So the obscenely rich aren’t just profiting off us, they’re laughing at us. The wealthy scum floating at the top of New York society have an annual dinner at which they dress up and sing parody songs and gloat about their money and privilege, and this year a reporter crashed the party and wrote it up. It’s as disgusting as you might imagine.
He was eventually caught out and escorted out. It’s a good sign that he wasn’t summarily shot or even knouted, but that the frantic billionaires tried to bribe him not to run the story.
I wasn’t going to be bribed off my story, but I understood their panic. Here, after all, was a group that included many of the executives whose firms had collectively wrecked the global economy in 2008 and 2009. And they were laughing off the entire disaster in private, as if it were a long-forgotten lark. (Or worse, sing about it — one of the last skits of the night was a self-congratulatory parody of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen,” called “Bailout King.”) These were activities that amounted to a gigantic middle finger to Main Street and that, if made public, could end careers and damage very public reputations.
Young, naive, idealistic reporter (they still make those?)! They knew nothing would end careers or damage reputations — they don’t really care that much about what the little people say about them, except that they might face a slight loss of dignity with people they normally just wipe off their shoes.
The press is in their pocket. Nothing will be done. No outrage will follow. The Occupy movement dribbled away into ineffectiveness. The next presidential battle will be an absurdly extravagant event between an array of corporate stooges who are entirely reliant on donations from billionaires to get elected. They can piss on us all they want, and we’ll argue ferociously over which grand protector of the pissoire we should vote for.