Where have all the bluebloods gone?

It’s April 18th, 2008, and we are looking at a very different Minnesota from the one we knew only one year ago.

Our formerly bustling suburban streets are nearly silent, now: gone is the rush and the heady excitement of Mom and Daughter spur-of-the-moment trips to the Galleria, the happy growl of Hummers making their muscular and impressive way downtown to deliver their Brunomagli-shod drivers into the halls of power where they make the big decisions over power lunches.

Opinion: Where have all the bluebloods gone?

Tumbleweeds of neglected, dry orchids roam morosely through tattered, high-ceilinged hallways; nail polish graffiti adorns formerly stately Chesapeake scalloped fences; a handful of hollow-eyed children in tattered Baby Gap clothing peer warily from grated basement windows.

Who has caused this deplorable situation? What other demons of death and darkness but the democrats!

It was mere months ago when, against all odds, they managed to defy our sainted Governor Pawlenty and his Mighty Veto Pen by passing taxes on the wealthy to fund their endless, slavering desires for decent health care, schools to once again be proud of, and police officers in the cities’ streets. Police officers! As if decent people worth protecting hadn’t left the cities years ago.

Before what came to be known as The Day All Hope Died, the wealthiest Minnesotans earning more than $355K a year paid about nine percent of their incomes in state and local taxes, while middle-income earners paid more than 12 percent. After that dreadful day, the ultra wealthy were forced to pay — well, not as much as the rest of us, because after all wealth has its privileges — but an astonishing two percent more. Nearly their share.

Well, you can guess what happened next.

Pandemonium struck. Prada stacked heels were dropped on the side of Edina ditches by frantic émigrés desperate to take their substantial incomes to Florida. Jets roared south from Minneapolis night and day without ceasing. Abandoned Bentleys sagged at strange angles in front of Wayzata estates, doors ajar; gated communities across the Twin Cities area became ghost towns overnight.

It was a sad day for all of us.

Even for those few who, through misguided loyalty, perhaps, decided to stay here in the immediate wake of this devastating news, tragedy awaited. Take, for instance, the case of Miss P., the mistress of a Fortune 500 CEO and daughter of a wealthy businessman, who decided to skip her weekly pedicure to make up the difference in her budget. Budget. She shuddered at the filthy, proletarian word, but she would not crumble in the face of adversity.

Sadly, her toenails would. Because of her shameful neglect, they developed a rare fungus called entitled whitefolkosa, which killed the heiress immediately and took dozens of unfortunate tennis buddies and their various household help with her.

The fungal plague did more than kill. Entitled whitefolkosa, after killing its victims, evolved into an infection that caused months of low-level fever and impotent rage throughout the entire remaining well-to-do population as well as their many assistants. The damage to the pet grooming industry alone was incalculable.

The rest of us, of course, fell apart utterly. Even ignoring the effects of the plague, without our wealthiest (and therefore smartest) leaders providing the sober and hardworking example they always had, we poor and shiftless unwashed masses had no focus, no impressive ideals for which to strive.

Wandering vaguely through the streets without the bright American Dream of lesser taxation for the wealthy, we became like animals: living off of rainwater and shattered dreams, killing and eating our own young. We didn’t know any better.

Now, on April 18, 2008, instead of a bright Republic of trickle-down righteousness, we have this terrible scene:

Through the blighted streets of Burnsville, the only sound is the purr of a black hybrid Toyota creeping malevolently down the road.

“It is just as we planned,” whispers Margaret Anderson Kelliher from the passenger’s seat, stroking her hairless cat evilly between his ears.

“Yes,” says Pam Costain, who is driving. “We didn’t even need the money for schools, anyway. The kids were doing just fine.”

“Bwaaaa ha ha ha,” intones Kelliher.

“Bwaaaa ha ha ha!” shrieks Linda Berglin from the back seat. “Next in our dastardly plan: Health care for all! Let’s celebrate with a trip to the all-you-can-eat buffet!”

And the vehicle slinks off into the night, leaving behind nothing but the sound of lonely lawn sprinklers echoing down the empty, ruined streets.

When will we ever learn? When will we ever learn?

Haddayr Copley-Woods believes a tax break for the wealthy is the only
thing that makes life worth living. She gazes at her crystal ball in Minneapolis’
Powderhorn Park neighborhood.