The Weekly Screed (#607)

A timely call from the 
Department of Just Desserts
by David Benjamin

Grosscup answered his phone crisply: “This is Grosscup. Who’s this?”

“Oh. I’m glad I caught you, Mr. Grosscup. My name is Beverly Butterworth, federal Department of Just Desserts. I’m calling in response to complaints you’ve been making — without satisfaction — for 35 years. I’m just delighted to tell you that we’ve gotten around to your file and we’re proceeding to deliver exactly what you deserve.”

Grosscup, momentarily speechless, finally said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“It’s simple, Mr. Grosscup. We’re from the government and we’re here to help.”

“Oh yeah? Help me how? What the hell do you do?”

“We give people what they say they want. For instance, you’ve been kvetching about having to pay taxes to provide people with food stamps since… Let’s see — whoa! — 1995. Well, I’m pleased to inform you that you don’t have to be jealous and bitter any longer — ‘cause you’re gonna get food stamps, too — 237 bucks’ worth every month.”

“Food stamps? But I don’t need — ”

“But I must caution you, Mr. Grosscup. We can’t prevent your using the stamps on, say, Pepsi, Snickers bars, Eskimo Pies, Hot Pockets, Pop-Tarts and other kid stuff. But if you do, it sort of gives the program a bad name. Try to stick with spinach and hardtack.”

“Hardtack?”

“OK, next? My goodness, sir! What a big file you have! Ah, Obamacare. You won’t be paying for that, either. Instead, you’re now enrolled in the Affordable Care option of your choice. We’ll be mailing the paperwork. Meanwhile, your former private medical plan is no longer your concern. We’ve taken that monkey right off your aching back.”

“But I didn’t want — ”

“Please, Mr. Grosscup. Lots of ground to cover. I see here how upset you are about girls getting free birth control from Uncle Sam. Thanks to you, we realized how unfair this is. So, rather than denying people who need contraceptives, we’re sending them to you, and your whole family: condoms, coils, pills, sponges, spermicides, diaphragms, tubal ligations, D&C’s, and, of course, your vasectomy. The FedEx truck should arrive any minute. Your Affordable Care surgery is scheduled for Tuesday. Free, of course.”

“Vasectomy? Surgery?”

“We see also that you’re pretty irked about college aid for other people’s kids. Well, that’s history, too. You’ll be thrilled to know that you’re now enrolled, tuition-free, in night classes — arc welding and basic auto detailing — at Jimmy Hoffa Junior College over on Railroad Avenue. We’re pulling for you, Mr. Grosscup. If you study hard and stay sober, we think you can master a decent trade and make your family proud.”

“Hey, wait a minute, lady,” said Grosscup, his dander up. “I’ve already made — ”

“One last item, Mr. Grosscup,” Ms. Butterworth broke in. “Well, not strictly the last. Your complaints cover about 40 pages. In this round, we can only relieve your biggest concerns. But above all, we wanted to help you deal with ‘all those lazy-ass moochers’ — to use your terminology — who don’t pay federal income tax. And we’ve done it! As of today, Mr. Grosscup, congrats. You, too, are off the hook at the IRS.”

“What? Really? No more taxes?” said Grosscup.” Well, gosh, thanks.”

“Our pleasure! Now, we’ll need access to your mutual funds and IRAs, checking and savings accounts, and the secret stashes (which we actually know about, you scamp) in Zurich, Bermuda, Lichtenstein, Anguilla, Barbados, and the Isle of Guernsey.”

“Wait! What’s this?” asked Grosscup. “You want my account numbers? Why?”

“Why? Why indeed, Grosscup!” said Ms. B. “Because we need the money.”

“Need the money? My money? What for? Why me? Who says?”

“Mr. Grosscup, seriously. For your sake — at your demand — we’re taking dozens of people off food stamps, health care, college aid and free rubbers. These folks’ll all be paying income tax again. Your income tax! This is a dream-come-true for you, Vern.”

“Er… I didn’t dream it quite this way,” said Grosscup. “How much do you need?”

“Mr. Grosscup! If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”

“But I still don’t get it. After you access my accounts, what’re you gonna buy?”

“First, Mr. Grosscup, bootstraps! The very thing you’ve been whinging about ‘til everybody’s ready to gag. It’s a great idea — except, oops! Nobody in America makes bootstraps anymore. For the program to work, we have to fly barefoot poor people to boutique factories in France, where bootstraps are personally tailored, fitted, and custom-crafted.”

Grosscup was starting to feel, uncomfortably, like the people he complains about.

“Mr. Grosscup, in your business, you brag that you ‘started with nothing.’ Then you ‘bootstrapped’ your way to the top. But, as you rarely mention, your so-called bootstraps were six-figure’s worth of venture capital from your dad’s frat brothers at Yale. Right?”

Grosscup bowed his head. Staring at his tasseled loafers, he admitted this was so.

“Now, all we’re doing here, Grosscup, by stripping you to the bone, is helping you to extend the same hand that your old man’s kind and altruistic buddies gave you. In real life, somebody’s gotta sooner or later pony up and the buy the bootstraps.”

“Maybe so, lady. But why me? This doesn’t sound very fair.”

“Fair? Grosscup, fairness is not exactly your expertise, is it? Not once have you ever wondered if life is fair for those who have much less than you. We’re giving you a rare chance, in the course of human events, to truly find out what’s fair and what’s not — with a straight-up swap. They get your stuff. You get theirs.”

Grosscup said, “But… but my stuff is nicer.”

Ms. Butterworth ignored this and said, “I almost forgot one more item. Those immigrants you dislike so much? The ones who work here illegally for slave wages, and you’d like them rounded up like cattle? We hear you, Mr. Grosscup. To soothe your anxieties, in the spirit of just desserts, we’re revoking your citizenship.”

Grosscup cried out in dismay.

“Oh, don’t worry, Grosscup. It’s not so bad,” said Ms. Butterworth. “If you join the Army — right after your vasectomy — you won’t be deported ‘til your hitch is up.”