No man gets my heart pounding like Mr. Cusack and George W., although for entirely different reasons.
I own a quaint (read: small) townhome I can afford, planned and paid for in advance just one spendy get-away in the last decade (albeit a really grand one – mostly piss poor company aside - Bermuda, snuggling the dolphins, topped by a show at Madison Square Garden with my beloved Bono) and have total combined credit card debt of less than four figures (to which I make double, sometimes triple, sometimes full payments monthly). And I’m among the scolded, broadcast nationally, like kids who overspent their allowance. Taxpayers are being asked to fund a $700 billion bailout of overly compensated men and woman entrusted to manage national finances (and who failed) and those with pithy means who wanted it all and wanted it now.
How about we tax the stupid people, those who dart into oncoming traffic and lack the personal responsibility to refrain from buying McMansion homes and playthings out of realistic reach?
Until then, let's party like there’s no tomorrow and we've months to live, like Jerry Lewis in "Hook, Line and Sinker." Finance (but not pay for, paying is for suckers) the cute bungalow priced at four times my annual salary with the imported Spanish backsplash tiles in the best Denver boutique neighborhood. Sleep with the marrieds, skip the condoms and the SPF. Drink and drive. Eat what I want and simply have the golden aftermath sucked out via a lipo tube. I’ll fly you to Europe, baby, and buy you horses and diamonds.
Why live like there are consequences?