Well, us “higher ends” (and I can only assume that “higher” refers to financial status and not the etheral “higher-end” spiritual plain for which I also inhabit) — are feeling the economic crunch as badly as anyone.

Just the other day, I looked to Mrs. DosPeros while we drank martinis on the veranda and told her, “Honey, we’ve got to cut down the spa visits, just a bit. Maybe only 4 or 5 times a week.” She of course protested vehemently and demanded that I quit the Country Club if things were so out of control. “Absolutely not,” I declared. In the end, we decided to fire Lupe the Gardner and hire a service — although, without doubt our decision to shitcan Lupe the Gardner will be the source infinite conjecture at the White Pony Garden Show Gala this year.

Alas, my point is this Sleipner: We all have it hard. I’ve gone from drinking Omega to a $15 bottle of Cab from God-knows-where New Jersey. We can hardly pay the stable cost for the childrens’ ponies. We might have to re-route our vacation from the French Riviera to some domestic locale (undoubtly crawling with undesirables). Forget about the Bentley I’ve had my eye on for several years now, out of the question. As tragic as it might be, if things continue along this dismal economic path, I might have mortgage The Skipper.

Please Sleipner, don’t hate me — we are just like you (accept possibly with a bit superior grooming) and we hurt too and we love you.

What with the housing market tanking, oil prices sky high (and oil companies raking it in, of course), the trade and budget deficit out of control, the national debt causing most of our country to be owned by China, personal savings rates in the negative range, and real wages not having moved appreciably since 2000 it only takes a “duh” moment to figure out we’re headed for trouble.

The only thing I keep hoping is that we get these moronic neocons and their toxic policies out of control before we reach the unrecoverable stage, if we haven’t already.