The Allowance . . .
Dear Mr. Obama,
Welfare was not practiced in the Doake’s household.
Upon coming home from Junior High school I walked into my fathers office, and began to demand an allowance. As you can imagine I was very persuasive, I explained at length that I could not fit in unless I wore the right clothes, and therefore I would need money to purchase them. I thought this completely reasonable. I, his son, must look good he, my father, must pay. An entitlement mentality only a child could possess.
The old man leaned back in his chair, leaned forward, turned over the sheet of paper he was working on, cleared his Texas Instruments calculator, that cost hundreds of dollars and was 5,000 years old, and said “Well Joe let’s see here . . “ and began to list out all of the costs he was providing for me. At the end he came up with a figure of my share of the family homestead. Then he declared “Joe, how do you want to handle your bill?” At this point not only did I not have an allowance, I was in debt! Growing by the second! Then he explained that I could wash and wax the car to pay him back, and if I wanted money I could go do the same thing for someone else, and he and I would call it even. That gave birth to an entrepreneur. All I needed was a bucket, my dirt bike, some soap, and wax. Pretty soon I had figured out a way to get a car from the local train station to my driveway without the benefit of a drivers license.
Forgetting my breeching the vehicle and traffic law what did I learn through this exercise. For one, the value of money. You see when someone actually does work for something they tend not to act wastefully with what they earn. All that stuff I told my father I wanted to be cool, I still wanted to be accepted by the crowd, but no longer that crowd, I wanted to be part of the smart and athletic crowd. I also opened up a savings account, back then our monetary policy awarded savers, and didn’t punish them like it does today. In addition I wasn’t idle as a young boy, and the idea of earning money caught fire, pretty soon I was mowing lawns, baby sitting, cleaning houses even got a job taking pictures at the local paper. At one point I was making more money then some people double my then age.
Then there is you. You don’t know the value of money, you have no capacity to lead, and you firmly believe that the Federal Government can be made benevolent, that a mosk should be placed less then five hundred feet from the site of the largest attack on the continental United States, instead of putting the gifts Allah, I mean God gave you to work for some positive end. You filled your head with every pinko commie piece of dreck that could fit, and then you sought public office, so you could spread the word of Allah, I mean communism, no wait, dependency, no I’m sorry I forgot the narrative “Hope” and “Change.” I have wondered what it would be like to truly be governed by ones own intellectual and moral inferior, and I must say I feel terrible, but somehow empowered to fight against you.
Actually, the pilot of Air Force one put it best. Do you remember your first step on Air Force One? I do. Unbeknownst to you there was a National Geographic film crew on the aircraft concluding the show describing the 747 that allows you to take all those vacations on our dime. Anyway, the camera is trained on the pilot, and the pilot is concluding his comments, and he sees your limo pull up and he says with a look of loss on his face, his head darting between you and the camera, “ . . . no matter who is President we take them where they need to . . . uh . . . go . . .” He could barely contain his surprise that a commie was elected to be the President of the United States.
Nor can the American people, and on November 6, 2012 we are going to do something about that.