Or so the envelope said. The return address (I looked it up) was the HQ of the Council on Foreign Relations.
My correspondent has a sense of humor.
Based on what was in the envelope, my correspondent can call him or herself Rockefeller, Gates, Buffett, Rothschild, Medici, Windsor or anything else great heart desires. It would fit!
In their own world, they must have Rockefeller-level pull. They somehow talked their local post office into sending the priority envelope without either a postmark or the required tracking sticker. (Hilariously, this put my postmaster into a high huff. She was ready to write a nastygram to the postmaster of “New York 10065,” informing them that they’d broken the law!)
So, with no means to identify Mr. or Ms Rockefeller, or even have a clue as to where in this vast land their secret Lair of Largess might be, I can only say an inadequate wow. An inadequate doublewow. And an inadequate thank you.
Up goes that last remaining, recalcitrant section of roof. And off my heart and shoulders comes that rather heavy burden.
Yay!
Also funny as hell. Always wanted to be a Borgia, myself.
Wow. Maybe it was an inside job, from an actuual, live, post office employee? One could also go with Santa Claus.
I wouldn’t be surprised if an actual Rockerfeller was a member of the commentariat. I mean, why not? 😉
I wouldn’t be surprised if an actual Rockefeller was a member of the commentariat. I mean, why not?
That would be an interesting exercise. “What would you find in a Rockefeller bugout bag?”
“What would you find in a Rockefeller bugout bag?”
A lavishly-equipped bunker complete with a squad of well-fed mercenaries?
And minions. Must have minions.
Rockefellers come in all shapes and sizes. There’s one who fled the money, and lives in an abandoned RR car someplace. And, of course (re the sad fate of Michael R.),
“it takes a village to eat a Rockefeller”
You see, postmarks and tracking stickers are for the common folk. Those privileged few who have been chosen to look out for your best interests (because you are not one of the elite, descendents of those who got their money the old fashioned way, stealing it or illegally importing booze during Prohibition, ie the Kennedy outfit) are allowed certain boons not available to the common man.
Plus, you cannot allow the rabble to have too much information about the whereabouts of their masters. You never know when they may show up bearing pitchforks and torches.