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erity.]Dearest Stacy,
It has been almost three weeks since the occupation began and I am starting to finally understand what that man meant when he said that war is hell. Before continuing this letter, you may want to play some sad violin music to set the mood.
These occupiers are ruthless indeed. You would not believe some of the things that have happened here. I wouldn’t believe them either if I had not been cursed to see them with my own two eyes. Some of the filthy hippie colonialists were sitting on the hood of a brand new BMW X5. I am quite certain they cracked a window, and the dents to the hood may never be
completely straightened out. I thought these people were supposed to care about the environment, and they desecrate such a beautiful hybrid car? The difference between man and animal is that man is supposed to live by principles, yet these imperialistic boors clearly haven’t any principles. They are truly more beast than man.
Rations are growing scarce and I can feel the hunger pains starting to set in deep in my belly. Just yesterday, my favorite delicatessen in the office food court ran out of
pastrami, and I had to switch to corned beef. If that was not tragic enough, the pickles have been in vinegar too long and have become too briny. Too briny! Some have had to resort to even more extreme measures. The Sbarro ran out of cheese, so those who wanted pizza had to risk life and limb by walking next door to a place that sells pizza by the slice. I may never find out how many of those brave souls returned from that fateful journey, but those craven beasts likely tore them apart for sport. If this trend continues, I fear I may have to resort to cannibalism to survive. Either that, or I shall have to eat the gluten-free baked goods from the coffee shop. I know not which choice I fear more.
Perhaps the worst part of this occupation is that I frequently wonder for what it is we’re fighting. Some of the finance executives met today to devise plans for a counter-attack against our occupiers. They think that if we go down to the street and offer the leaders clean suits, a shower, and a nice job like in Trading Places, the protests will eventually die down. I hope against hope that we do not have to resort to such barbarism. Most of them never even went to college, and even if they did, they certainly were not in our supper clubs. The executives also said that if that approach does not work, they make resort to gorilla tactics. Yes, I meant gorilla tactics, not guerilla- they are going to ship in a dozen silverback gorillas and let them run wild through the protests. Apparently, they got the idea from Rise of the Planet of the Apes. Fire with fire and whatnot.
I wish this could all just end peacefully. My enduring hope is that I can one day walk out the front door of this office and across the street to my parking garage without my freshly-shined shoes being scuffed or my Italian suit being sullied with the stench of protest B.O. Even if I made it across the street, those scoundrels would assuredly vandalize my Audi as I left the garage. What kind of world have we created?
Oh Stacy! I long to sit with you on the sand outside our Hamptons summer home, in our opulent beach chairs with built-in canopies to shield our fair skin from the brutal elements! I miss you so- I picture your eyes glistening like the gorgeous pearl earrings that my grandmother passed down to you as a small part of our wedding gift. When I close my eyes, I can hear the dulcet tones of your voice, calling our Guatemalan servant to refill your coffee or to bring you some more mango slices. If there is a God, he will end this occupation have me home to you before we have missed crabbing season altogether! Sometimes I think I never should have taken this job and we should have just lived off of our trusts funds, playing polo and sailing, but I knew the risks when I got involved, and now I must returned to defend our beloved Wall Street.
With All of My Love,
J. Henry Bitterman
P.S. Please remind the landscapers to water the lawn three times this week instead of two. I don’t want the grass to start turning brown early again this year. If they forget, I will fire their asses.
Rations are growing scarce and I can feel the hunger pains starting to set in deep in my belly. Just yesterday, my favorite delicatessen in the office food court ran out of
pastrami, and I had to switch to corned beef. If that was not tragic enough, the pickles have been in vinegar too long and have become too briny. Too briny! Some have had to resort to even more extreme measures. The Sbarro ran out of cheese, so those who wanted pizza had to risk life and limb by walking next door to a place that sells pizza by the slice. I may never find out how many of those brave souls returned from that fateful journey, but those craven beasts likely tore them apart for sport. If this trend continues, I fear I may have to resort to cannibalism to survive. Either that, or I shall have to eat the gluten-free baked goods from the coffee shop. I know not which choice I fear more.
Perhaps the worst part of this occupation is that I frequently wonder for what it is we’re fighting. Some of the finance executives met today to devise plans for a counter-attack against our occupiers. They think that if we go down to the street and offer the leaders clean suits, a shower, and a nice job like in Trading Places, the protests will eventually die down. I hope against hope that we do not have to resort to such barbarism. Most of them never even went to college, and even if they did, they certainly were not in our supper clubs. The executives also said that if that approach does not work, they make resort to gorilla tactics. Yes, I meant gorilla tactics, not guerilla- they are going to ship in a dozen silverback gorillas and let them run wild through the protests. Apparently, they got the idea from Rise of the Planet of the Apes. Fire with fire and whatnot.
I wish this could all just end peacefully. My enduring hope is that I can one day walk out the front door of this office and across the street to my parking garage without my freshly-shined shoes being scuffed or my Italian suit being sullied with the stench of protest B.O. Even if I made it across the street, those scoundrels would assuredly vandalize my Audi as I left the garage. What kind of world have we created?
Oh Stacy! I long to sit with you on the sand outside our Hamptons summer home, in our opulent beach chairs with built-in canopies to shield our fair skin from the brutal elements! I miss you so- I picture your eyes glistening like the gorgeous pearl earrings that my grandmother passed down to you as a small part of our wedding gift. When I close my eyes, I can hear the dulcet tones of your voice, calling our Guatemalan servant to refill your coffee or to bring you some more mango slices. If there is a God, he will end this occupation have me home to you before we have missed crabbing season altogether! Sometimes I think I never should have taken this job and we should have just lived off of our trusts funds, playing polo and sailing, but I knew the risks when I got involved, and now I must returned to defend our beloved Wall Street.
With All of My Love,
J. Henry Bitterman
P.S. Please remind the landscapers to water the lawn three times this week instead of two. I don’t want the grass to start turning brown early again this year. If they forget, I will fire their asses.
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