"Everybody says that work is so good for ya. Well, if work is supposed to be so great, how come they got to pay ya to do it?"
Slats Grobnik
By Mike Royko
Tribune Columnist
January 11, 1984
I was born in the wrong generation. If I'd had any choice in the matter, I would have arrived years later, so that I would have been growing up during the 1960s.
Say what you will about the youths of that era -- dope heads, flower chompers, mantra chanters -- they had an attitude toward work that appealed to me. They tried their best to avoid it.
My old pal Slats Grobnik, also born before his time, summed up our attitude this way:
"Everybody says that work is so good for ya. Well, if work is supposed to be so great, how come they got to pay ya to do it?"
That's always made sense to me. I've known a few people who were born rich and never had to work, and they always struck me as being a little dumb, but very happy.
Oh, those born rich will try to con you into believing that with all their money they're still capable of being miserable. Occasionally, one of them will fake a nervous breakdown and blubber to People Magazine about how his or her wealth has brought nothing but sadness, tension and blotchy skin.
But don't believe a word of it. They only say that because they're afraid that if the rest of us knew what a good time they're having, we'd storm their estates, drink their wines, ravish the maid and eat their polo ponies.
Consider that Onassis girl, the one with the bowling ball thighs. Every so often, we read about how her inherited millions have not made her happy. But every time I see a picture of her, what is she doing? She's on the deck of her yacht, wolfing down figs, baklava, snifters of Metaxa, all brought to her, ordering around a crew of handsome beach boy types.
If she's miserable, then the night scrub lady in this office would gladly trade in her mop and pail for that type of torment.
On the other hand, just go stand outside Union Station or a Loop 'L' stop or a factory gate in the morning and study the faces. Grim, grim, grim. You can almost hear the stomach acid eating away at the lining.
Why? Because they're going to work, that's why. |
