Ask Mrs. Vera: Sequestered Spending Cuts Explained

Question: Dear Mrs. Vera,

Can you explain the phrase, ‘sequestered spending cuts’?

Regards,
Confused in Cincinnati

Mrs. Vera Newman

Mrs. Vera Newman
San Francisco, California

Answer: Dear Confused In Cincinatti,

Most people mistakenly take West McMicken Avenue thinking they will reach route 127, but the easier way to connect to Interstate 71 is to bypass Gilbert avenue entirely and stay on East 9th, then through the Jo Ann Worley Cloverleaf exchange merging into the far inside lane that becomes route 22 South to the 71 starboard — not port — on-ramp, then floor it.

To be clear, while getting a cut from a sequin is indeed possible, and perhaps even inevitable, this is only a phonetic resemblance to the issue at hand and I see no reason to spend less on one’s sequin budget simply because the world as we know it is about to end for no good reason.

In regards to your insanely larger question, economies of scale become a critical factor in understanding the imaginary necessity of arbitrarily hamstringing all forms of governance and fiscal policy. The short term goal of successful financial ruin of both the economy at large and the silly people who live inside it – like so many voting pennies tossed on an elephantine carved onyx and ruby chessboard at the center of a shrubbery maze none have ever escaped – is within grasp of an irritable, teething congress that has already broken three rattles and weirded out the cats by eating their food.

The argument invoking scale basically says that previous to making any decision while drawing a salary based on the hiring principle of creating legislation to run the wealthiest nation ever to exist in the known history of human endeavor, it is first required that all of that wealth must be laid in a pile at the feet of some loaded guys to hold and pet and kiss and love like a little birdy that goes ‘po-tweeeet! po-tweeet!’ when you tease it with an empty sunflower seed.

Only after rolling around in the billionairenip until they are tripping enough that the nation’s most impressive, unelected Wealth Lords are all walking around with their butts up high in the air, stumbling into boardroom walls with crumpled Benjamins in their hair and their chipmunk cheeks swollen with sparkling sapphires, can these selfless, success succubi be expected to issue their Congressional Directives to the mailroom boys in the House and Senate, who are, themselves, eager to out-non-perform their comrades and begin that crawl up the Corporate Appeasement Ladder to true power (and a key, which is 4 feet long and weighs over 1,100 pounds, to the money bin bathroom.)

By sequestering all potential and actual wealth for their lurid, decade long sleepover parties, it becomes somehow somebody else’s fault that there is no money for others to spend on the things Congress has approved and/or the people desperately need in order to scrape together enough to feed their ravenous, exotic pet Moneyeaters, which they were told would be expensive and will be seen in retrospect as a sadly embarrassing, once trendy folly that people laugh at us for keeping as our own families go hungry. There’s always one chinchilla at the SPCA that needs a home, but it takes a lot of them to make a single coat for just one millionaire’s trophy wife/ mistress/ girlfriend/ daughter/ meth-weekend boyfriend or mother-in-law.

Once the random, enormous, sequestered cuts to all things that people who work for, need and pay for have been made, the extra profit from outsourcing their ability to survive can be invested in grand infrastructure projects such as better acoustic castle padding to drown out the noise of constant sorrow, digging ever-deeper moats and procuring plenty of those toothy, Chinese monster crocodiles.

So, one can see why typical Americans have embraced this strategy and now mostly live self-sequestered lives under diminishing piles of their own possessions, like 300 million lake-less beavers, gnawing on their remaining, less finished and cruder stuff and junk with jagged edges that poke and cut them while they huddle beneath them in the cold, dark night, dreaming of fire and jobs. My advice for all these accumulated cuts is to use both Bactine and a triple antibiotic ointment, and don’t forget to pick up a fresh $10 million subsidy for your hungry, spectacled, White-Haired Armani-Cat.
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Mrs. Vera NewmanMrs. Vera Newman is a San Francisco absurdist character, humorist, artist, writer, community organizer, clothes horse and co-founder, with Mister Tina, of The Verasphere. She has been answering the unasked questions she receives from the lonely, empty rooms of America’s heart-shaped circulatory pump room ever since it began beating. Nestled in the politically bent bowels of the Nation since she was a young girl babysitting the very same newborn Nation, her ability to self-reflect about anyone else’s embarrassing shortcomings, inept fumblings or lousy recipes has enabled her invisible rise as a modern day Cassandra, whatever that means. Feel free to dispose of all your worries by leaving them on her doorstep!