An open letter to Congress

Hey Congress.  You really want to do something? You want to help?

Bail me out.

I’m serious. I’m working on almost 25 years of erratic judgment, poor financial decisions, questionable relationships, employment reversals. The list goes on and on. As a matter of fact, the other day, I bought this comforter that was on clearance at Target. Then I got home and realized that if it was draped on my bed and matched next to my area rug, my apartment would be like living inside of a kaleidoscope.

Not a good decision.

I’ve taken risks. And I don’t mind telling you that not all of those risks panned out. Like when I moved to a small town in Colorado with literally no plan for financial survival. Turns out food costs the same there as it does here. That really didn’t work out so well. Or that date. I had the leave the restaurant through the kitchen. Again, a roll of the dice that really didn’t go my way. Or when I thought I knew how to fix my iPod with no knowledge of electronics repair. Or those left-handed golf clubs. Or when I didn’t get insurance on that rental truck. I didn’t even know you could do that to another vehicle, didn’t know the metal skin of a car can peel off like the outside of an onion.

Bad plays, all of them. But you can’t be a high-roller without some pain in your game.

Okay, maybe I should have married that woman in college. She’s probably a huge success now. Or taken that job in Boston. Or not turned down that one in Los Angeles to move to Cleveland. Or flossed more. Or, you know, filed that income tax return. As it turns out, the IRS keeps track of stuff like that. They have computers. 

But Nancy, Harry, can we talk? You can help. Make it all go away. Wave the wand.

Bail me out. Hell, buy me out. You can have a share of the franchise. Like some of those derivatives and subprime mortgages, I might surprise you down the road and pay off. You can get in the ground floor, Congress. Pardners.

And let me tell you something, it’s not going to take any $1 trillion either. I am a steal at, I don’t know, let’s say, heck, $300 million. That’s a drop in the bucket. We just spent that in Iraq as I wrote that sentence. A steal.

Think about how you will be changing the lives of everyday Americans. Not just mine, but the lives of family members, friends and co-workers, all of whom in some way or another, have been along for the whole sorry ride, who’ve had to make the late-night pick-ups, had to look in the fields for my car keys, or come to the emergency room, the people who’ve stolidly stood by for nights of endless second-guessing and rumination. Borne witness to self-doubt and loathing, forced to mutter platitudes over and over again about how things will get better, how a few lousy decisions don’t ruin a man’s life. They are emotionally exhausted. They need some relief.

And yes, I understand there have to be some conditions. I’m not looking for carte blanche. I wouldn’t even know where to put it. So go ahead, create some new regulatory apparatus. Some kind of board or authority that I can answer to. If anyone needs a few new rules and regs promulgated, it’s me. Heck, you know what, just as our friends on Wall Street are doing, I will write them myself. Who knows me better than me? That way, you don’t have to do a thing.

In fact, I’m going to put the finishing touches on the proposal over the weekend and get you something early next week. Let’s say Monday. Then maybe we can whip that baby through the pipeline so you can get on home for campaign season and tell people that you have improved the lives of ordinary people just like them.

Thanks, Congress. I owe you one, buddy.





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