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A Man Who Has Nothing In Particular To Recommend Him Discusses All Sorts of Subjects at Random as Though He Knew Everything

Oh. My. God! The Overchoice Is Coming!


You know, I’d love to just snicker behind the back of people like this. Riding in a limousine, reading a crummy script he’s considering to make a few hundred lousy grand that’ll keep him in cigars, booze, and hookers for another month or two –or at least until his beluga caviar and suet diet makes him pop like a zit– but I can’t. That’s a luxury, like most luxuries, that I can’t afford. I can’t because I’m the sort of guy that these old grandmothers want to trap in amber, or plunge back into poverty, because they’re desperate to avoid “overchoice” in our lives. And by “our lives” he means “your lives,” of course, not his. Remember, being a big deal is a zero-sum game.

But what if you buy the wrong stuff? What if you spend your money on braces for your ugly kids or renting a jet-ski for your two-week vacation, instead of plane fare to Davos or a PAC contribution? You boors. You untermenschen. You proles. Get back on the tram to your concrete dovecote and wait for the crummy teleplay I’m reading in the first scene of this bedwetting fearfest to to come on your black and white TV and ennoble your miserable existence.

Look, you cutting edge monomaniac scaremongers: it doesn’t make a dime’s bit of difference to me that you’re the obverse of a crabby old senile grandma now: Take off your sweater, dear, because I’m hot! I’m pushing fifty and I’ve heard your apocalyptic paralytic mewling half a dozen times, already, no matter what flavor you’re peddling — this cataclysm is too cold… this millenarian vision is too hot… this bovine flatulence threat to the arctic circle is just right! –and I’m sick to death of all of them. And I’m sick to death of you, and your mouthbreathing messianic messengers, too.

Listen, all you Throckmorton Arnold Devonshire-Smythe IVs: please join the country club like decent people used to and complain about the little people through clenched teeth. Wear pants with whales on them, just like everybody that flies on a private jet should, and leave the people with more spine than trust fund to navigate the foaming seas of “over-choice.” We promise not to let the real world intrude on yours, and we’ll keep those greens looking sharp, if you’ll just shut the hell up.

6 Responses

  1. Every time you put a load of 00 buckshot in the 70s, that execrable decade rises again, zombie-like, to haunt the living and feed on their brains.

    Why won’t the people who know how to run everything just go away to some distant island, create their socialist utopia, and leave the rest of us alone?

  2. Those dang futurists have taken away the comfortable feeling of stability we got from disease, malnutrition, infection, immobility, ignorance, superstition, fixed social strata, subsistence farming, and limited communication.

    When I was a kid, we didn’t have all these fancy choices, and we liked it!

  3. You will sell no whine before its time, eh, Orson?

    But, hey, reel #2 was decrying false intimacy and meaningless no-string encounters. Even a blind pig?

  4. But tell us how you REALLY feel.

    I listened to this idiots TED talk; and he takes one little good idea and improperly generalizes it into a huge collectivist authoritarian philosophy.

  5. Hey, let’s keep in mind that Welles was NOT one of those people.

    He did crap like this because he desperately needed money. (Which perhaps makes it worse from one standpoint.)

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