Once upon a time on the south side of Chicago there was a beer distributorship owned by a guy named Jack (not his real name), a big guy with a big cigar (back in the day, boys and girls, America's bigshots were big, big guys who smoked cigars and drank whiskey and ate prime rib and baked potatoes, not like today when the bigshots are all skinny, jog, and eat lettuce—littleshots, really—but I digress) and on the back wall of the waiting room inside the main entrance to his warehouse Jack had this sign, a big banner sign:
Make Money for Jack!
I think of Jack whenever I hear politicians talk about making America competitive.
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