The Ripped-Off Are Restless

It is easy to underestimate the peasantry, the little people. They appear well under control. All seems calm unless one looks carefully. The means of control work smoothly: the legions, the church, the media, the secret police, the enforcers of political correctness.  The serfs are cowed. Why worry about a distant peonage? Do we not have our castles? Let us dance and drink champagne.

And comes the guillotine.

I know three young women of exceptional intelligence and talent, all of them mature and disciplined. They cannot find jobs. It is not from lack of trying, far from it. One of them is married to a hard-working man in a highly technical field usually associated with wealth. He is paid a low hourly wage and forced to work on contract, meaning that he has neither benefits nor retirement. His employers know that if he leaves, they can easily find another to take his place. They have him where they want him. sausages, Night Train, and Ritz crackers. Many do. Their organs eventually fail.

No one sees these things, so they cannot be important. A forty-five-minute walk away, in Colonial Village across Key Bridge in Virginia, I once bought an 835-square-foot condo for $140,000 and later sold it for $300,000. It is well that the economy flourishes. We live in a land of opportunity.

In this best of all possible worlds, the wealthy buy homes for $100 million and sleep secure in their beds, knowing that only half of the country would love to hang them from lamp posts. True, the rise of Donald Trump may disturb the elites a bit as they enrich themselves by sending more jobs abroad. But not to worry. Trump is only Mussolini by Disney and the fury his supporters feel toward New York and Washington will go away once we have Hillary in office. Flyover land doesn’t really matter anyway.

Unless of course, it does. In which case, Uber should stock up on tumbrils.

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