This is something I learned after 10 years in the fine art business: I (and everyone I know) can’t understand the minds of billionaires. The front of the house is breathtaking, the car in the driveway is spotless, and their art collection made me envious.

That’s on the surface.

Beneath the top layer resides the trashed back yard, the rusted lemon in the forgotten garage, the art collection they keep crated and in transit to save on taxes, and STACKS of cut-off notices, delinquency letters, and past due bills laying throughout the house as though the rules of society no longer apply to them.

If they were musicians, most of the stuff they sang about over the years was owned by the record company.

They live on credit. When one card is maxed, they open another one. Not a day went by when at least one of my clients had to go through at least 3 cards to find one that would work.

They squeeze more blood from turnips than Trump does from that tiny acorn replica nestled firmly between his cellulitis-riddled thighs.

It’s all an illusion, yet we still collectively keep putting them in charge.

Let it sink in.

It’s fake, and that is why they “need” us. To help them replenish their wealth by conning us into donating our turnips.