Teach the 1-percenters to reproduce

All the Occupy folks have got it wrong.

I've decided that America's troubles derive from a lack of fertility at the top. Seriously, all us 99-percenters have no trouble reproducing, sometimes, probably, a little too much. Statisticians say we'll be 99.3-percenters before the end of 2014.

Back during the '60s, we might have been 75 or 78 percenters, but since then, our group has apparently grown wildly while the super-rich people, sadly, have been unable to maintain their numbers.

We ridicule the 1-percenters as elite, crazy-moneyed tyrants when actually they are just kind of bad at getting the opposite sex to give them the time of day, if you know what I mean. You would think the billions of dollars they have would help, but no.

Maybe they should ask their maids and butlers about how all that stuff is supposed to work. I think ivy-league prep schools ought to offer some kind of education on the matter, but I reckon them boys are too busy teaching Latin and Machiavelli and all that.

That's why I have set up a non-profit foundation to provide instructional videos to the elite wealthy guys and gals who need them the most. We couldn't afford to hire moonlighting health class teachers or commission animated birds and bees for the videos, so we just compiled stuff we found on the Internet that more or less pertains to the subject.

So far, the foundation has managed to anonymously mail more than three educational VCR tapes to the richest people in America.

I'm hoping that the video effort will stimulate an increase in the number of babies born with silver spoons in their mouths during the next few years. When those kids grow up, there will be a huge increase in demand for maids, butlers, gardeners, waiters with exotic accents and sychophants, and that means jobs, jobs, jobs!

We'll be 98-percenters within three generations, if my math is right.

***

It really makes me paranoid that not one of my bosses has ever uttered a word about whether I am allowed to attempt to write a column for the newspaper. It's an eerie, 16-month silence, now.

As many angry phone calls and irate letters and as much general derision on the local Internet forum as I have generated, I would have expected someone to say something, either in support or admonition.

Instead, I go to work every day and everyone pretends everything is fine. Just fine.

***

Not to brag, but Joyce and I now have an outhouse with electricity. Over the summer, we built a cute little shed with an actual wood floor and put a light in there.

I know, I know -- It's only going to make my property taxes skyrocket, but I managed to hide the structure partially behind some pieces of a satellite dish I salvaged from a dumpster last year, so I don't think the county assessor has been able to see it from the road so far.

Thanks to my pals, the Mayans, it's not going to matter if he sees it next year. We're all going to swallowed by moon-sized intergalactic fish before the next tax bill comes due.