The more you ignore me, the closer I get.

It's stressful, isn't it?

You're a piece of something that's suddenly up for grabs, and while your advantages are many, nothing about the process is assured.

Still, I don't take your boorish behavior personally, because I know that unlike me, you've no idea how to express yourselves, save through transfers of taxpayer-sourced cash.

I'm a writer; you're a racket.

So it goes, but there's one thing about this whole process that you need to remember, because it's really important: It isn't fate, and it's no accident.

You've put yourselves in this position.

Things fall apart owing to hubris -- excessive pride, and a detachment from reality. It's why bunkers aren't the best places to conduct any kind of business.

Moreover, I'm quite content to be painted the pariah. It's a role I've prepared to play for decades, and to be honest, I fairly revel in it.

Your junior high school antics amuse me, and so I'll contentedly work my side of the street and let the proverbial chips fall, right on down, where they will.

We'll all have different jobs soon, and you'll make lots more money in the "private" sector, but here's the thing: You still won't get it, and that's YOUR burden, not mine ... because I do.

Cheers, guys. See you in the funny papers.

(photo credit ... The Telegraph)