Okay, One-Percenters, happy to oblige: First I’ll tax you, then I’ll redistribute your wealth to someone more worthy, then I’ll feel sorry for the pathetic mommies and daddies who anointed your self-involved, ungrateful, dreadlocked little heads with the oil of love and luxury so they could end up listening to you repeat anti-Semitic imprecations like a Nazi mob and watching you turn the New York City streets into a toilet.
If only someone had spent one percent of his or her time smacking you upside the head—figuratively speaking, of course—before sending you off with your Rosa Luxemburg lunch boxes to Elisabeth Irwin and then on to Yale . . . oh, I don’t know . . . maybe Zucotti Park, Congress Plaza, the Rose Kennedy Greenway, Woodruff Park, et al., wouldn’t be starting to look so much like Haight Ashbury after the Summer of Love, when flocks of homeless, infected, trippin’, psychotic trust-fund babies staggered into the Free Clinic to get their weekly dose of penicillin and thorazine.