C'monopoly

Like any good writer, I read as little as humanely (or, if my replacements enter the fray demanding refreshments and better pay, robotically) possible. When I must read, either for work or to impress neighbors on a plane, I accomplish it without ingesting too much knowledge. The last thing you want is to overwhelm your free and empty mind with facts and words, inducing a mile high brain freeze. Skimming, scanning, skipping. Those are the tools at the ready whenever a glossy periodical makes it way onto my lap. To read, you don’t need to actually read – you just need to appear to have read. 

However, I do read the instructions to board games, going line-by-line, parsing every word like a tax cheat looking for a divine loophole. How do you play?

It’s why when I see the word “monopoly” in big, bold letters at the top of a long story I plan on ignoring, my mind wanders to thoughts of the Parker Brothers and nothing else. In their infinite, fraternal wisdom, these gamified gurus of the boardwalk saw to it that a man personified their greatest ambitions. We should all be fortunate enough to traipse through life with a top hat, twirlable mustache, and matching bowtie. Top hats are essential when showing respect or embodying humility. You can’t tip your hat if you’re not wearing one.   

Morbidly obese felines in our nation’s capital want nothing more than to bust trusts. I see right through them. They do it for the same reasons Barry Sanders liked to shake and bake or Emeril Lagasse preferred to fry and cry – the rhyme. There was no higher purpose than that because the world revolves around rhyming. From Shakespeare to Seuss, rhyming remains a rarefied skill. So open your ears. HR personnel laugh and staff. Mountaineers climb and mime. Sailors fish and wish. Plumbers flush and blush. Hunters trap and yap. Late night talk show hosts bore and whore. Investigative journalists pester and fester. Morning talk show hosts listen and glisten. Teenagers mope and hope. Babies wail and flail. Line cooks mince and rinse. Actors pretend and descend. And writers deceive and aggrieve.   

Before sending Zuckerberg to the poorhouse, consider this: would we have a problem if our billionaires dressed the part like good Uncle Pennybags? Sneakers, t-shirts and a corduroy blazer may work for Silicon Valley, but here in the real world, we like our rich folks dressed for the part. I implore Bezos and his ilk to grab a cane and rub the smudges out of those cobweb-covered monocles in the bottom of their desk drawers. And I know a good haberdasher if necessary.