I own slaves.  Don’t be so quick to judge me.  So do you.

And while we’re at it, fuck your sanctimonious veganism*.  I don’t care how many fucking dolphins you’re saving by being too good for tuna.  Some dude named Pedro sold his back to pick your heirloom tomatoes.

Fuck your prius, and your bike.  Symbols of your ecological piety.  They have unburdened our greed of the guilt which might otherwise temper our baser instincts – to take at the expense of others.

We have exported our slavery so far away – both geographically and by the number of brokers between us and them – that they become mere images of humans to us.

Uncle Tom’s Cabin was no more a critique of the South than it was a shaming of the North – for its own hypocrisy.

What would I give up to elevate my poorer brothers and sisters?  What would I give up to free them from wage slavery?

Am I enslaved any less by this system?  Working day after day to earn money to buy things that can tickle my fancy but never increase my sense of well-being.  Working day after day to chase that which once attained is never sufficient?

Certainly my slavery is a more pleasant one though.

Hot water.  Hot, clean, running, steaming, shower taking water.  Oh, the luxury.

We don’t like to talk about money because it forces us to examine inequity, and inequity chafes the human spirit.

*I am in no way discounting the potential health benefits of adopting a largely plant based diet.  Just don’t tell me it’s for the poor fucking moo cows.