Why You’re Not a Millionaire (Yet)
Quagmire: You vote like a millionaire, but you’re not one. I mean, you WILL be, one day, because duh. You’re one of the few who Gets It.
But why aren’t you a millionaire yet, chronically oppressed Republican male? After all, it’s a common fact that No One Works Harder Than You. Yet, if that’s true, why do you pull in slightly-above-poverty wages? If you work The Hardest and make $25,000 a year, then how unfathomably, heroically, giganti-hard must those handsome CEOs work to pull in $25 million?
These are hard questions to ask yourself when you look/sob into the cracked mirror of the tiny, broken bathroom of your RV that doubles as your end-of-days survival tank.
The truth is, there are many reasons you, a macho, camouflage-hat-wearing, service-truck-driving, Hannity-worshipping, red-blooded white American, isn’t among the blue bloods yet. That’s why you wisely invest in your future by voting for politicians and policies that explicitly fellate the rich and no one else.
As we celebrate/try not to get rage face because of the existence of Be a Millionaire Day (which May 20th), let’s look at all the real reasons you, wise Patriot, are not rich… yet.
All Your Elderly, Eccentric Aunts Were Assholes Who Died Poor
If Great Aunt Leona or Great Aunt Fern had not been terrible humans who never married and spent their meager earnings on cat food and trips to the river boat casino, one of them could’ve left you an inheritance. And this act of love would’ve lifted you up where you belong. Where eagles fly. Into the crosshairs of your assistant Nigel, who would then shoot these eagles and stuff them for display over the fireplace mantel in your cavernous gold office.
You Keep Getting Fired By Men Who Look Like Mitt Romney
But you’ll always vote for men who look like Mitt Romney, because men who look like Mitt Romney are rich and so are you, on the inside.
It’s Very Hard for Rich People to Find Your Address
Maybe they’re misspelling your name when they Google you? Because, let’s be honest, if they knew where you lived, they would’ve stopped by in their ivory helicopters by now and plucked you from your filthy working class neighborhood and spirited you away to a world of country clubs, cognac and Cayman Island tax havens. Because, really, rich people would TOTALLY LOVE you. You love the same things! Like tax cuts for millionaires. And tax cuts for billionaires. And stop and frisk.
No One Wants to Invest in Your Business Idea
Even though it’s completely obvious that in five years everyone will have a hot dog that tells time.
You’re exactly not sure how, but you know they’re ruining everything for you. People who are different from you get treated like they’re so special, which makes it hard for people to notice how special YOU are. How do you stand out from such an annoyingly diverse crowd and get picked, Hunger Games-style, by those oligarchic heartthrobs to ascend to their echelon of opulence?
Because, again, if that austere hedge fund manager could just find you, see you, touch your weary face and see the flickerings of Ayn Rand’s individualism in your determined eyes, he’d save you. Love you. Hold you. Caress you. Coo in your ear. Kiss you. Softly at first, almost like phantom kisses. Then harder, faster, manically urgent. Tongues searching, aching, battling for dominance like two throbbing, engorged money-swords…
Gay Men Registering at CB2
You don’t know how, exactly, this has kept you from being rich, but deep down you KNOW it has.
The Estate Tax
You have no idea what this is, you just know it makes you SO MAD RARRR HATE HATE HATE LET THE BILLIONAIRES TRANSFER THEIR ESTATES TAX-FREE AFTER DEATH GRRR RARRR DEFEND THE RICH DEFEND THE RICH DEFEND THE RICH OH GOD WHY DO I HATE MYSELF SO MUCH DEFEND THE RICH!
John Loos is a Chicago-based writer and actor who has performed with The Second City at Sea and recently joined the faculty of The Second City Writing Program. He’s an ensemble member of GayCo Productions and performs in the two-man sketch and improv duo Pinque Pony. He can be tweeted @johnlooswins.