Dear Federal Agents,
Look, I get it. You have a job to do. You lock up (poor) people who break the law, and they get prosecuted. I’m all for it. That being said…
Be careful with my good friend.
He is a gentle soul—he always tips 8% (if the service is exceptional) and barely verbally abuses his maid. When I say he has a big heart, it’s because I saw, with my own eyes, how he allowed his doorman to sit for 5 minutes after a 12-hour shift. The man is a saint.
Please handle my friend with care. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. In fact, his bones are light and brittle, from years of being spoon-fed his preferred meal (valium dissolved in the hearty breast milk of a poor Swedish peasant). This is why you must place him ever so sweetly on a bed of cotton balls if you’re going to be transporting him to be booked for his many, many financial crimes.
Please, sirs and ladies, be gentle with my companion. When you approach his home to arrest him for multiple charges of fraud and theft, do not ring his doorbell or knock. My white collar criminal friend startles so easily from a life lived without the jarring interruption of consequences. Instead, a soothing harp or angelically played triangle from a mile away should gently alert him to his inevitable fate.
I implore you, mindless footmen of the federal bureau of investigations, do not put my dearest closest friend in handcuffs. Certainly, his crime has left many thousands of people desperate and helpless, but his teeny tiny wrists cannot stand to touch anything below a 24-karat grade. His hands will likely break out in a rash from direct contact with whatever garbage metal your primitive shackles are made of.
I beg of you, dearest Gestapo for the plebes, allow my white-collar criminal friend the privilege of having his meals made outside of the “system.” His constitution is so delicate. All his food must be organic and pre-chewed by Tibetan monks before being gently plopped into his open mouth. Otherwise, his tummy may have such aches and pains, much like the ones experienced by the people he uses as carpets in his Malibu residence.
I’m on my knees, my jackbooted militant pawns, he didn’t even do that much wrong! He’s not a real criminal, like someone stealing a loaf of bread or selling an ounce of Drug. He doesn’t deserve the indignity (or the indigestion) a prison sentence would carry. All he did was lie and cheat many hundreds of the faceless masses. Give him a fine (gently! Papercuts!) which he will pay before returning home to his Emperor-sized bed, which is made entirely by hand-plucked sheep’s fur.
I beseech ye, empty-headed gendarmes of the common folk, if you must incarcerate him… Do not listen to anything he says. I may be his friend, his deepest and most caring confidant, but I do not know him nor do I have any business dealings with him and I’ve never met him before in my life.
Tad “Boner” Chadson Christianwhite III