Bankers are misunderstood and often slandered. Yes, we are greedy, but so are you. Cupidity is a natural urge, wouldn't you say? It's a kind of (con) genital juice that courses through everyone's lower and higher plumbing. Whether it's money, fame or nookies, most of us don't just want our share, but always a bit more, often a lot more, than the next guy. Not to oversimplify, but here's a bumper sticker for you, GREED IS LUST, but before you slap that onto your car, PayPal me five bucks, OK? It's copyrighted. I just copyrighted it. Use it without my permission and I'll sue your motherfucking ass.
So that's established. So there's nothing wrong with the fact that greed hardens me, but what makes me different from you is my method. I'm more clever than you, a whole lot more clever. (I didn't want to say "smart" outright, since that would offend your sissy sensibility.) Part of it is education, yes. I did learn a few tricks in college, but it has to be the right one. While you sculpted sandwiches for Subway and/or went into suicidal debt, thanks to me, to attend Butt f*ck U, I chain smoked Havanas at the Skull & Bones before segueing into Haaaaaavard. Bet you don't even know where that is, you dumbfuck. In any case, you went to school to get indoctrinated. I went to network.
At Harvard I joined a gang, so to speak, an Anglo-American gang, and our method is so clever yet so simple, and since you're so stupid, I'll only use the teeny tiniest words and speak as slowly as possible. If I had a set of crayons handy, I'd draw stick figures to help you to understand this. OK, so our entire method, trumpet blast then drum roll please, comes down to this: We make money out of nothing, then we lend it to you, you and you, for profit.
Is that it, you ask, and I'm sorry to be so anticlimactic, but if it works, why complicate it? This laughably simple method has enriched us and impoverished you, you and you for nearly a century, since 1913, to be exact.
But how can I get away with this? Where are the regulators? What are you, a Huffington Post intern? A college professor with an Obama button surgically attached to your forehead? Here, look into my laundry basket. The regulators are dozing among the lint and skid marks. Don't disturb them.
So everything is going great, with houses being sold left and right, on mountain tops and in the middle of the desert even, until it seems that every Wal-Mart greeter and busboy is a proud owner of a McMansion, but of course they won't be able to keep up payments, especially when interest rates jack up.
Looking out the window, I now see a mob down below. Night after night they sleep in the cold or rain without even a tent over them. They have a long list of grievances but no demands, not that they'll get any concessions anyway. Though they've pointed accusatory fingers in my direction, I have nothing to worry about since they've refused to call me by name. Perhaps they don't even know. Do you?
Should this carnival get rowdy, these hippies, punks, eco loonies, union goons and other assorted misfits will only get themselves hurt and, at most, a few of my foot soldiers annoyed. I've been talking to you real friendly, f*ckheads, but in spite of my bonhomie and $10,000 Fioravanti suit, I can be nastier than Quentin Tarrantino's worst nightmare. I've brought entire countries to their knees, so I won't hesitate to squash a few more tattooed and nose ringed cockroaches. Cornell West or Michael Moore groupies ain't ish. (I picked up that lingo from my "rebellious" son.) Now, would you like a drink? I'll buy the first round.