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I should never post when I’m angry or drunk. But if I followed that rule, I’d never post anything, so there you go. But anyway, I just got off a conference call with, um, I’m not sure who, exactly. So, um, let me explain. I use “Chip” who works for “EF Hutton” to manage my retirement plan. I’m blessed with a high income (after decades of building up to this point), but I’m 52, and after decades of reinvesting everything I have into building my business, I need to save some money for my retirement. So “President” Biden proposed some tax legislation that has financial advisors all over the country completely stressed out. So my buddy “Chip” calls me, and says my 401k won’t be sufficient – I’ve got to do something else to keep my income below a certain level, and that is likely to be very important. If “President” Biden’s proposed legislation actually goes through. Which they think it will. So “Chip” calls “Chris” who gets someone to suggest that “Chad” call me – “Chad” works as a sort of liaison between ”Chip” and “Chris” and “EF Hutton” and “various record keepers” to “build” “retirement plans” to “create tax savings” and “maximize opportunities” while “keeping fees down” and “ensuring regulatory compliance.”
I just got off a phone call with Mayo explaining that one of my patients was about to die, and there was nothing I could do about it. And then, with “Chad”, I have a very long phone call. With someone I’ve never met, who does something I don’t understand, who apparently will help me “achieve my goals,” which really are pretty simple – I just want to save some money. My own money – I want to save some of my own money. And I earn a good living, but I’m not Mark Zuckerberg, for Pete’s sake. And after that phone call, I think that there will be at least four (possibly five?) multinational financial corporations involved in my efforts to save some of my own money. It was a long phone call. And I don’t understand what we talked about. I asked questions about concrete realities, and “Chad” answered in code. A sort of code that used vague terms which may mean something to other people like “Chad,” but means nothing to me, whose success is measured in things like ‘how many of my patients are breathing today?’ “Chad” probably felt like he was trying to explain differential equations to a Bassett Hound. And I’m the Bassett Hound. Which is why I’m angry and drunk.
I have a simple job. My patients pay me money to prevent them from becoming dead. I then put that money in a bank account, and use it to pay for groceries and electricity and bourbon and other necessities. Despite my simplistic finances, I hire an accountant to prepare my tax returns. Which are over 100 pages long. He gives me an envelope with over 100 pages of God-knows-what in it, and he says, “Be sure to read through that before you send it in.” As if I could decipher even the first page. I’m a really good doctor, but I don’t understand tax law. So I hire my accountant named “Chris.” Who recommends somebody who recommends “Chip.” Who calls somebody who recommends “Chad,” who recommends working with companies who advertise during golf tournaments, so that I can save some of my own money. And I don’t understand what any of these people do. And this is my money. And, technically, my country. And my government. Pretty much, I thought. After a fashion. Which is passing laws I don’t understand which require me to hire people I don’t know who work for companies I don’t understand to do something that makes no sense. All so that I can save some of my own money.
A communist (or even socialist) government controls people because it owns the means of production. A fascist government does not want to own the means of production, but controls it via regulation, taxation, and various other punitive measures.
I’m being controlled by my own government, by rules that I don’t understand. So I hire people that I’ve never met, to do things that I don’t understand, to follow laws that make no sense, in preparation for legislation that has not yet passed. But it might. So I end up drinking while I talk to “Chad.” Or possibly “Chris.” It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. Whatever.
I’ve spent the last 30 years devoting countless hours to becoming the best doctor I can be, while “my government” has been developing ways to discourage me from doing that, while planning out how to penalize my possible success. If I should happen to succeed, against all odds. If I don’t succeed, they’ll penalize whoever does. My government is open-minded, on matters like that. No matter who wins, “my government” wins.
But I take all the risk.
But despite all that, I press on, because I feel like I ought to. I think my work is important. I reinvest everything I have, gambling on my own success, over all my competitors. While my own government waits to take the winnings from whoever comes out on top. Whoever.
Just in case I happen to succeed, I hire professionals to protect me from my own government.
Although, regardless of who succeeds, both “Chad” and “Chris” probably drive really nice cars. Because they’re good at something that I don’t understand. And something I try not to care about. So, like “my government,” whoever wins – they win.
And if they ever get sick or old, they’ll hire me. To do something that everyone understands. But that not everyone can do. Because it takes years of investment and sacrifice. Which is currently discouraged by “our” government.
There is a reason that some people are freaked out right now. This is no joke.
There is a great article in all this chaos somewhere. Which I hope will be written by someone other than me. Whoever writes that article, I thank you in advance. But it won’t be me.
Because I have some serious drinking to do. Because this is my life. And my risks, and my years of hard work. And my hard-earned money. And I’ve lost the will to fight. I just want to do my job. I’ve lost interest in, um, whatever the heck is going on here.
Which, I think, is the whole point of all this. Encourage them to keep working. And discourage them from thinking.
Sign me up, I guess. I’ll be happy if I’m just allowed to do my job. I’ll try to stop thinking.
I’ll leave that to “Chad.” Or possibly “Chris.”