We don't get no government loans and no One sends a check from home

by anna at 05:13 PM on April 13, 2003

an·ar·chy n.
Absence of any form of political authority.
Political disorder and confusion.
Absence of any cohesive principle, such as a common standard or
purpose.

What with the spate of antiwar protests lately, you haven’t heard much from those hardcore anarchists in their clown regalia. Who must be the most naive fools on Earth. Under anarchy, dudes, chaos reigns. The strong forcibly wrest everything from the weak and sickly. The poor steal from the rich. Which kind of sucks if you happen to be rich or weak or both.

Yet that’s pretty much the situation over in Iraq right now. Jubilance has given way to turmoil and vengeance. Rabid looters have ransacked hospitals, carting off MRI scanners and hot-wiring ambulances. They’ve also pillaged museums filled with irreplaceable antiquities dating back to the dawn of civilization. What do these people need with an MRI scanner or ancient Sumerian tablets? Look for these items to begin turning up on eBay.

Coalition troops are understandably reticent to sashay into this roiling maelstrom. They’re trained as warriors, after all, not street cops. Hence the looters have succeeded in destroying many of those structures their precision bombers took such great pains to avoid. Talk about cruel irony.

While no one knows for sure how they’d react to a similar outbreak of lawlessness in one’s ‘hood, chances are it depends entirely on one’s socioeconomic status. Absent moral considerations, have-nots would probably leap at any chance to join in the frenzied plunder. Whereas well-heeled haves would most likely be poised to defend their property against any rampaging mob. No way in hell these freaking heathens are going to make off with my X-Box or diamond tennis bracelet, they’d vow. Famous last words, me thinks.

Still, I'd fancy myself among the vigilante set; since I have plenty to lose were an unruly mob of looters to come marauding up my driveway. I’d also like to think I’d harbor no qualms about confronting anybody who’d set foot on my property bent on mayhem and thievery. But when push came to shove you'd likely find me cowering beneath my bed as looters carted off my stuff. “Take it all, just don’t hurt me,” I’d simper. I just don't have the stomach for that sort of thing.

Then again, any would-be looter would probably take one look at this filthy hovel and hotfoot it out of here empty-handed. You see, my family resides in a swamp and we currently have six dogs roaming the property. One belongs to us, two are emaciated rescue mutts and three are here to be trained. These vile beasts have tracked mud and dog shit onto every inch of our home. Our carpets are ruined, our walls are smeared with red clay. We’re in a living hell.

Aside from the unhappy prospect of being beset by swarms of impoverished looters, having a decent job does have its drawbacks. For example, I am in the process of pawning my treasured belongings in order to pay an unexpected $2,500 tax obligation. This burden hangs over my head like the freaking Sword of Damocles. And 4/15/03 looms large.

Here's the problem: Rather than pay us, my company’s miserly management metes out stock options that don’t cost it a dime. When you exercise them, sufficient taxes are supposed to be withheld. But last year my broker evidently failed to do so, leaving me holding the proverbial bag. To avoid becoming hovel-less, I just might have to resort to looting myself. D’oh!

Wouldn’t it be smarter to sell said stocks to pay off the taxman, you ask? Ah, that anything could be that simple. These stocks are restricted, which means you must hold them for a year. And the stock price is plummeting. By the time I can unload them they'll be worth less than a Betamax tape. So I am royally screwed and Saloman Smith Barney is to blame. Argh.