Every autumn, I like to do two things: perform my annual October shitting and contemplate the size of my fortune. And as much as I enjoy the former, I enjoy the latter even more.
While reviewing my accounts recently, I noticed that withdrawals of $250,000 were being made at regular intervals. Imagine my rage when Standish told me that my business-managers, in order to improve something called my "public image," had decided to give away some of my vast fortune each quarter for artistic philanthropy! I am not in the business of supporting every impoverished opera troupe, pantechnicon and magic-lantern-gallery in the Republic! Nor am I in the business of helping the coarser immigrants blather on about their lack of breeding. If the Irish need money, they can dig me another sub-way!
This was not always my position. Some time ago, I helped fund a German cultural group known as "The Bund." They were proud to be Prussian—as am I—and, though possessing an unfortunate fondness for the operas of Wagner, they were well-organized, knew the value of a well-starched brown shirt, and were pursuing the admirable goal of achieving German purity. Yet a few years later, when I needed their support to retain my governorship of this state, they claimed to be busy with matters in Poland! I was so outraged, I have funded no-one since.
Yet here was Standish telling me that the Zweibel fortune was underwriting "the CTW," some sort of play-time work-shop for children! I did not have to ask to know that these children were not working very hard. Indeed, from Standish's description, it sounded like some un-holy marriage of McGuffey's Reader and a homo-sexual Punch and Judy show. This wasteful work-shop also suckles at the teat of a foundation run by Henry Ford, another former supporter of The Bund, proving at least that I am not the only shrewd man taken in by these sycophants.
I intend to withdraw my support of this so-called children's work-shop, unless it is converted into a seaming-house for the manufacture of textiles by children. My solicitor Beavers has advised me against this, saying that if were to cancel my checks, a neighborhood called "Sesame Street" might revert to slumhood, earning me the enmity of the nation. Of course, I could not care less. If even one letter of complaint comes to my news-paper, I shall set fire to the Eastern Sea-board.