Royal Ascot

Not being the envious sort, I rarely give much thought to the economic gap between the uppercrust motherfuckers of the world and the rest of us living from one case of beer to the next. The one such occasion I consider the distinct possibility some people may just have more wealth than is morally justifiable is the Royal Ascot thoroughbred meet in Windsor.

There is something about seeing a top hat in June that sets my blood on boil that other symbols of class fail to do. Most all the wealthy people I know around Dope City came by their money more or less honestly. They put in long hours and made wise business decisions consistently for decades. Or they got in on the dope growing craze and accepted the risks that go with the rewards of feeding a dope-hungry world.

I think it must be the unmistakable parasitical nature of Old Money I find so disagreeable. Perhaps it is the sight of the Royal Family, the most visible tapeworms in the gut of the world, that sets my jaw to grinding.

So as I read about and looked at pictures from this year's Royal Ascot I had to pour myself an Arran to cool myself off. As the scotch did its work I admired the rejuvenated facilities of the distant racetrack. It really is quite something to look at. Which is more than I can say for the pictures of the women in their bleeding hats, crooked teeth and surgically enhanced breasts.

I hope everyone enjoyed their day at the races as much as I do mine. One day a Revolution will put an end to the show. The English are like that. Until then we have the rule of the Eton Rifles.