Take notes. It’s Christmas. The billionaire class gets to tuck us in and read us fables and myths. He is entitled to have access to the New York Times . Enormous wealth counts. It’s all one needs. We must give our readers what they want and this is what they want because this is what they always want. Fluff. This is called a total lack of imagination. This piece attempts to normalize a psychosis that has infected the brains of homo sapiens who beg at the feet of the rapist. Oh, a big new box of fun things. This piece offends me to my core because it is disguised by a plea by a billionaire that we must all work together for the sake of community. The naïveté would be shocking but it’s not naïveté. I want the hard, deep truth not because I am developmentally depraved, but because I am filled with fear. It’s unmanly to say that, yet I think many of us are in the Afraid Boat. The writer has access. Front page. Because he’s rich. Period.

It is not uncivil to tell that tough truth. Shirley Temple tap dances with the salves. Quid Pro Quo died in November. Just drop a ton of happy pills from a plane. There is no god. There was no Jesus. Religion is the boot shoved against your neck. Religion is the icon of undistributed vast wealth. The little people love our billionaire stories about how lucky we are to have them because patriarchal culture has won the blood fight. A billionaire tells us the Christmas story of the bad stuff is our fault and the billionaires are misunderstood.