I am the youngest in my nuclear family, and I will soon hold the distinction of being the last of our clan to leave this planet as I came in—with a near-zero balance in my bank account. We were all poor in terms of money and wealth, otherwise, we all did OK in non-monetary ways when viewed through the lens of a highly skilled visionary. Here is that vision: “The richest person is not the one who has the most, but the one who needs the least.” Or, as they say in France, la personne la plus riche n'est pas celle qui a le plus, mais celle qui a le moins besoin.

I love to invoke the preceding statement of purpose whenever circumstances warrant it—and that is pretty much any time. A bonus gift that comes with reciting it often is that, upon hearing it, listeners are almost certain not to ask me for a loan. Other spin-off comments that flow from it are also legion. It is almost certain to take the steam out of any so-called wealth-builder or motivational speaker’s memorized sales pitch. Even “snake oil” salesmen cringe when hearing it. That invocation is really telling sales people of all stripes to “buzz off”, but with lots of class, style, and panache.

And so, what is it that we all need, but only enough so as to satisfy our food, fuel, housing, health-care, education, transportation, clothing, music, arts and crafts, and other items or occasions that Elon Musk is wont to take for granted? If your first thoughts include sex, tell me about your second thoughts. I am a writer, not a magician nor a comedian. Here are my discerning mind at work...

We all need enough cash to fly to any place on this planet (first class or private jet) to inform others of the wisdom in living lives of austerity while surrounded by opulence, to be used only as needed, or as the worldly Germans might say, ànur bei Bedarf zu verwenden. The same rationale holds for wining and dining in élégance, for basking in the sunlight or the moonlight on the French Riviera, and for other instances of fulfilling our patriotic duties with Elon picking up the tab. In fact it is within the scope of our responsibilities to sail the seven seas in a yacht that rivals Jeff Bezoe’s 417 foot luxury super liner if only because we have much more to offer humanity than does he and his next 200 rivals have in terms of class, elegance, style, conversation, humility, and of course in savior fare. After all, what is $400 million of luxury yacht when our skills, attitude, relevance, class, style, and do le bien que nous pouvons faire (the good that we can do) surpass his a thousand times over? By the way, did you ever mistakenly call him Jeff Bozo, instead of Bezoe? Put a red nose on his honker and he could pass for an idiot in any language. That’s just a thought.

Now back to the poverty level that Elon and Jeff want to wrap us in le titre approprié de ce récit (the proper title for this narrative). Stand back and take a look at these two. Do the words “there but for the grace of God go I?” Or am I waxing too eloquent? One claims to have fathered 12 children. The biology behind that claim is easy enough to grasp, but who has the time, or the stamina to think in billions of dollars while trying to attend to the chores of fatherhood with a platoon of boys and girls? And while children may be cheaper by the dozen, you’ve got to slash a lot of zeroes off his net worth before my pathetic little brain can digest either the words or the duties associated with that many crumb grabbers (ach du lieber Gott!). My feeble brain also coughs up the words coup d'état.

They say that “life is a bitch, and then we die” (la vie est une garce, et puis on meurt). I would add that the law of distributions creates numbers that leave but one person at the top. It’s all a matter of chance. And chance alone would not put that same person at the top again in 8 billion more rolls of the dice. And so, chance is the real bitch, the sole truth, and the whole truth (le hasard est la vraie garce, la vérité, et toute la vérité ).

My faith in humanity took a giant leap forward this past week. Free thinkers from all over the country came forward in scores of Town Hall get-togethers to hold their representatives’ feet to the fire. They were calling out and shouting down every bite molle (limp appendage) congressman or woman for ramming one pile of crottes de cheval (horse shit) at them after another. Now with help from our Canadian neighbors, our Mexican compadres, China, and the entire continent of Europe on our side, it is getting near the “kick-ass” (botter le cul) hour.

Never underestimate the true American patriot who gets knocked down, and then gets back up on his feet. Let the fight begin!  Que le combat commence! 

 Addendum:  My intermittent use of French and German was just a way to show-off without the requisite skills.  Google has a free 200-language translator that anyone can use.