Let’s Sacrifice A Rich Guy

If there was one thing I disliked about the whole Occupy Wall Street movement, it would have to be the fact that no demands were made. I mean, here you have a pseudo-revolutionary movement and no one steps up to organize a small committee. I think a small committee a la the counsel in South Park‘s Imaginationland episode might have worked well. (It goes without saying that Oscar The Grouch would have been appointed head of the Occupy Sesame Street sector.) Participants of the Occupy Movement—and I use that term loosely—could vote for big decisions, sort of like this democracy we have been told we live in. The voting could have been utilized to decide which proposals and demands the Occupy Counsel could have presented to the sinister 1% in this country. I believe this could have worked and might have pointed this movement in the right direction. But what demands would or should have been made? How about the sacrificing of a rich a guy?

Ever since the olden times of society, we as a species (the human race, sorry fish) have somehow found a reason to make a sacrifice to our Gods. Now, I know what some of you are thinking, “But, Mr. Minimum Wage, today’s America is a melting pot, filled with different religions and different beliefs. These differences would never allow us to choose one God to make this sacrifice to.” Good point, Kyle. (I refer to myself as Kyle when I have conversations with myself. Don’t ask.) If there’s one thing Chris Rock taught me, it’s that God is in my pocket. Just look at your money. You’ll look down and see the following statement: “In God We Trust.” Money is our God in this country full of consumerism, and since this whole thing is about money it makes perfect sense. Sacrifice the rich guy to the Federal Reser– erm, money God.

So how exactly would this work? When would these sacrifices happen? “Come on, Mr. Minimum Wage. I want to kill somebody already.” Calm down, Kyle. I believe that this sacrifice can happen systematically. A rich man is sacrificed (we’re using the Scarface rule here: no women and children) anytime the economy plummets just enough to throw us into a recession; unemployment rises up 10% from the previous year; welfare and food coupon assistance rises; housing projects are over flooded; and if the homeless begin smelling worse than they already do.

Whenever one of these unexpected events happen to take place, we pick a rich guy’s name at random, using a system similar to that of “The Hunger Games.” Anyone with a net worth of $10 million and higher qualifies as a participant. The amount of times that your name is thrown into the selection will depend on how much the general public likes you. Let’s face it, out all the rich men in the world, no one would want to kill Warren Buffet over, let’s say, Michael Bay. (The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are no longer mutant…and they’re from space? You got a pass on Transformers, but you are not tarnishing the legacy of Raphael, Leonardo, Donatello & Michaelangelo. You must go immediately.)

We have our “who and why”, but where’s our “when, where and how”? In contrast to having a garbage act at the Super Bowl, and seeing as it is the most viewed event in America, choosing the Super Bowl half-time show as the platform for the reemergence of cruel and unusual punishment, would make for the penultimate scenario. Besides, a rich guy’s attempts on leaving the country would be hilarious. Now that we have that covered, how will we be murdering the 1%? Multiple choice options. Then we vote on them.

In the end, I’d hope this would solve the classism problem we have in this country, ultimately ridding the 1% for good, and hopefully leaving everyone with a near equal income, I hope. If not, just chalk it up as the evolution of violent entertainment. Sort of like, Roman gladiator fights meets The Real Housewives of Compton. Fuck it, I tried.

photo credit: guardian.co.uk

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About the author

Enrique Grijalva - Mr. Minimum Wage

My father came, my mother saw...and I conquered. I encourage children to do drugs, I buy alcohol for teenagers, and I drink beer with the homeless. In my spare time, I attend art galleries for the FREE booze, I rub elbows with modish elephants, and I hammer six-inch nails into small penises. Stuart knighted me as Broke-Ass King of New York. You've been warned.