Old Man Potter wrote:
Well, sir, you are not me. Why waste time with deeds when money is more than adequate? That is a question of a rhetorical nature.
Now, I have stated my side very frankly. Now, let's look at your side.
Young man, thirty-four, thirty-five... married, making, say... forty a week. Out of which, after supporting your tomatoes, and paying your bills, you're able to keep, say, ten, if you skimp. A pet or two comes along, and you won't even be able to save the ten.
Now, if this young man of thirty-four was a common, ordinary yokel, I'd say he was doing fine. But Tall Midget is not a common, ordinary yokel. He's an intelligent, smart, ambitious middle-aged man — who hates Bruce Weber–– who hates the CSFMB almost as much as I do.
A young man who's been dying to get out on his own ever since he was born. A young man... the smartest one of the crowd, mind you, a young man who has to sit by and watch his internet friends go places like Spain and Lolly Palooka, because he's trapped. Yes, sir, trapped into frittering his life away playing nursemaid to a lot of gas grill roasted garlic-eaters.
Do I paint a correct picture, or do I exaggerate?
Now, why don't you take some of those tomatoes that you love so much and make a soup out of those?
I'll tell you why. Because that many varieties of tomato in one soup would be a disgusting melange of flavor.
Confound you, Potter! You misunderstand me entirely. I thought you were a master chess player, but now it seems I have learned you amount to nothing more than a pawn in the great game of life.
Certainly my earnings pale in comparison to the great captains of industry, the Rockefellers, the Carnegies, the Fords and so on. It is true that I do not spend the ordinary Wednesday evening at Twenty-One dining on the finest Delmonico steak money can buy. Rather, I have spent many a day scraping for the scraps left behind by the leisure class, with ashes from the smokestacks strewn across my face and the stench of the stockyard soaking in to my every pore.
But if you think I am willing to be bled dry by taking on some household pet completely laking in utility, or a tomato garden whose upkeep will only drive me deeper into debt, then you are not the shrewd observer I had taken you for.
Potter, I am close to acquiring the most amazing talking beast, a creature the resident hoi polloi worship as some sort of minor deity, a curious mongrel cave dweller commonly known as Dr. Kenneth Noisewater. When I finally thrust this clown beast into his cage, I will ship him off to the finest freak shows on the North American continent, where he will entertain the dullard masses and reap rooms full of treasure for me. I will then use my profits to become the Tomato Baron of North America. Potter, these hippies today are aging rapidly, but their vanity forces them to cling to their youth and looks. They will lap up my various tomato products like the lap dogs they are. And I will laugh all the way to your bank. Come, Potter, join me in this noble venture and I will allow you to profit from the wanton appetites of the very skulking bohemians who have plagued you for so long! What say you good man?
_________________
Antonio Gramsci wrote:
The crisis consists precisely in the fact that the old is dying and the new cannot be born; in this interregnum a great variety of morbid symptoms appear.
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