All I know is what the good people at OS tell me is wrong with America. Mitt Romney ain't no job creator. Well, so be it.
Main Entrance - San Luis Regional Detention Center
Now, as y’all know, yesterday, bein' the first Saturday of the month an' all, t'was time for our little group, the 'Board of Directors', to meet. We generally have solutions for most of the world's problems. However, we is sworn to secrecy.
As I walked into Lon’s Restaurant last evening, most of the guys were already there.
I looked around the table. The six of us have known one another for decades. We all had worked hard; we all had been fortunate; but our total combined net worth was probably slightly north of one tenth of Mitt Romney’s estimated $250 million - unless one of us is sandbaggin'.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“We wuz jest discussin' the social value of our investments.” George said.
“Yeah, right . . . .”
“No joke.” George said.
“Well, George, you know why I invest. I jest wanna pay my bills, take some trips, enjoy life, help the children, spoil the grandchildren, be selfish, and still have money when I die.”
“No, really . . . . Paul wanted to know if any of us wuz still job creators.”
“What do ya mean? We’re all retired. We all sold, or shut down, our businesses. How in the hell are we goin’ to be job creators when we don’ hire no one no mo?”
I found my seat. The waiter came over; and I ordered a sarsaparilla.
“Well, Uncle, tell us again about those municipal bonds you bought last year for that there San Luis community center.”
I am just fat enough that I can appear to strut, even while seated.
“Boys, I jest got lucky with dat deal. Dat issue had a 5% coupon; and I bought what dey had lef' at a small discount, so my yield is actually a little higher than a snake’s belly."
Paul chimes in, "'Course, da interest paid on dem bonds is tax-free at da federal and State level as well, so you bettah off dan Romney on dat score and yo net return may be better dan wat you might git on taxable commercial paper at 9%."
"'True dat!" I sez.
“Remind me, Uncle, what dey doin' in San Luis?”
“Well, as y'all know, San Luis is about 20 miles south of Yuma, right on top of our border with ol' Mexico. Immigration and Customs Enforcement and the United States Marshall Service need a detention facility there because of all the illegal activity in those parts; and they have shared a 548-bed confinement center in San Luis since the city invested in buildin' it in 2007.”
Scott asks, “This is one that was shown on Frontline recently? It houses both men and women?”
“Yep; and they wanted to add another 368 beds a couple of years ago because they done run out of space. That there addition was completed in November of last year and those bonds I bought were issued by the City of San Luis to pay fer it.”
Rich looks puzzled. “What does the City of San Luis have to do with all this federal shit?”
“Well, the City of San Luis owns the damn place. It’s not a GSA building. They lease it out to a private service, which is under contract to provide detention services for federal prisoners. In return, this here private service charges us taxpayers based upon the facility’s occupancy; and parts of those there payments are returned to the City of San Luis to pay off the bonds issued to fund construction.”
“Ahhhhhhhhh.” Rich said
“Yeah.” I continued. “So, this one-horse town of San Luis gets an infusion of about $500,000 a year into its budget as a result of this operation.”
“Well, you know why we are interested in this investment, right?”
“No. . . I cain't figger that out.”
“It’s because you’re a JOB CREATOR, Uncle.”
“Yeah, just think about it. Your money helped build a place that requires guards, maintenance men, and administrators, right?”
“Sure . . . . and, now that I think about it, all private employees!”
“In addition, your money was used to pay for materials and labor to build the place, right?”
“Absolutely . . . .”
“meaning . . . . all those people who worked in the mines to produce the copper for the plumbing and the electrical, the iron used for the steel for the structure, and the limestone for the concrete, . . .”
“I guess. . . . “
“ . . . along with all those who refined those raw materials into the products that were used during the course of construction, AND all those who put the damn place together, . . .”
“Yep, those too . . .”
“ . . . were all paid, at least in part last year, to do what they did to finish the addition onto the prison with your money . . . .”
“Damn right!” I said, sitting up straight. “So, I AM a job creator, eh? Funny, I don’t feel like one. I didn’t have no payrolls. I didn’t have to hoist my ass early out of bed each morning to go to work. I didn't have to make no biznis-type decisions.”
“Yeah, you be one of those ‘1%’ rich boys who ain’t doin’ nuttin’ for da po’ folk in our society . . . .”
My drink comes and the conversation wanders off onto what our poor incumbent President inherited. Triple A bond rating . . . . that kind of stuff.
Finally, Paul sees me staring out of the window.
“What’s wrong, Uncle?”
“Hell, I was just wonderin’ what it would be like to run fer president.” I said.