It is the rich who can claim credit for all progress in this nation.
It was the silken-hosed and powder-wigged British seeking to extract ever-greater tribute from the Colonies that sparked the Revolution.
It was mustachioed and mutton-chopped railroad magnates who brought the Coolies and Irishmen to heel with ax handles and pistol shots that tamed the West and brought civilization to a savage land.
It was the waist-coated steel tycoons and their brick-toting strikebreakers that kept the roiling and swarthy immigrant masses in line and built the modern cities you ingrates live in.
I could go on.
These hooligans of the so-called Occupy Movement would do well to try to further concentrate capital at the top, if they ever wish to see their utopian pipe dream come to pass.
It is ONLY through the excesses of the Robber Baron that the rabble get roused and take to the streets.
Look here: if I have some opulent means of conveyance – a coal-fired velocipede, say, or a wood-burning dirigible – loaded with my concubines and the rest of my retinue, and we head to the hippodrome to place a wager on the cock fights, that conveyance can prove costly to operate, to say nothing of how noisy and soot-belching such engines can be.
Well what if I were to tell you that I and my associates have hit upon a source of fuel that is both virtually inexhaustible AND that is free for the harvesting on nearly any street corner in the world? What would you say THEN? Why, you would commend me for extricating this once great nation from the barbarous and dusky clutches of Arabian potentates and their control of the world’s petroleum.
Simply put: my associates and I have devised a simple means of converting engines to run on clean-burning peasant-flesh.
Why, with the peasants of a single province of Burma or the Congo, I could fuel my whaling fleet for an entire year.
At a stroke, we have attained energy independence, and have solved the more pressing Peasant Problem, as well.
It has grown so bad that when I send my chauffeur on a simple errand like fetching brass fittings from the purveyor of hardware, the auto is BESET by a dragoon of tattered hoboes laying their oily hands upon the chrome surround of the rumble seat.
I say why not harvest these fallen men and put them to use? Why are we not rendering their ill-spent and torpid lives purposeful? Why are we not butchering them and using them for fuel? I’ll TELL you why: TOO MUCH REGULATION at the Federal level.
On the face of it, I’ll concede my proposal is bold – but I think once you’ve learned its many virtues, you’ll find yourself unable to vote against it. My adversary this evening has / will no doubt plucked upon your heartstrings. Do not be taken in. I am appealing to your reason – I am appealing to your higher and more rational self.
Further, I am here to assure you that your insistence on the “dignity of all human life” is a relic of a bygone era. There are seven BILLION persons on the planet, most of whom were born on foreign soil.
It is past time that we recognize this singular moment of exploitatunity.
May I say to the more squeamish among you that my proposal is not restricted to the use of peasants as a renewable source of inexpensive fuel – far from it. My intention is that we take our cue from the savages of the Western plains – like the buffalo, I say we use every part of the peasant.
For example, did you know that by rendering the fat off boiled peasant babies, one is able to create a supple mustache wax without peer or equal? What remains can serve as an axle grease, or as a sealant for the deck of one’s yacht.
And for the business people among us: at the negotiating table, who can dispute the value of wearing a necklace of human ears?
And if you’ve not sampled peasant liver pâté, then you quite simply have not lived – I can further attest from my own observation that their days spent in the fattening pens are among the very happiest of their short lives.
For the style-conscious – peasant-leather spats are as spruce-looking as any you currently own, and peasant-skin gloves are so soft and yielding, they make calfskin feel like you’ve stuffed your hand down the gullet of an emu that’s been gorging on ground glass.
For the sport hunter – there is no more cunning game than the Street Urchin. They will keep for several weeks’ time in your root cellar – invite your friends out for a weekend of shooting. It’s not only great fun, but I can tell you this: my island compound has been poacher-free ever since we installed a garland of human teeth along the property line.
All these and a thousand other uses can be found for this bounty that sits right under our noses. If we but apply our intellect to the judicious use of the shirking classes, in a decade’s time we will have transformed the world.
Ladies and Gentlemen: to find against my recommendation regarding the responsible stewardship of this untapped resource is to name yourself an enemy of progress.