Smushed

“But families are struggling,” Anesh Mori damn near pleaded.

“Struggling? I don’t see them struggling to get World Series tickets. All that talk about rising gas prices and groceries, I see these same people going to snap up seats by home plate. It’s all bullshit. Political nonsense used to stir emotion and stifle thought. That’s all it is,” Kelsy States opined.

“You have to recognize—”

“All I have to do is breathe and die.”

Mori started again. “You ought to realize that the majority of people can’t afford those tickets. Just a few thousand people will be in the stands during the Series. Millions more will be hungry, unclothed, and sheltered.”

“Which makes me more supportive of those who support private charity. It’s not the role of the government to provide jobs, clothes, housing, or food to those in need. The greedy businessmen who you so loathe have provided trillions of dollars in aid over the decades. The State need not apply for the job of welfare to its citizens.”

Mori sighed. “I don’t hate good businesspersons. They’re companies that offer goods and services that are sustainable to the earth reliable for energy with wind and solar and—”

“Let me stop you right there. When the wind stops blowing and it’s night time and one of the blades needs repair and the panel is chipped, will that scenario survive the fossil fuels and nuclear power that continues to move our country forward?”

Mori opened his mouth. “I suppose not.”

“Exactly. All of this is interconnected. The price to the big game right down to the internal combustion engines and factories that rely on oil, coal, and natural gas, and nuclear. The fossil fuels are the heart and central nervous system of the body of this great land. Let’s not forget that,” Kelsy observed.

“Okay,” Mori said. “There’s merit to what you’re saying.”

“I know.” Kelsy sniffed.

The pizzeria where the two friends sat had just opened the oven and every time Kelsy could tell.

“That’s our pie.”

“That pie’s like the economy.”

“Here we go….” Kelsy rolled her eyes.

“It’s like everybody gets a ‘piece of the pie,’”

“That’s simply not true. You bake your pie, the guys sitting over there bake their pie and so on and so forth. We get into trouble when we try to smush our pies together into a saucy, cheesy, meaty mess. That’s what collectivism is about. It negates the fact that individuals, not families, or groups, or collectives produce wealth. Now, those organizations and groups may work together on a project, but do you remember looking at my bank account?”

“No.”

“Even in a joint account, the individual account must regard whatever parties are involved as individuals.”

“And that means that politicians take care of themselves when those pies are served.”

“Properly,” Kelsy started, “Politicians should be broke. Instead they know how much time will be before an economic catastrophe and can profit off of that. This needs to stop. That’s them stealing dough to make bigger pizzas.”

“I think we might have agreed on something,” Mori pointed out.

“It’s rare but possible.”

Their pizza with caviar and casu marzu cheese arrived. The chef smiled.

“Gini, this looks delicious. Superb!” gushed Mori.

“Yes. Thank you.” Kelsi started to pull her piece from the pie.

“No, thank you. I appreciate your friendship,” Gini Gartano clasped his hands, bowed and returned to the kitchen.

“You see. We probably have the most expensive pie on the menu. We’re able to enjoy this meal because we put in our work as individuals. That’s the American way. Be as rational and selfish as possible. That’s how you keep from being gobbled up in the rat race,” Kelsy asserted.