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A Satirical Rant
The writer Tom Wolfe wears a suit and he wears it well. I like Tom Wolfe. However, most men in suits have made my life miserable. They tell me where to stand, where to sit. They dictate my schedule. Men in suits hide behind dark glasses and communicate with each other via two way radios. I'm paranoid. "Mr. Big" and "The Man" are unofficial titles for men in suits. Men in suits are always worse without question than ladies in pantsuits. They sell me oatmeal, cat food, Toyotas, antacids, and anti-anxiety medications. Men in suits not only work both sides of the street, they own it as well. They sit on boards and commissions. They sit at the head of the Chamber of Commerce. Men in suits run for public office trying to convince me that they are just like me. They raise my taxes. They urinate on my civil liberties. They judge me with a sneer, a chuckle, a condescending remark. I am not what they are. There are those men in suits who sell other men in suits more suits who congregate and mingle in such places as Suit Warehouse, Suit City, and Suit Universe. There are men in suits who preach from a pulpit on Sunday morning from a book that was written by men clothed in sackcloth and ashes. Men clothed in sackcloth and ashes eat locust and wild honey. They beat themselves on the chest, they wail, they gnash their teeth and prophecy judgment on the doomed, wretched, luckless, shiftless, suitless, saps of this land. Men in suits feel the need to accessorize. What's a suit without a tie? What's a tie without a button down collar? What's a collar without the designer label inside? And the monogrammed cuff and pocket? Pleeze! Men in suits run big TV networks. They greenlight such shows as SpongeBob Squarepants, My Name Is Earl, Buffy The Vampire Slayer and Friends. Yea that's right…freckin' Friends. Men in suits run big movie studios. They greenlight films such as Halloween 6 and Rocky 5. They prefer to make movies based on old TV shows. Men in suits deplore originality and creativity. No wonder my kids have the IQ of shoe leather. Men in suits populate talk radio with arrogant, pompous, cigar chomping, self-righteous bastards who hate diversity of opinion. They only care about their own pocketbook. They gather together at coffee bars, bistros, and out of the way trendy cafes to ruminate, regurgitate, and pontificate over $50 bottled water from Iceland. They discuss their blood pressure, cholesterol, prostates, their wives, and their girlfriends – sometimes all within the same sentence. Men in suits have decided that it will be plastic, not paper. Does it really matter if its gray flannel, black, white, pinstripe, Armani, or Brooks Brothers? No, it doesn't. Men in suits run the tables, crunch the numbers, and do the math. The odds aren't in your favor. And in the end, I will succumb to those men in suits. It's inevitable, it's traditional, and it's the American way – to be buried in a suit. I came into the world naked but I'll leave it in a suit. But in my next life…I'm wearing sackcloth and ashes.
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