until their tongues fall out of their mouth. It’s my freedom and right to walk away, but I always have something to say.
Now during this moment of silence I feel I have the floor. I begin by breaking some things down for you struggling American voices, less fortunate, working your tedious jobs, and complaining about the cost of a boat or even the price tag on a pair of cufflinks. The mere fact that someone would pay for something so eccentric is beyond your scope and you continue to express your disgust. Is it the government’s fault that your car was repossessed? Is it my fault your home was foreclosed? I can almost care less about these people that failed to maintain adequate financial savings in the bank while purchasing a home that was 400% over their debt to income ratio. Thank you for helping cause the American recession, the banking and housing crisis, increasing national debt, and ultimately putting people out of work. Had you actually spent within your budget, invested intelligently, reduced your spending on credit, and simply saved your money, then you wouldn’t be here in front of me babbling about how you don’t have this, can’t do that, or why it’s everyone else’s fault but your own. It seems that you enjoy whimpering about how the system has failed you while you sit at this bar running up a tab that you most likely cannot afford, go home to the house on which you overextended yourself, driving home in the car with an upside down value, the entire way complaining to the steering wheel about how the government screwed you over, when in all reality your poor financial judgment living paycheck to paycheck ultimately drove this nation into a financial recession.
After a few moments of silence, the bartender approaches the bar and breaks the awkwardness by handing me my American Express card. I sign and thank her, and before I walk away with my two friends to seek out a more enjoyable social atmosphere, I turn to the disgruntled group and say, “here’s another handout, your drinks are on me.”
