For some, it seems, Santa Claus may not have visited this year. While the vast majority of us were sipping our Christmas port and musing on the blessings of life, that peculiar breed of individuals known colloquially as, “the economists”, were tearing their hair and draping themselves in sackcloth as their earnest entreaties and threats, aimed at the rest of us, failed to bear fruit.
It seems we just didn’t spend enough this holiday season.
Given the state of my depleted bank account, I find that hard to believe, though I suppose my spending has not necessarily been on par with the rest of America’s. The question to arise from all this is: should we worry?
My answer is a simple: no.
While no-one wants a return to the austere days of the Great Depression, I refuse to bother myself because Sam Walton’s bank account has shrunk to an even greater degree than my own. In fact, I have to admit to a sneaking sense of satisfaction at the very thought.
What occurs during an economic recession is that those who labor under the misnomer of being ‘middle class’ in America (“middle class” = those able to borrow money to spend; as opposed to those who can’t, who are known as “the poor”, a blight on society, and socially outcast) find the ratio of their income to expenditure drastically swinging in the wrong direction.
The Sam Walton’s of this world rely on the middle class of America to give them their borrowed money and keep them in the stinking luxury to which they are accustomed. The middle class do this by purchasing for dollars, borrowed from Sam Walton’s friends, goods Sam has paid for with handfuls of cheap rice. When Sam gets those middle class dollars he spends a few to buy more rice, and pay a pittance to his workers, then pockets the thick wad remaining. Meanwhile, his friends earn a nice steady income in interest on the dollars loaned to the middle class to buy Sam’s goods.
An economic recession occurs when Sam and his friends get too greedy and attempt to snatch more dollars from the middle class than they have available. Suddenly, Sam can’t sell his goods, so he can’t purchase more. He’s left with a huge mound of cheap rice on his hands and with an ever-dwindling bank account is forced to eat the rice himself.
In an instant, Sam’s worst nightmare is realized; he’s become one of the middle class he’s lived off so opulently for years. Unable to digest this horror, he leaps to his death from a high building, moments before the Federal Reserve Gods wave their magic wands, lower interest rates, and make the money machines work again.
Everyone is happy once more. Sam’s relatives pocket his money, give him a swanky send-off, which costs them nothing as they own the funeral parlor, and breathe a long-drawn sigh of relief.
Santa Claus has returned to Wall Street.
Filed under: Christmas cheer
