The Cauldron Of History

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The Cauldron Of History

It has been brought to my attention that another flag-bedecked, bunting-encrusted electoral pantechnicon has been brought to a roaring, shuddering crescendo, climaxing in a orgy of voting never before seen in the history of this Republic as a hundred million tiny souls rushed to negate each others' ballots. How impressive is the willingness of the commoner, that eternal puppet of plutocrats, to invest a few hours in deciding if his life will be directed by the strings on his limbs or the hand up his fundament.

Naturally, I am not impressed. This is perhaps because I, one incomprehensibly powerful businessman among dozens, have made no promises to improve your lot in life, enrich your children, or make the world a better place. Nor have I had to do so to acquire power undreamed of by the most avaricious and grasping politico. Yet you blithely keep me—and other news-paper men, and oil-men, and manufacturers, and for all, I know, rail-roading barons—in riches and in power. Perhaps it is my superior intellect or more realistic out-look, but it astounds me every day when I wake and find you have not yet set fire to me and my fellow captains of industry.

So enjoy what joy and triumph you may find in your pitiful exercise of the democratic franchise. Reflect on it for a night or two. Then, with the inevitability of the migrating lemming, you shall transfer that joy to the availability of a new sandwich, perhaps one topped with a a heretofore unseen variety of cheese and accompanied by fried potatoes cut into an unusual helical shape.

God bless this America, and get back to work.


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