Chemotherapy for the Capitalistic Soul

You wake up one day and find a small, hard lump entombed in familiar, soft flesh.  You fret through your morning coffee before spending an inordinate amount of time exploring the tender area in a scalding hot shower that refuses to burn away the foreign body and subsequent angst.  You dress quickly and head to work with a churning cauldron of bile and trepidation threatening to bubble over and sear the already frayed inner calm which connects your soul to your tear ducts.  One inky drop of festering emotion is all it takes to bore through the tenuous hold on blissful denial.

And then you forget about it.

Life crowds out the specter of an unwanted distraction and you willfully ignore that first warning.  The lump which felt like a boulder upon initial discovery no more than a minuscule peppercorn to your unworried mind.  Until the soreness begins to increase.  And the inflammation in your neck and glands is preceded by a sharp drop in weight.

The metastasis was inevitable.  Originating in the housing and financial sectors, the cancerous cells quietly exploded throughout our economy’s unsuspecting body via Wall Street’s capitalistic lymph nodes.  Blood supplies were choked off and organs began failing, thus inviting the drastic life extending efforts of surgeons and oncologists alike.  Some ravaged tissues were simply too far gone and excised completely.  Others were salvaged by the same deft hands that are capable of merging the tendon of a cadaver with the damaged body of a live patient.  Banks imploded and banks were stripped for parts.

And now onto the chemo.

With mortgage backed security bombs replicating throughout the global economic structure, surgery alone was not enough to thwart the advancing menace.  You can only cut so many holes.  The only hopes of ebbing the toxic tide now appears to be a good, strong dose of poison.  Poison to poison the poison.  Radiation treatment failed to make a dent in the credit freeze as the localized cash infusions were simply absorbed by the institutions and … well, the doctors are not really sure where all of those rads went, but the tumors didn’t shrink.  Lenders failed to lend.  The credit crunch spread to auto manufacturers, credit card companies, the adult entertainment industry, entire states and individual pocketbooks.  As the new administration prepares to unleash a heavy dose of socialistic poison upon our dying markets, we can only hope that the patient responds.  Remission sure sounds better than recession.

Of course, we have to first survive the cure.

I, for one, am not particularly fond of rat poison, but it’s time to ladle it down our collective gullet in hopes of killing the affliction before it kills us.  I am not an economist.  I honestly do not know whether this stimulus package is sound policy or not.  All I know is that there is supposedly a ninety eight year old shaman in New Guinea who can find and extract disease by touch.

My bags are packed.

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Paul Slaybaugh is here to sell houses and chew bubble gum. He's all out of bubble gum. More About Me >>>

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