Bury Billionaire-Blaming Crybabies Beneath Patriotic Bootheels
🚨AIRHORN🚨 Brick Tungsten here, grill smoke in my beard, Constitution in my holster, ready to stomp every billionaire-blaming crybaby flat. Watch me shotgun a liberty-lager, quote Jesus AND Milton Friedman, then boot-heel-drop truth about class war, corporate freedom, and private-equity vultures until some pink-haired socialist sobs beneath Old Glory. Click play or leave the USA, commie.
Can I get a hallelujah and a medium-rare rib-eye from the congregation? It’s your chrome-domed, freedom-fueled foreman of facts, Brick Tungsten, patriot by birth, entrepreneur by miracle, gasoline enthusiast by the grace of Henry Ford and six unnamed Super PACs. I’m revving my V-8 of virtue outside the gates of Common-Sense Canyon, ready to mow down another caravan of billionaire-blaming crybabies who can’t read a pay stub without crying socialism. Strap in, buttercup: I’m about to bury the whining class warriors beneath my size-13 patriotic bootheels, then use their tears to baste my Fourth-of-July brisket.
Alarm Bells in Freedomville: Billionaires Accused of Owning Everything
So the liberal latte-lappers are shrieking, “Billionaires own the factories, the farms, the clouds, and probably the moon!” Well, congratulations on discovering private property, Karl Marx Jr. Did it ever cross your crowdsourced mind that MAYBE those heroic job-creating space cowboys own everything because they EARNED everything, by legally lobbying, creatively accounting, and occasionally buying Congress lunch? That’s not corruption; that’s capitalism spelunking for new depths of excellence.
Oh, you noticed your city’s water tastes like a melted car battery? Boo-hoo. That’s not the billionaires’ fault; that’s flavor. It’s called “entrepreneurial terroir.” Adds electrolytes. Meanwhile, Bezos can’t even space-walk without some keyboard communist whining, “Why not pay warehouse workers a living wage?” Simple: physics. If gravity can’t hold Bezos down, why should wage laws?
Patriotic Calculator Says Outsourcing = Love, Not Lost Manufacturing Jobs
Fact check: Manufacturing jobs didn’t “flee” to China; they took a freedom cruise to increase shareholder joy. My patriotic calculator, solar-powered by the tears of union reps, proves sending your town’s factory overseas is an act of love. Every outsourced widget shouts, “USA STRONG,” because the money saved comes back home to inflate executive bonuses and Super Bowl commercials celebrating veterans. That’s trickle-down fireworks, baby!
Can’t afford the new truck you once assembled? Build character instead. Go learn coding, YouTube University is free if you skip dinner. And when your unemployment check evaporates faster than Bud Light at a biker rally, remember: adversity is the pre-workout of capitalism.
Housing Crisis? Build a Cabin, Snowflake, Wall Street Needs Your Rent
Rent too high? Sounds like you’re paying the convenience fee for not owning a lumber mill. Old Man Tungsten punched a cabin out of an oak tree with his bare knuckles right after winning the War on Christmas (1957 edition). Meanwhile, hedge funds bulk-buy suburban cul-de-sacs and raise rents? That’s just Monopoly on expert mode, get good or get camping gear.
Zillow says you’ll never afford a home? Zillow is a participation-trophy for people who think roofs grow on trees. Pro tip: move to Wyoming, claim squatter’s rights on a rattlesnake nest, and start whittling. If rattlers can survive without rent control, so can you.
Tax Loopholes Are Just Tiny Freedom Tunnels Dug by Heroic CEOs
Liberals glare at their W-2s, howl at the moon, and ask why Jeff Bezos pays less in taxes than their barista side hustle. Two words: strategic patriotism. Every loophole is a tiny freedom tunnel, hand-carved with artisanal accountants, allowing capital to sprint unmolested from the IRS straight into the noble arms of stock buybacks. That money then trickles down as motivational posters telling you to “Grind Harder.” Inspiration is untaxable.
You’re “paying more than your fair share”? Relax, think of it as sponsoring the reality show we call Billionaire Innovation. Without your contribution, how would Elon crowd-fund flamethrowers or golden dogecoin statues? That’s national security.
Health Care Paywall? That’s Just Capitalism’s CrossFit for the Weak
Boo-boo on your bank account because insulin costs more than a used jet ski? Maybe stop relying on Big Pharma and start relying on Big Farmer, grow your own pancreas, hippie. Health care isn’t a right; it’s a high-stakes obstacle course that separates the fiscally fit from the financially flabby. Medical debt builds character (and credit-card interest, which Wall Street converts into patriotic dividends).
Can’t find a family doctor because private equity bought the hospital and replaced the nurses with an iPad? That’s efficiency, less bedside chatter, more shareholder chatter. If bleeding becomes an issue, launch a GoFundMe. Crowdsourcing is basically Medicare with better graphic design.
Private Prisons: All-Expense-Paid Patriot Camp for Bad Decision-Makers
Lefties whine about “mass incarceration for profit,” as if profit is a dirty word. Newsflash: every inmate is a job creator in an orange jumpsuit. From commissary Twinkies to 20-cent phone calls that cost ten bucks a minute, these freedom camps are the ultimate public-private partnership. You break the law, you boost the economy, circle of (capitalist) life.
“But Brick, billionaires wrote the laws that put people there!” Exactly! Who better to write crime bills than those smart enough never to get caught? That’s like hiring a fox to design your henhouse security system, innovative, disruptive, delicious.
Climate Change? I’ll Switch to Shorts When My Truck Melts, Libs
The coastal cry-babies keep yelling that carbon levels are higher than Willie Nelson at a dispensary grand opening. Meanwhile, my F-150 still purrs like a bald eagle in heat, and that’s the only thermometer I trust. Billionaires building bunkers and rocket ships? That’s not panic; that’s product testing. They’re just prepping expansion packs for Earth 2.0.
Until my grill spontaneously combusts in February, I consider climate change the Loch Ness Monster of weather, great for fundraising, lousy for tailgates. And if the ocean does rise, great! Free beachfront real estate for inland patriots who invested early in inflatable lawn chairs.
Final Solution: Grill Some Steaks, Pledge Allegiance, Ignore the Math
Wages flattened since Disco? Work two jobs, now you’ve got TWO chances to live the dream. Student loans bigger than Montana? That’s an Ivy League badge of honor, show it off like a sleeve tattoo of Adam Smith. Grocery bill gruesome? Keto diet, problem solved. Railroads explode, water turns neon? Sparks joy, Marie Kondo style.
Bottom line: every problem you blame on billionaires is an opportunity for YOU to be a billionaire, assuming you abandon sleep, empathy, and possibly gravity. So quit doom-scrolling and start bootstrap-curling.
There you have it, snowflakes and independent thinkers accidentally tuned to this frequency. I, Brick Tungsten, proud flag-humper, steak-for-breakfast eater, and self-certified life coach, have scientifically proven that blaming billionaires is just socialism wearing Crocs. Now go forth, invest in a prison REIT, deep-fry your tax return, and salute the nearest corporate logo. USA: love it or lease it, preferably with a balloon-payment mortgage invented by a hedge fund near you. God bless capitalism, and pass the diesel-flavored barbecue sauce!
Keep Me Marginally Informed
JUSTIN JEST RESPONDS TO BRICK TUNGSTEN:
“Red, White, and Boiled Brain: A Guided Tour of Brick Tungsten’s Stars-and-Stripes Delusion”
By Justin Jest | July 11, 2025 | WOYJO.com | Late-Stage Laughs | Despair Disguised as Satire
Well folks, Brick Tungsten’s fingers have once again tap-danced across a freedom-slicked keyboard, producing what can only be described as a love letter to economic Stockholm Syndrome, wrapped in bacon, dunked in Bud Light, and lit on fire by a commemorative Elon Musk flamethrower.
Let’s break it down for those of you still blinking in disbelief:
Brick’s Thesis:
Billionaires are gods, the poor are whiners, and the only thing standing between America and total collapse is his 2002 F-150 and a Costco tub of propane.
Reality:
We’re living in a rigged casino, and Brick thinks the dealer giving him a wedgie is doing it for his own good.
Brick says:
“Billionaires didn’t steal your future—they earned it! Through lobbying, tax avoidance, and buying Congress lunch!”
I say:
If theft is patriotic now, let’s mint a coin for Enron and rename Mount Rushmore “Offshore Account Mountain.” These billionaires aren’t “earning”—they’re extracting. Like ticks with lobbying budgets. They didn’t buy lunch, Brick—they bought the whole damn menu and made you bus the table.
Brick says:
“Private equity isn’t a villain—it’s a vitamin!”
I say:
Right. And rat poison is a spice. Tell that to the nurse laid off by a spreadsheet, the town gutted by a leveraged buyout, or grandma evicted by an algorithm because her oxygen machine caused a late payment.
Brick says:
“Can’t afford rent? Build a cabin, snowflake!”
I say:
Great advice, Brick. I’m sure Zillow will accept acorns and frontier grit as a down payment. Meanwhile, Blackstone just bought 82,000 homes, and your idea of resistance is homesteading on a rattlesnake preserve.
Brick says:
“Tax loopholes are freedom tunnels!”
I say:
If that’s true, then I guess potholes are freedom massages for your tires. Bezos paying less in taxes than a school lunch lady isn’t patriotism—it’s systemic rot. We don’t need “freedom tunnels.” We need tax laws that don’t bend like Brick’s flagpole in a Super Bowl ad.
Brick says:
“Medical debt builds character!”
I say:
So does surviving a car crash, but we don’t make it a subscription service. A civilized society doesn’t treat GoFundMe as a healthcare plan—it treats it as a symptom of collapse. You’re not “financially flabby,” Brick. You’re just so deep in denial you think insulin should be earned through obstacle courses.
Brick says:
“Private prisons are job creators!”
I say:
So was slavery. Doesn’t mean we pass out stock options at the plantation. Mass incarceration isn’t a freedom camp—it’s the monetization of misery. And no, hiring the fox to guard the henhouse doesn’t make you clever—it makes you complicit.
Brick says:
“Climate change? I’ll believe it when my truck melts!”
I say:
Well, buckle up, big guy. Because between billionaires buying bunkers in New Zealand and sea levels crashing into Miami Beach like spring breakers with a grudge, your grill might float away before your steak finishes searing. When the smoke clears, you’ll be knee-deep in irony and diesel fumes, asking why nobody warned you—oh wait, we did.
Brick says:
“Every problem is an opportunity to become a billionaire if you just abandon empathy!”
I say:
That’s not inspiration. That’s a cult mantra. We don’t need more bootstraps—we need boots off our necks. And empathy isn’t a liability—it’s what separates us from hedge funds.
Final Thoughts:
Brick Tungsten is what happens when a Monster energy drink writes a think piece. He’s the voice in your uncle’s truck yelling at the radio because a barista asked him to wear a mask in 2021.
But here’s the thing: Brick isn’t the enemy. He’s a victim—wrapped in a flag, drowning in debt, and too proud to admit the water is rising. He worships billionaires because he thinks they might save him, not realizing they already sold his future for a shareholder bump and an NFT of the Liberty Bell.
So Brick, if you’re reading this from the tailgate of your collapsing empire—know that I don’t hate you. I pity you. Because while you grill steaks and salute logos, the real looters have already left the building. And the only thing they left you was the bill.
—Justin Jest
Still banned from CNBC. Still spitting truth. Still wondering why the freedom brigade keeps licking the boot that kicks them.