We are the 53%

 

I keep hearing the Flea Baggers of Lower Manhattan's Zuccotti Park tell the world they are "The 99%", whatever that's suppose to mean.

 

Just taking a stab at it, I guess that means I'm not a millionaire... even if I do use ObaMath.

 

You know, anyone who makes $250,000 a year is now magically and mystically categorized as a millionaire.

 

 

But I digress -- I may technically be part of the 99% that the Bong Throng (Turd Herders, Slob Mob, Reefer Riff-Raff, Balmy Commies... whatever moniker they're going by now) loves to carp about, but not when you really get down to it.

 

Even through the curious fog of dope smoke, body odor vapors and the omnipresent cloud of feces munching flies, even the most jaded amongst us can recognize the real difference between these overindulged, Peter Pan Syndrome-suffering trust fund babies, and those who identify themselves at "The 53%".

 

And no matter how much Che "I Got My Brains Blown Out By The CIA, And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt" Guevara apparel you sport; in spite of how long you're between washing those nasty dreads (even though you brag that you come from the toughest cul-de-sac in all of New Canaan, Connecticut); regardless of your overinflated sense of entitlement, etc, etc, ad nauseum, we 53 Percenters are on to you like stink on... well, you.

 

 

We 53 Percenters are the ones who actually end up paying federal taxes when all is said and done.

 

We 53 Percenters are the ones who keep the engine of this economy chugging along.