It's Coming. Can You Feel It?

Can't you smell it in the air?
No, not the overwhelming crushing odor of leftover ham and turkey surging upwards from thousands of kitchen fans. This smell is like a cold seabreeze - a supernumerary odor, cool and crisp and biting and almost metallic, above the normal moronosphere that hangs so low here, heavy and stultifying.
It's exciting. It's inspirational. It's enough to make you stand still and just enjoy it, head raised, sniffing like a scenthound who is about to give chase.

It's the smell of comeuppance.

Those folks who never did without, who wanted everything now now NOW, who used their McMansions as ATM or slot machines, dumping quarters in, taking thousands out, lording it over the hardworking taxpaying slaving folk who bought less than they could afford, who planned for the future. They are about to get what they so richly deserve, what they asked for, what they begged for, and it is about to schmack them in the face... and in the pocket.

Right now they are surreptitiously unloading their toys, talking innocently and brightly about downsizing, while in the dark their bills are piling up and up, keeping them awake nights like the monotonous sounds of a metronome tick... tock... tick... tock... tick... tock. They are quietly scrabbling to find cash for one more, three more, months, to pay their mortgage, to finance all of the expensive toys and furnishings in their lives that they simply had to have, to impress - whomever - to prove - whatever. Their fingernails are scratching, scrabbling, like rats' paws against the splintering walls of a twisting, shrieking, sinking ship, and they are going down down down into the depths of hell's waters, their panting lungs slowly filling with air...

And it is delightful to stand on the shores of integrity, honesty, common sense, and industry, and watch it happen. It is delightful to stand there, simply because they could not resist, for the past five years, running around all of us shore-bound folk, bragging about where they were going, what they were buying, where they were living, with never a word of how they were going to pay for it all. The Noveau Riche, flushed bright pink with the joys of cash in hand, credit cards that could be used to pay for other credit cards, refinancing their homes again and again, scraping up the piles of cash and fleeing off to their next great adventure, all the while thumbing their noses at shore-bound others who were just old fuddie-duddies, who were stick in the muds, who didn't know how to enjoy life... They were innocent whores, dancing from one john to another, mating with whomever would have them, selling their credit and their fathers' good names and their childrens' futures for a mess of pottage, never looking behind them, spending money that they just knew that they would always have, as their house appraisals went up month to month, week to week. Enslaving themselves to evil-eyed predators who smiled and encouraged and took their money every month, who laughed with them and drank with them and encouraged them to get, to have, to take, more and more.

When the final crash comes, they will go under, squeaking like the rats they are, clinging to this halyard and that line, praying for de gummint or someone, anyone, to save them. Like rats, they carry their own poison with them, and should not be saved, but left to drown in their own feces. For this crash is of their own making, their own stupidity, their own selfish and self-seeking desires.