AN OLD JOKE FROM THE 60S.
A rich man comes out of his mansion and spots a young man camping on his lawn. Filled with indignation he strides up to the squatter and demands him to leave or else he’ll call the police.
“How did you get this land?” The young man remains seated by his fire.
“What difference does it make?” The rich man wishes he had his shotgun to put the fears in this interloper.
“The difference between my staying or leaving.”
“I worked for it.” 18 hours a day when he was a young investment banker.
“And who owned it before you and your kind?”
“I don’t know.” Rock salt in the young man’s ass would get him moving.
“It belonged to the Indians, right?”
“I suppose so.” Buckshot might work better.
“And how did they lose their land. Someone took it from them and I’m taking it from you.”
“You’re only one.” The rich man was thinking of a .45. A single shot to protect his estate.
“Not one.” The young man pointed to the ivy-covered wall. Hundreds of people were climbing over the barrier between those that have and those that don’t. “We’re many.”
“This is theft.” The rich man would need more than the police to evict this many people.
“We like liberation better, my name’s Jake, neighbor.”
And they lived happily ever after on the rich man’s wine cellar and grilled foie gras, because a barbecue was better than a bonfire.