Completing both a call to my broker and my third Chivas, I began to consider PAW’s piece, “For most, business as usual despite Wall Street protests” (On the Campus, Dec. 14). Although the drink was excellent, I had forgotten to remove the silver spoon and almost choked on it; however, Soames, my butler, saved the day.
Good old Soames! I make it a practice never to encourage intimacy in servants, but unbidden, he advised me not to fret about those dirty hippies with their generalized complaints. “It’s simply a circus,” he whined, and I felt much better, especially since my grandson, Parvenu III, who doesn’t need to work at all, recently secured a posh position (without pressure, I promise!) via the Ivy-to-Wall-Street pipeline, which isn’t oily at all.
“Don’t let a little something like a protest movement upset you, Master,” Soames purred. “After all, you’re due at the club soon. Remember that weekly dinner for 60 you’re hosting. You haven’t much time to taste the ’45 Mouton, you know.”
That really got me thinking. Should I introduce discussions of poverty and inequality at my dinner? We all, of course, need a little levity in these trying times. But speaking of time, I don’t have enough of it to bother with quaint protests by lawless demonstrators, especially if they didn’t go to good schools. It’s enough to make me wash my hands, one washing the other, as we often amusingly remark.
Taking to the street indeed! How déclassé! Sliding into the Bentley, I poured another drink and sensed how like a surgeon I am, healing fellow club members via commodity allocation, especially when my Comet cognac gets passed around.
Completing both a call to my broker and my third Chivas, I began to consider PAW’s piece, “For most, business as usual despite Wall Street protests” (On the Campus, Dec. 14). Although the drink was excellent, I had forgotten to remove the silver spoon and almost choked on it; however, Soames, my butler, saved the day.
Good old Soames! I make it a practice never to encourage intimacy in servants, but unbidden, he advised me not to fret about those dirty hippies with their generalized complaints. “It’s simply a circus,” he whined, and I felt much better, especially since my grandson, Parvenu III, who doesn’t need to work at all, recently secured a posh position (without pressure, I promise!) via the Ivy-to-Wall-Street pipeline, which isn’t oily at all.
“Don’t let a little something like a protest movement upset you, Master,” Soames purred. “After all, you’re due at the club soon. Remember that weekly dinner for 60 you’re hosting. You haven’t much time to taste the ’45 Mouton, you know.”
That really got me thinking. Should I introduce discussions of poverty and inequality at my dinner? We all, of course, need a little levity in these trying times. But speaking of time, I don’t have enough of it to bother with quaint protests by lawless demonstrators, especially if they didn’t go to good schools. It’s enough to make me wash my hands, one washing the other, as we often amusingly remark.
Taking to the street indeed! How déclassé! Sliding into the Bentley, I poured another drink and sensed how like a surgeon I am, healing fellow club members via commodity allocation, especially when my Comet cognac gets passed around.