Some Free Advice

Hi, Rich Person!

I'm so glad to share the space with you at this moment. I'm practically dazzled by your diamond cufflinks and/or ruby brooches. Your manicured fingers flit for emphasis as you regale me with tales of your exotic adventures. I am left reeling by simply estimating in my head the possible costs incurred for hiring a personal rail car that hauls your well-toned ass across the country while insulating you from the hoi polloi. Really. I'm impressed.

I'm also thankful that you deem to share your stories with me. My eyes have been opened to a world that I will probably never get to visit. Your trips to the Carribean make my trips to the Mexican border pale in comparison. I've seen the Canadian Parliment building and sat in on a session. You've hung out with MP's. Real British MP's, not the British Lite (Canadian) ones. You've met mayors and sheiks. I've met Maynard's with the shakes.

Still, I've always felt that I could hold my head high around you. I never felt inflamed that you get a tax break for every hummer you buy. I've never begrudged you the opportunity to buy me lunch. I've laughed at your tales of hobnobbing with the goobershmoosers. I respect you for who you are.

But, here is where I draw the line: Please don't complain to me about your hired help. Don't try to get my sympathy when your butler scuffs the woodwork because he forgot to take off his shoes in your home. Don't try to make me laugh at the way your maid decides to clean your plush wool carpeting with dishwashing detergeant. I cannot commiserate with you here. I cannot find joy in these stories. So stop it.

Thank you,
Flannery Alden
Card Carrying Member of the Lower Middle Class