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Dear Boss Man: Stick’em Up!

By Chuck Richardson

06 September, 2005

Dear Boss Man:

This is a stick up. It’s time you recognize my innate dignity. Why should you have any privileges when you constantly trample on my rights?

Hurricane Katrina was the last straw. It all started with your god, Ronald Reagan, and his religion of trickle down economics. Now it’s all going to end with a new system—blow up finances.

I know, I know…you say violence is wrong, that I should turn the other cheek. But I only have two of them (four if you count my overworked ass). I’ve been bitch slapped and spanked for so long I hardly notice it anymore. I’ve labored my whole life, but you won’t even let me see a doctor, get healthy food, or have a subsistence retirement plan. I’ve sent my sons and daughters to maim and kill other poor folks all over the world, seen my kin and offspring blown to pieces for your enrichment, watched my parents and grandparents moved from one nursing home to another as they closed down to save you money, been arrested and put on trial for getting what I needed, and ridiculed and laughed at for my bad manners.

But enough is enough. I care as much about you as you care about me. I wasn’t socialized to hide my ruthlessness as effectively as you have. I’ve been brainwashed to believe if I worked hard, played by the rules, took my vitamins, went to church and was nice to you I’d be materially rewarded. I’d been convinced I could pull myself up by my bootstraps, but when I tried to do that this morning I realized they’d been washed away in the flood, the waters you so swiftly ran away from. I may be the one who’s all wet now, but I’m ready to make a big splash. I’m gunning for what you've stolen from me with all I have.

What’s that? You say that’s not much? Well then, let me tell you what I’ve got. I have you in my crosshairs. I’m your bodyguard, your cook, your barber. I’m the guy who cleans your pool, the woman who washes your clothes and takes care of your kids, the doorman who let’s you in your high rise tower while keeping out your undesirables. I’m the guy from across town that mows your lawn, the masses that allow you to feel superior, gifted and worthy. I’m the guy who fixes your car and drives you around, who calls you sir and treats you with respect. In short, I’m the one who knows where you sleep, what you eat, when you go to work and come home, whom it is you love and hang out with, and what you’re doing to the planet. In other words, I’ve got you more than you got me. I go places and do things you’re afraid of. Your money has made you a counterfeit man. You’re nothing without me, but without you, I’m free.

You can’t buy me off any longer. Your horded wealth can’t protect you. Your Lexus and mansion expose you for what you are: A nasty brute with a me first attitude. Your groupthink puts private wealth above social obligation and has destroyed any concept of community and shared interests and values. When disaster strikes, we’re screwed first, but you’re next. If you can’t share your wealth, we’ll spread our poverty.

It’s now obvious that success, or at least your brand of it, is immoral and unethical. You’ve replaced fairness with greed for too long, now you’re going to pay for it. When you got nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose, and now you’re going to discover how that feels. Your paying lip service to equal rights (your belief that we all get what we deserve) is about to bite you in the ass. It’s now your turn to expose your other cheeks—bend over and take it like a man. Let’s see how exceptional you really are. You fought a revolution and forged what you call a great nation because you didn’t like paying taxes to a distant king. We fought a civil war to end slavery without pay, you financed it to further line your pockets, realizing if you gave a lot of people a little bit for services rendered, then we could buy from you what we made.

We now realize that the system you created to protect and enhance your wealth does not serve us well, that no matter what we do you’ll never let us join your club. You despise the nouveau riche almost as much as you despise us. Their hypocrisy hasn’t been refined enough for you yet.

Well, I tell you what: Those days are over. Your wage slaves are about to get in your face. We’re going to take what you’ve been hording and give it to those who need and deserve it. May your goddess, Ayn Rand, spin in her grave, as the real Atlas is about to shrug. You can run, but you can’t hide. The gates of your communities are about to burst like the levies.

May your god help you, we won’t. We don't want to be a Hilton as that causes too much suffering. This isn’t the beginning of some revolution. It's a crusade.


Chuck Richardson, American Dissident

The author lives in Western New York, where the business community has overtly taken over the government and plans to close public hospitals, community health centers, and privatize public education and services, among other things, to save itself money while increasing poor folks’ production and forcing them to exist more efficiently. He can be reached at










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