The setting is a surpassingly in-love-with-itself Ivy League University--i'd call it an elite institution, but, my dears, that goes without saying.... Whoever it is that graduates the students says the graduating words. And the MBA class holds up dollar bills and waves them around their heads. The rest of the graduating classes do the obligatory thing with the tasselled cap or have the abashed good grace to mill around and high five each other or whatnot. We look at the MBAs with a combination of contempt, strained amusement and pity. The pity is decidedly misplaced.
If they noted or cared at all about our reaction to them, they might have appropriately responded with the chant witheringly deployed by the student body of elite insitutions when one of their sport teams is getting drubbed by, say, some grubby state college--It's alright, it's okay,/You'll be working for us some day. And had they done so, they would have been proven exactly right.
These MBAs have carried the day. They won. And we all mostly work for them or at least dance to the tune they call.
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