Mark's Pages

December 17, 2008:

The entrepreneur stands sulking on the sidewalk outside a popular restaurant. Complaints, ceaseless, petulant, one after the next. The line is too long; the weather is too wet; and above all else, no-one will offer the price he wants for one of his collectible racing cars. He's offended and, frankly, he's a little steamed. It's a safe bet this wouldn't happen to Larry Ellison.

The author, abandoning his role as neutral observer of events, steps in with a helpful suggestion. "Why don't you just buy the restaurant?" Silence and blank looks from the entrepreneur's party lead him to clarify: "So that you don't have to wait in line?"

The entrepreneur's party shift uncomfortably. The entrepreneur himself - tubby, twenty, college drop-out, very, very wealthy - seems peevish. Before he can think of something to say, the author's dinner companion, twenty herself, small and blonde and happy, chimes in with additional suggestions. "Then you could, like, order the staff around. You could have your own private room, and force the waitresses to give you blowjobs." Smiles happily at the aptness of her suggestion.

Stunned silence among the entrepreneur's party.

"Or the waiters," notes the author ecumenically. Shrugs. "Whatever you're into."

The entrepreneur's party cast uncertain glances. They are, after all, merely business flaks. While there's an obligation to defend the golden goose, there's no obligation to get dirty doing it, and it's clear that the sarcastic author and his sarcastic companion have verbalized a strong vein of contempt shared by pretty much everyone within earshot.

"Or the carcasses of the animals that will become main dishes," suggests the author's companion.

"Or the pastries," says the author. The two of them keep it going for several minutes, as the line grows more and more giggly,