It may not be the funniest idea in the world, but it's close, to think that we humans can manage our way out of all the trouble we've been causing for ourselves. The economy ain't entirely subject to the laws of physics, poot. At least not the laws that they talk about at those TED conferences and overfunded think tanks. Some little social scientist writing formulae on a chalkboard and wagging his finger at the college-educated congregation. Maybe somewhere down the line his sleek models will look like our bloated reality. Until then you better hang onto your Ouija Board and keep some cabbage in your mattress.
Shoot, it's getting chilly in here and there's no money to pay for propane. Cold water comes out of the tap brown and there're mice turds all over the kitchen counter. The mailbox is full of fliers from discount retailers, credit bureaus, and insurance companies. Fat-arsed politicians think we hunt deer and squirrel for sport.
Go online and read the first half dozen pieces on the economy you come across. It's clear that nobody knows what to do about the seized-up engine. Should we stimulate it or starve it? Raise revenues or rescind taxes? Extend credit or reduce debt? Manufacture for export or make our own shite? Bolster confidence or scare the bejabbers out of people or, better yet, do both at the same time. The Great Correction my arse.
It's effin embarrassing -- the wankers next door scarf down red meat and chiffon pie while we eat macaroni and cheese out of a box. Only other thing we can afford down at the suprette is soda. We go up to the orchard Sunday evenings, after the tourists have done their apple-picking, and root through the wormy ones they've left behind, us, the Mexicans, and the raccoons. Next thing you know, we'll be sniffing around in the dumpsters behind Shop-Rite, like bears.
The white-coated savants think of the economy as mechanical, subject to technical correction, while the magical thinkers believe it's all a matter of individual entrepreneurship and prayer. Sell enough pizza, Jesus, and you can afford that second home in Naples. The sharkskin suits with degrees say, "Print more money and give everybody a flex card." Pennies from heaven. "Give the poor bastards coupons so they can buy their effin pills. Without their pills, they might get pissed at us."
It doesn't seem possible but you can get fat on sugar and scripture alone. Corn syrup and corn pone. Bury your gelt in a vault and the lord will cut you down. Maybe we'd be better off without bodies. If we were just software. A string of code, a program, an endless loop waiting for some post-doc geek to hit "terminate." Sissy keeps hoping that we'll win the lottery, but the odds are one in fourteen million, poot. Tougher than getting struck by effin lightning. A while back we looked at a burger franchise but it cost too much. Now we're thinking about selling tacos or Chinese dumplings from a truck. If only we could afford a truck. Hell, if only we could afford a taco. What else can we do? Work on a farm?