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“Occupy My Wallet”

by Kelly Anneken, managing editor


Readers, I write to you from Zucotti Park, New York, New York, epicenter of the Occupy Wall Street movement, which began when a certain editor of a certain online absurdist humor journal decided to beg powerful executives for a handout.  I wasn’t even going to write this article, but some jerk-ass-jerk named Hobo Pancakes Editor-at-Large Isa Hopkins saw me getting pepper sprayed on the news, tracked me down, and pepper sprayed me some more until I agreed to do my “job,” which I’d just like to point out is basically an unpaid internship which is basically white slavery.  So there!

But more on that later!  This issue is about finance, which Wiki-Know-It-All describes as “the management of money or ‘funds'” management.  That sounds much simpler than what I’ve been led to believe about finances, but maybe the Trustafarian who loaned me this iPad can explain all the complications to me after he finishes his mushroom and banana sandwich.

To be perfectly honest, I can’t think of anyone less suited to write about handling cash.  My plans to marry royalty went bust after some locals in the Royal Bafokeng Nation swiped my crocodile purse and beat me senseless.  My Lincoln Logs were in the purse, along with my passport, cash and return ticket home, so I figured I better wait to talk to Kgosi Leruo Molotlegi until I had some more material possessions.

I signed on with a band of Malagasy pirates and we plundered our way around the Cape of Good Hope and across the Atlantic until one of them tried to get fresh with me somewhere around Sao Antao.  Defenseless save for a single wooden leg I stole from an orphan in Angola, I managed to incapacitate the rest of the pirate crew.  Then I set sail for New York City, accompanied only by a Bengal tiger named Richard Parker that we swiped from some wussy Indian kid in a lifeboat. Once we drew close to the American coast, I set Richard Parker loose in Seaside Heights after showing him a photo of the cast of Jersey Shore.

I slipped into New York Harbor under cover of darkness in early September, just as the last of my pirate jerky ran out.  Broke, bedraggled, and bewildered, I somehow stumbled my way into the subway stairwell at Wall Street.  My first night, I shared a corner with a guy everyone called Crazy Leo, even though he told me his name was Frank.  Crazy Leo had plans to pull a scam on his family back in Iowa, but the plans were long and dull and involved, so I shoved him onto the third rail and hightailed it up to street level, where fewer people were wearing aluminum hats.

I started to feel the old hankering for piracy, the itchy fingertips longing to take what didn’t belong to me and sell it on the black market.  I looked around, seeing well-heeled men in snappy suits and spit-shined shoes, knowing that most of them carried little to no cash or stereo equipment on their persons.

Then it hit me.  There I was, surrounded by all the money in the world, and in a position to demand it!  Richard Parker would return from Jersey eventually, and when he did, I would use him to extort all the money I’d ever need for the rest of my life.

Still, I felt the need to warn the executives of their forthcoming doom, so I swiped a piece of cardboard from a nearby hobo and made a sign that read “Give me money.  Richard Parker is coming.” As luck would have it, some feckless hippies happened to be passing at that moment and assumed I meant some economist named Richard Parker was coming, so they made signs and played hacky sack, waiting for Richard Parker to show up.  They called their friends and their friends called their friends, and that’s how Occupy Wall Street got started.

I don’t really mind that so many people are here, I’m just worried that they’re going to be disappointed when the real Richard Parker gets here.  I’m also concerned that once I shake down the financial fat cats with my jungle cat, these loafers are going to want a cut of the profits.  If that’s the case, I’ll probably be looking to unload a bunch of hippie jerky by the next time I have to write one of these stupid non-commentaries.  So bring it on, Isa!  I hear hippie jerky goes great with pepper spray.

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