The Myth of Wile E

Income-wise, Outcome Foolish

I received a brand new postcard from the county treasurer, informing me that my delinquent Real Property taxes were now "in DEFAULT," and must be "paid IN FULL before the July 15th Tax Sale Date." I wasn't quite sure what that meant, but the tone had a certain "OR ELSE!" quality I didn't much care for.

I checked my available balance at the Mason Jar on That Shelf in My Kitchen, and found I was still short of the $41.67 I needed. (Wait-make that $42.93, as of the latest postcard.)

Something would have to be done, income-wise. While I'd never want to be a Captain of Industry, being a Skipper of Sloth could leave me a castaway.

I suppose you might be asking, why not just sell my house to the mogul already? I mean, really? Well, I could only speak for myself, because to the best of my knowledge, no one had ever asked the possum what he thought of the idea, or the spider, or any of the trees around here. As far as I know their opinions were never counted.

Anyway, I suppose I could sell my rhomboidal home to the mogul, which would leave me homeless and landless, but with full pockets. And no doubt the mogul would suggest (via helpful advertisements) that I could use the profit to rent a home from his property management companies and buy my food from his grocery stores, gradually transferring all my temporary gains back into the mogul's pockets. Eventually my pockets would be empty again, and the mogul would have all his money back. But, the thing is, I would not have my house and garden back.

Then I'd have no choice but to indenture myself to the mogul, working in his cubicles and toiling at his cash registers, yoked every day to the shift clock. Of course, even just to get a job I'd need to buy things. I'd need newer clothes and shoes, and a haircut, and probably some sort of car, all of which I could conveniently obtain at the mogul's shopping plazas. I'd need to buy an alarm clock so I could wake up for my shifts, and probably a phone so I could call if I was late, and I'd need to buy fast food during my brief lunch breaks-all of which, again, the mogul would be eager to sell me.

My life would be commandeered by a Captain of Industry, and I would be retrofitted and converted from a mere human, be-ing, into one more productive-consumptive citizen.

Well, I for one would not be sold into jobbery. It seemed pretty clear to me that this was a giant scheme, and the only one who would win was the mogul.