The children hung on every word.

He handed each a piece of paper and spoke of its power to grant happiness.

He rhapsodized on how he accumulated these papers and bought boats and cars and houses.

He gleamed with joy at his own prowess.

His self-flatulation was short-lived, as his gaze caught one of the children not enraptured by his words of wisdom.

You there, why are you not gazing longingly at the stuff dreams are made of?

It's just a piece of paper.

Just paper? Success is measured by these, your self-worth is measured by the number of these you have.

By paper? Not my self-worth.

You are destined to fail.

By your terms, maybe.

Excuse me, but if you have so much paper, why don't you give some to Jimmy the retard over there? Here I'll give Jimmy my paper and see if your hypothesis holds-up to such rigid scrutiny.

You simpleton, Jimmy needs to earn the paper himself. I am trying to enlighten you.

Simpleton? Perhaps you haven't noticed, you self-absorbed fuck-muffin, but Jimmy's retarded.

Enlighten? You're a wandering blackhole trying to indoctrinate innocent children into your soulless cult. You're about as enlightening as a candle at the bottom of The Mariana Trench.

I am now picturing you fucking yourself.

That's not PC, Jimmy's alternately gifted.

You are an intellectually retardant douche.

Jimmy's retarded and will never have the same opportunities as you and I. I don't want to argue semantics, I just want you to answer my question: Why won't you help Jimmy the retard who lives in the ghetto?

Urban area.

You, are starting to piss me off, it's a ghetto or a shithole. Did god tell you to worship the paper? My god, if she did speak to you, would tell you to shut-the-fuck-up and help the less fortunate.

When did we start to celebrate hoarding of silly pieces of paper?

Hey, I think you're a fucktard. What PC term would you substitute for fucktard? You can change the term, but you still exist and you're still a fucktard.

You are an inarticulate, spasmodic fornicator.

You go to the office.

I will not go to the office to have other self-absorbed zombies reiterate your unconscionable psycho-babble. I will not worship your silly paper, nor will I let you infect me with your verbal bubonic plague... you brain washed megalomaniacal meat sack.

You might as well do the world a favor and goose-step your way out the window and out of the gene pool Mein Fuhrer. Wall Street was meant as a cautionary tale, not a how-to manual to fuck-over your fellow Man.

Pinhead.

I'm gonna call your parents.

Don't bother, you putz, I got my iphone right here. I'll call'm myself.

Please refrain from speaking, I can feel my brain atrophying with every thoughtless word that wafts from that anus on your face.

One of the problems with civilization is it stymies natural selection.  

Get out!

Your vacuous regurgitations pain me as though you were shaving my head with a cheese-grater. When you speak I clitorally feel my head being jammed-up my own ass.

Clitorally?

Ah, words go in, words come out. It was just a test. You should work for FOX news.

Hi mom... yeah, I got this fat, slow, disoriented purveyor of gluttony trying to get me to worship the almighty dollar... Yeah, and get this. He's got oodles of money and won't help Jimmy the retard... Yup, come and get me. You can drop me off at the library.

And with that he marches proudly to the exit...

I'm still picturing you fucking yourself, and...

don't forget to spay and neuter yourself.