Howard Lutnick thinks that if you don’t get your Social Security check and complain you are probably a fraudster

Even in this degenerate age of ours, this is really wild:

BTW he says “She’d just think something got messed up.”

The rest of the quote in case you don’t want to get out of the boat: “And she’ll get it next month. A fraudster always makes the loudest noise, screaming and yelling and complaining.” The idea apparently is that if a few million people don’t get their checks next month because of Elon’s Incel Army’s “algorithms,” that will be how will find out which of them are on the grift, because they will complain about it.

I mean what’s the big deal if one month you don’t happen to get a check that provides, for two out of every five retirees, 100% of their income?

Lutnick, who if you’re not scoring at home is Donald Trump’s Secretary of Commerce, has a net worth of between two and four billion dollars. The average Social Security check is $1,979, so a recipient would have to collect checks for let’s see here, around 1.5 million months, which is 125,000 years, to be as “well off” as Lutnick, assuming the recipient never spent any of that sweet sweet socialist Ponzi scheme cash on food and shelter and other luxuries.

 It was too much the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it was much too much the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this terrible Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under the skies that had not been sown—as if nothing had ever been done, or omitted to be done, that had led to it—as if observers of the wretched millions in France, and of the misused and perverted resources that should have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming, years before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw.  . .

Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day’s wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself, are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind.