In a closeup, we see a conference table. The finely polished wood reflects the overhead chandelieur. Seated at the table are partners Goldy Sax, Henry Potter and E.B. "Eb" Screwge. They wear finely tailored suits, with vests recalling the class and style of yesteryear. The camera for a moment glimpses the well-polished shoes, their conservative socks, the cuffs of their well-tailored trousers.
Potter takes a drag on his big cigar and leans back in his chair. The light glints off his opulent gold pinky ring. "I say we take huge bonuses. After all, we've had a wonderful year. Got back to wheeling and dealing. And making money!"
They all laugh.
"But if we take big bonuses, won't that cause bad publicity?" Says Goldy Sax, running his hand through his well-barbered thick hair. He wears stylish hornrims, and we see the cufflinks on his starched French cuffs.
"Yes, that's a good point," says Screwge, who affects a traditional English look.
"Well, well, that's no problem," says Potter. "We'll just not pay our underlings any bonuses. If Congress supoenas us, if those pesky reporters call, we'll point out this as evidence of our prudence!"
"Good thinking, Potter!" Sax says. "Let's not give the underlings bonuses. That'll mean more for ourselves." He pauses and looks at a strange ray of light filtering through the huge window overlooking the Manhattan skyline. In a distance we see Lady Liberty. "Whom shall we cut out?"
"What about Chratchit?" Screwege says.
"Bob Cratchit?" Sax asks. "Why, he's a fine worker. And, when we were doing all of those crazy credit swaps and plunging into the derivatives markets and whatnot, he was always speaking up for old-fashioned, reputable business practices."
"Yes, Cratchit," Screwege says. "He won't raise a peep. He's so honest, he doesn't even think he deserves a bonus, after we took the taxpayers' money to bail us out and all."
"But Cratchit depends on the small bonus we pay him!" Sax says. "His family needs it! He might have his home foreclosed without it!"
"Too bad," Srewege says. "Aren't the bankruptcy courts still operating? Don't the wheels of capitalism still need to hum? He can pull his kids out of private school. So what?"
"Oh, OK," Sax says. "We'll cut out Cratchit. Anyone else?"
"Yes," Potter says. "Bailey!"
"George Bailey?" Sax says. "But, he's always trying to lend money to the little guy, the mom-and-pop businesses, the ones with whom we don't like to deal. Now that Obama is trying to make us lend to such people."
"All the more reason to cut out Bailey. He wants to deal with the little people. So he can be one of the little people himself."
"All right, all right," Sax says. "We cut out Cratchit and Bailey. All agreed?"
"Yes!" they shout in unison.
"And more bonuses for us!" Screwege says. They laugh heartily and puff their cigars. Sax picks up the telephone and says to someone, presumably his "executive assistant," "Bring in the brandy!" As the scene closes, they are enjoying their manly drinks.
It's Christmas Eve. The camera as if in flight passes over Manhattan. We see the skycrapers, the green square of Central Park, the Bronx. The camera turns and heads over the Brooklyn Bridge, and we see Brooklyn, Queens, and then the opulent suburbs of Long Island. At last, the camera rests on a fine beach home in the Hamptons. There Eb Screwege is sleeping in his big bed. His 25-year-old mistress, Ellie, a blond beauty clad in her silk lingerie, lies beside him. Suddenly, there's a knock on the door. Ellie stirs and wakes.
"Eb! Eb! There's someone at the door!" Ellie says in her Betty Boop voice. "Wake up!"
Eb stirs, mumbling and muttering. At last he awakes. "Huh, what? Can't you wait? I'll have to take more Viagra!"
"No, Eb, no," she says, her face momentarily showing alarm. "There's someone at the door, knocking!"
"Oh, all right." He gets up, pulls on his robe, and grabs the Smith & Wesson he keeps by the bed and hurries through the bedroom door and down the stairs to the front.
He opens the door. Standing there is a stooped man with droopy eyelids. Although he wears a shabby Santa suit, his face more resembles the Easter bunny.
"Alan? Alan Greenspan?" Eb says to him, lowering the Smith & Wesson to his side.
"No, no. It's not Alan Greenspan. It's the Ghost of Christmas past!
"Wait, wait, I've seen this movie,..." Eb says.
"Yeah, yeah. But now I'm the Ghost of Christmas past, OK?. You know. The go-go 90s. The philosophy of Ayn Rand. The easy money. Irrational Exuberance. Those were the days. Let's go and take a look."
They spin through the sky, with scenes of trees being knocked down by bulldozers, huge homes going up in subdivisions with names like "Bountiful Estates," banks popping up overnight, folks dancing around after getting loans, cellphones ringing merily in financial offices around the globe. We quickly see flashing the notorious names on their rising skyscrapers: "Enron," "Lehman Brothers," "AIG," "MCI."
In a flash of smoke, they are back in the Hamptons. The ghost of Christmas past points a bony finger at Screwge. "You made your ill-gotten gains from all of this. And, you haven't learned. You want more and more!"
"But, but," Screwege mutters.
The door flies open, and Ellie is there, fetching in her lingerie. She shivers in the cold, her skin glistening. She flashes her million dollar smile. "Alan! Is that you?"
The camera returns to Manhattan. We're at the upper east side home of Goldy Sax. In the lobby, the doorman has fallen asleep. Snowflakes drift in the wind above the richly detailed roof of the architectural jewel, the townhome where Goldy waits for Christmas before flying to the Caribbean. Unable to sleep, he reads in his well-appointed study. The camera flits upon the book cover, and we see his tome is Gibbon's "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire." Suddenly, there's a rap on the glass, and a man crawls through the window. He's wearing an odd costume, a white robe, with a crownlike head piece, decorated with laurel and misteltoe and Christmas lights.
Goldy looks up. "Geez. Ben Bernake? What, have you been at some crazy party? I didn't know you swing like that. Man, how do I get in on the action?
"No, Goldy, the Ghost of Christmas Present." Ben Bernake shakes his head ruefully. "You'd think a guy named Time magazine's man of the year wouldn't have to get a second job. But this recession's killing all of us!"
"Not me," Goldy says. "We've had a great year!."
"Look, I don't mind you guys cleaning up, getting bonuses," the Ghost of Christmas Present says. "It's the American way. But, really, guy. You just can't take it too far. Let's go and see what's happening."
They see abandoned homes, with foreclosure signs on the front door. They see men with sad, haunted eyes receiving the news they've been laid off. Women weep, their faces buried in their hands. Young men and women just out of college desperately hunt for jobs. Single moms count their food stamps, and look sadly at their hungry children. Repo men come and take away high-definition TV sets, BMWs, hot tubs. Goldy shakes his head.
"My god, I didn't know it was this bad," Goldy says. "I, I, I'll pay back the government! I'll call Warren Buffet and give loans to the poor, the mom and pop businesses. I'll do god's work! Just, just, don't let inflation come back, OK? And prop up the dollar, man! We're getting killed in the commodity markets!"
"OK, Ok, take it easy," says the Ghost of Christmas Present, AKA Ben Bernake. "We'll see what we can do. I hope you've learned your lesson. And thanks for the Christmas card."
The camera pans to a rich private club in Manhattan. After a night of reveling, Henry Potter staggers out of the huge oaken door, and stands on the snow-bordered sidewalk. A car drives up. It's a small, electric-powered hybrid. The driver parks, gets out and walks to the sidewalk. He's a slim, graceful man, wearing a nicely tailored green outfit. He wears a fur-lined cap, with a jingle at the tip.
"Oh my god," Potter mutters. "Barack Obama. Please, please don't tax me anymore. Stop with this health care thing. No more cap-and-trade. Look, we can make huge profits from global warming. Please. I've got a business to grow!"
"No, I'm the Ghost of Christmas future," says the trim black man, with a grimace. "C'mon Potter. The game's up. Come along with me for a ride." He opens the passenger door to the hybrid.
"No, no, no, I can't ride in that," Potter moans. "It's too small."
"Get in, I mean it," says the Ghost of Christmas Future. But despite his effort to be tough, he can't help himself from flashing that famous smile. "Oh, all right, we'll talk about it, compromise We can cut a deal."
Potter looks at him curiously and says "well, all right," and gets into the car.
The car is actually a magic flying machine. They jet across the country, which turns from grim black-and-white scenes to those of glorious rainbow technicolor. In Detroit, green businesses sprout, and entrepreneurs reclaim shutdown factories. Young families move into abandoned homes. In New Orleans, stores and clubs reopen; we hear the sounds of happy jazz wafting toward cotton-candy clouds and blue skies above the levee. In Florida, folks move into vacant housing developments, in California a new green economy sparks an economic revival. Inner cities are revived, long neglected areas receive help, the unemployed and underemployed get long-needed training. There's an efficent government-run health care plan; George Bailey's wife Mary can have that operation she's long needed, but which was denied because of her pre-existing condition.
Potter spews and huffs, thinking he's seeing a nightmare. The tax rate is killing him, and he has to share the wealth. Socialism has broken out across the land! But wait, in the distance, there's hope. Sarah Palin is speaking, thousands of HD televisions flicker with her beautiful image as she decries the new Marxist reality.
"Forget it, Potter," says the Ghost of Christmas Future. "You're done, man."
Potter screams, grasping his graying hair in his grubby hands.
The next day, the three repair to a huge party at Bob Cratchit's home in Westchester County. George Bailey and the rest of the Baileys are there, warmly greeted by the Cratchits. Goldy Sax, Eb Screwege and Henry Potter laugh deeply, bearing sacks stocked with gifts, food, and generous bonus checks for Bob and George. A scene reminiscent of "It's a Wonderful Life" unfolds: we see business men and women, neighbors, soldiers returned from Afghanistan and Iraq, little children. A bell tinkles, and we remember the story of Clarence the angel. Yes, Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed are there. Some folks are dressed in Victorian costumes, others wear little antlers. They sip champagne and punch; blushing couples steal kisses beneath the misteltoe. Outside, we hear sleighbells, the snow beats against the huge picture window. All gather and sing Christmas carols, "Silent Night," "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," "Jingle Bells," and "Auld Lang Syne."
A young man with a crutch hobbles to the front. The voices cry out. Yes, it's Tiny Tim! As the cheers rise, he tosses away his crutch, and stands there, arms unfolded. We see that it's Tim Geithner!
"God Bless Us One and All!" he says. The camera zooms into a sumptious office in downtown Manhattan. We see a huge desk, overstuffed leather chairs, bookshelves with elegant books, fine art in gold frames, a portrait of a 19th century robber baron.
In a closeup, we see a conference table. The finely polished wood reflects the overhead chandelieur. Seated at the table are partners Goldy Sax, Henry Potter and E.B. "Eb" Screwge. They wear finely tailored suits, with vests recalling the class and style of yesteryear. The camera for a moment glimpses the well-polished shoes, their conservative socks, the cuffs of their well-tailored trousers.
Potter takes a drag on his big cigar and leans back in his chair. The light glints off his opulent gold pinky ring. "I say we take huge bonuses. After all, we've had a wonderful year. Got back to wheeling and dealing. And making money!"
They all laugh.
"But if we take big bonuses, won't that cause bad publicity?" Says Goldy Sax, running his hand through his well-barbered thick hair. He wears stylish hornrims, and we see the cufflinks on his starched French cuffs.
"Yes, that's a good point," says Screwge, who affects a traditional English look.
"Well, well, that's no problem," says Potter. "We'll just not pay our underlings any bonuses. If Congress supoenas us, if those pesky reporters call, we'll point out this as evidence of our prudence!"
"Good thinking, Potter!" Sax says. "Let's not give the underlings bonuses. That'll mean more for ourselves." He pauses and looks at a strange ray of light filtering through the huge window overlooking the Manhattan skyline. In a distance we see Lady Liberty. "Whom shall we cut out?"
"What about Chratchit?" Screwege says.
"Bob Cratchit?" Sax asks. "Why, he's a fine worker. And, when we were doing all of those crazy credit swaps and plunging into the derivatives markets and whatnot, he was always speaking up for old-fashioned, reputable business practices."
"Yes, Cratchit," Screwege says. "He won't raise a peep. He's so honest, he doesn't even think he deserves a bonus, after we took the taxpayers' money to bail us out and all."
"But Cratchit depends on the small bonus we pay him!" Sax says. "His family needs it! He might have his home foreclosed without it!"
"Too bad," Srewege says. "Aren't the bankruptcy courts still operating? Don't the wheels of capitalism still need to hum? He can pull his kids out of private school. So what?"
"Oh, OK," Sax says. "We'll cut out Cratchit. Anyone else?"
"Yes," Potter says. "Bailey!"
"George Bailey?" Sax says. "But, he's always trying to lend money to the little guy, the mom-and-pop businesses, the ones with whom we don't like to deal. Now that Obama is trying to make us lend to such people."
"All the more reason to cut out Bailey. He wants to deal with the little people. So he can be one of the little people himself."
"All right, all right," Sax says. "We cut out Cratchit and Bailey. All agreed?"
"Yes!" they shout in unison.
"And more bonuses for us!" Screwege says. They laugh heartily and puff their cigars. Sax picks up the telephone and says to someone, presumably his "executive assistant," "Bring in the brandy!" As the scene closes, they are enjoying their manly drinks.
It's Christmas Eve. The camera as if in flight passes over Manhattan. We see the skycrapers, the green square of Central Park, the Bronx. The camera turns and heads over the Brooklyn Bridge, and we see Brooklyn, Queens, and then the opulent suburbs of Long Island. At last, the camera rests on a fine beach home in the Hamptons. There Eb Screwege is sleeping in his big bed. His 25-year-old mistress, Ellie, a blond beauty clad in her silk lingerie, lies beside him. Suddenly, there's a knock on the door. Ellie stirs and wakes.
"Eb! Eb! There's someone at the door!" Ellie says in her Betty Boop voice. "Wake up!"
Eb stirs, mumbling and muttering. At last he awakes. "Huh, what? Can't you wait? I'll have to take more Viagra!"
"No, Eb, no," she says, her face momentarily showing alarm. "There's someone at the door, knocking!"
"Oh, all right." He gets up, pulls on his robe, and grabs the Smith & Wesson he keeps by the bed and hurries through the bedroom door and down the stairs to the front.
He opens the door. Standing there is a stooped man with droopy eyelids. Although he wears a shabby Santa suit, his face more resembles the Easter bunny.
"Alan? Alan Greenspan?" Eb says to him, lowering the Smith & Wesson to his side.
"No, no. It's not Alan Greenspan. It's the Ghost of Christmas past!
"Wait, wait, I've seen this movie,..." Eb says.
"Yeah, yeah. But now I'm the Ghost of Christmas past, OK?. You know. The go-go 90s. The philosophy of Ayn Rand. The easy money. Irrational Exuberance. Those were the days. Let's go and take a look."
They spin through the sky, with scenes of trees being knocked down by bulldozers, huge homes going up in subdivisions with names like "Bountiful Estates," banks popping up overnight, folks dancing around after getting loans, cellphones ringing merily in financial offices around the globe. We quickly see flashing the notorious names on their rising skyscrapers: "Enron," "Lehman Brothers," "AIG," "MCI."
In a flash of smoke, they are back in the Hamptons. The ghost of Christmas past points a bony finger at Screwge. "You made your ill-gotten gains from all of this. And, you haven't learned. You want more and more!"
"But, but," Screwege mutters.
The door flies open, and Ellie is there, fetching in her lingerie. She shivers in the cold, her skin glistening. She flashes her million dollar smile. "Alan! Is that you?"
The camera returns to Manhattan. We're at the upper east side home of Goldy Sax. In the lobby, the doorman has fallen asleep. Snowflakes drift in the wind above the richly detailed roof of the architectural jewel, the townhome where Goldy waits for Christmas before flying to the Caribbean. Unable to sleep, he reads in his well-appointed study. The camera flits upon the book cover, and we see his tome is Gibbon's "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire." Suddenly, there's a rap on the glass, and a man crawls through the window. He's wearing an odd costume, a white robe, with a crownlike head piece, decorated with laurel and misteltoe and Christmas lights.
Goldy looks up. "Geez. Ben Bernake? What, have you been at some crazy party? I didn't know you swing like that. Man, how do I get in on the action?
"No, Goldy, the Ghost of Christmas Present." Ben Bernake shakes his head ruefully. "You'd think a guy named Time magazine's man of the year wouldn't have to get a second job. But this recession's killing all of us!"
"Not me," Goldy says. "We've had a great year!."
"Look, I don't mind you guys cleaning up, getting bonuses," the Ghost of Christmas Present says. "It's the American way. But, really, guy. You just can't take it too far. Let's go and see what's happening."
They see abandoned homes, with foreclosure signs on the front door. They see men with sad, haunted eyes receiving the news they've been laid off. Women weep, their faces buried in their hands. Young men and women just out of college desperately hunt for jobs. Single moms count their food stamps, and look sadly at their hungry children. Repo men come and take away high-definition TV sets, BMWs, hot tubs. Goldy shakes his head.
"My god, I didn't know it was this bad," Goldy says. "I, I, I'll pay back the government! I'll call Warren Buffet and give loans to the poor, the mom and pop businesses. I'll do god's work! Just, just, don't let inflation come back, OK? And prop up the dollar, man! We're getting killed in the commodity markets!"
"OK, Ok, take it easy," says the Ghost of Christmas Present, AKA Ben Bernake. "We'll see what we can do. I hope you've learned your lesson. And thanks for the Christmas card."
The camera pans to a rich private club in Manhattan. After a night of reveling, Henry Potter staggers out of the huge oaken door, and stands on the snow-bordered sidewalk. A car drives up. It's a small, electric-powered hybrid. The driver parks, gets out and walks to the sidewalk. He's a slim, graceful man, wearing a nicely tailored green outfit. He wears a fur-lined cap, with a jingle at the tip.
"Oh my god," Potter mutters. "Barack Obama. Please, please don't tax me anymore. Stop with this health care thing. No more cap-and-trade. Look, we can make huge profits from global warming. Please. I've got a business to grow!"
"No, I'm the Ghost of Christmas future," says the trim black man, with a grimace. "C'mon Potter. The game's up. Come along with me for a ride." He opens the passenger door to the hybrid.
"No, no, no, I can't ride in that," Potter moans. "It's too small."
"Get in, I mean it," says the Ghost of Christmas Future. But despite his effort to be tough, he can't help himself from flashing that famous smile. "Oh, all right, we'll talk about it, compromise We can cut a deal."
Potter looks at him curiously and says "well, all right," and gets into the car.
The car is actually a magic flying machine. They jet across the country, which turns from grim black-and-white scenes to those of glorious rainbow technicolor. In Detroit, green businesses sprout, and entrepreneurs reclaim shutdown factories. Young families move into abandoned homes. In New Orleans, stores and clubs reopen; we hear the sounds of happy jazz wafting toward cotton-candy clouds and blue skies above the levee. In Florida, folks move into vacant housing developments, in California a new green economy sparks an economic revival. Inner cities are revived, long neglected areas receive help, the unemployed and underemployed get long-needed training. There's an efficent government-run health care plan; George Bailey's wife Mary can have that operation she's long needed, but which was denied because of her pre-existing condition.
Potter spews and huffs, thinking he's seeing a nightmare. The tax rate is killing him, and he has to share the wealth. Socialism has broken out across the land! But wait, in the distance, there's hope. Sarah Palin is speaking, thousands of HD televisions flicker with her beautiful image as she decries the new Marxist reality.
"Forget it, Potter," says the Ghost of Christmas Future. "You're done, man."
Potter screams, grasping his graying hair in his grubby hands.
The next day, the three repair to a huge party at Bob Cratchit's home in Westchester County. George Bailey and the rest of the Baileys are there, warmly greeted by the Cratchits. Goldy Sax, Eb Screwege and Henry Potter laugh deeply, bearing sacks stocked with gifts, food, and generous bonus checks for Bob and George. A scene reminiscent of "It's a Wonderful Life" unfolds: we see business men and women, neighbors, soldiers returned from Afghanistan and Iraq, little children. A bell tinkles, and we remember the story of Clarence the angel. Yes, Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed are there. Some folks are dressed in Victorian costumes, others wear little antlers. They sip champagne and punch; blushing couples steal kisses beneath the misteltoe. Outside, we hear sleighbells, the snow beats against the huge picture window. All gather and sing Christmas carols, "Silent Night," "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," "Jingle Bells," and "Auld Lang Syne."
A young man with a crutch hobbles to the front. The voices cry out. Yes, it's Tiny Tim! As the cheers rise, he tosses away his crutch, and stands there, arms unfolded. We see that it's Tim Geithner!
"God Bless Us One and All!" he says.
