Here I am. On the cusp of yet another major collapse that could lead to hundreds of thousands of job losses, send global markets into a tailspin, and destroy my fragile recovery. At this very moment, the threat of automatic cuts to defense and social programs could absolutely cripple me. And I’ll be honest with you: I couldn’t be more turned on.
The truth is I get off—sexually—on the prospect of my collapse. Does that make you uncomfortable? Maybe turn you on a little? See, the very real potential of both a negative GDP and an overall decrease in the consumption of my goods and resources drives me wild. Right now, my transportation and warehousing components are hot. And wet. Very wet.
At this moment, I have so much adrenaline pumping through each one of my unstable sectors that at any second I could explode.
And I like that. That feeling of instability. Of being treated like a dog and being taken advantage of by male, and female, lawmakers. Doesn’t matter the gender or age—Senator Chuck Grassley is 79 and he ravages me in ways Amy Klobuchar never could. As long as I get off I’m happy. And in the last half decade, I’ve been getting off a lot. I haven’t been this sexually fulfilled in 230 years.
Every meeting, resolution, and deal that fails to stabilize me is just another orgasm. In the last couple of weeks, between all the failed talks in the Senate and House of Representatives I’ve achieved climax more times than I can count. Almost three orgasms an hour. In the last 45 minutes alone I came five times.
I like being pushed to the brink, to the point where my purchase power parity is weakened and I can’t take any more stresses on my fragile housing market. I’m defenseless; I’ve given myself up completely to people who threaten to destroy me. The tight constriction on federal spending scares me, and yet excites me. I think of it getting tighter. Tighter. Tighter. It’s like I can’t breathe, but at the same time it makes me feel alive. The fear gets me off, you know? The unemployment rate looks like it will rise to 9 percent, increasing health care costs could destroy me, and I’m about to totally fall apart. But then I’m pulled back from the edge. Slowly. Very slowly. A deal is finally made, I feel a shiver in my private sector, and at that moment a sense of incredible euphoria washes over me. I feel alive.
But then I want to get fucked over again. And again. And again. On the floor of the House, behind the Senate lectern, and by the president and his entire cabinet in the middle of the Oval Office. I want to get fucked over so many times that I—the world’s largest economy—am reduced to nothing more than a plaything.
I’ll admit it, the prospect of a recession thrills me. Even the mere thought of a second Great Depression instantly makes my service industry rock hard.
I know what people think: that I’m some sort of freak. That I’m a perverted system of wealth and resources that doesn’t respect itself because it likes being treated like shit. But if that’s what it takes to get me off then who are you to judge? I was sexually frustrated throughout the entire 1990s because everyone was considerate of me and didn’t once threaten to make devastating, across-the-board spending cuts. I like artificial deadlines that send my markets reeling. I like threats of government shutdowns. That’s what gets me going, and I’m not going to apologize for it. It’s who I am.
Look, I could be like Switzerland’s economy and lay on my back while its government officials lovingly make sure the unemployment rate stays low and are always caring enough to make smart federal investments, but where’s the fun in that? Sounds like jacking off to a picture of a stable line graph if you ask me. I’m a bad little economy and I want it rough.
You know what else turns me on? I’ve always had this fantasy of being dominated by China.
