NOTE: Albert Lord is the CEO of Sallie Mae. Sallie Mae is a privately owned American student loan company. If that company were a person, it wouldn’t be like Sally Struthers or even like the mamma of Forrest Gump, Sally Field. It would be more like Kim Jong-il or Dick Cheney.
Dear Mr. Lord (or do you prefer to just be called “Lord”?):
Have you seen the movie Moneyball with Brad Pitt and a pretty rough looking Philip Seymour Hoffman? (can you say Rosacea?). It’s a good flick. It’s about baseball, which I am sure you love since you’re probably so American. Anyways Mr. Lord, there’s a quote in it that I want to share with you: “There are rich teams, and there are poor teams. Then there’s 50 feet of crap. And then there’s us.”
The continuing saga of one girl’s plight with unemployment… hit the Jump to read The Elf’s well-intentioned letter to Mr. Lord, and read previous posts HERE…
“It’s just a simple scientific fact: people with too much wealth go crazy and lose their minds…”
Now, you’re a rich team. Not just the company you work at but like you, personally, Mr. Lord. Word on Forbes Street is that you and your family (who I am sure are all nice and sweet and obviously not worrying about college tuition) take in around $5 million a year, if you include “bonuses” and stock options and stuff. Good for you and yours. You make about the same as Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino from Jersey Shore. You probably worked harder and got degrees and things to get where you are now, rather than simply lifting your Ed Hardy top and showing your spray tanned abs at cheesy dance clubs, but seriously, who knows. But with all due respect, you probably were an upstanding citizen and a super smart dude. In a galaxy far, far away.
Mr. Lord I am writing to you not just as a person who is in the “50 feet of crap” and also in the “us” part of the equation depending on my mood (which usually shifts when I get a Sallie Mae bill), but as a concerned citizen. I’m concerned for your well being as one of the “rich teams.” I really mean it. It’s just a simple scientific fact: people with too much wealth go crazy and lose their minds. They get weird. They lose touch and do things like build wood burning pizza ovens in their garden and then #humblebrag about it, or buy tiny diamond collars for their Siamese fighting fish. Just read the history books (back issues of US Magazine or E! True Hollywood Story transcripts, for example). Watch movies. Remember Citizen Kane? Only a wacko would build a fireplace like, fifteen times taller than himself! What about Sunset Boulevard? Norma Desmond lived all alone in that big Hollywood mansion dripping with chandeliers and jewels and furs and she was straight psycho. Little and Big Edie from Grey Gardens — crazy East Hampton bitches! Scarface? He had that nice bathroom but he still dunked his face into a pile of cocaine. Only crazy rich people do that. You see where I’m going Mr. Lord?
Steve Aoki certainly sees where you’re going with this, Elf…
There are real life examples too. For instance, a few years back I interviewed to be the personal assistant to a very famous very wealthy lady in Manhattan. She owned not one but two penthouse apartments next to each other on the Upper East Side. I showed up on time at noon, and was informed that she was still sleeping. Thirty minutes later the lady appeared, her hair was all messy, her clothes wrinkled, and she had a tan to rival George Hamilton and Snooki combined. Why do so many wealthy people look homeless? They’re not in the “50 feet of crap” but they like to look like they are. Maybe it’s like a burglar alarm or pepper spray, but with fashion.
“You’re a stuffy businessman, not Liberace or Andre Leon Talley. Be careful dude…”
Back to this tan, homeless looking rich lady. She held me hostage in her penthouse (doesn’t sound so bad but even penthouses can get scary). The “interview” lasted three hours. In that time, Mr. Lord, she smoked about fifteen cigarettes and gulped about ten Diet Cokes. OK, sure, you’re thinking, not the healthiest lady but she’s not psycho. You’re wrong, Mr. Lord. She also took me into her ice cold, dark bedroom, saying, “I don’t like any sunlight in here and I like to keep it at 53 degrees.” Maybe she was a vampire but I’m pretty sure she was just too rich. She showed me her impressive pillbox (impressive = big and troubling), her collection of sequined tennis shoes (money well spent), and her poodle. The poodle would have been cute and cuddly except for the fact it was stuffed and disturbing. Mr. Lord, I ended up taking a waitressing job.
Sure, right now you’re feeling great. Black AmEx, silent auctions, yacht shoes (which you actually only wear on yachts). But Mr. Lord, a few more years of this and you’re gonna end up wearing a mink turban and a diamond caftan to Kim Kardashian’s third wedding! You’re a stuffy businessman, not Liberace or Andre Leon Talley. Be careful dude. Mr. Lord, I’m not asking you to write me and the other hundreds of thousands or maybe even millions of people who owe Sallie Mae money a big fat check- though we certainly wouldn’t cry if you did do that. We’re not asking for silver spoons, no matter what SOME people who like tea enjoy saying loudly into microphones at podiums.
I’m asking you to peer far, far down from your metaphorically tall yacht shoes and think of “us” in the “50 feet of crap” and maybe, just maybe restructure. Maybe just lower the insanely high interest rates you’re charging us. Maybe actually look at what those interest rates are when your assistant hands you the numbers, instead of ignoring it like you’re probably used to doing. Do you really need $5 million a year, Mr. Lord? Does anyone? We’re not asking for handouts like that super annoying jerk Oliver Twist who kept whining, “Please sir, I want some more.” What nerve. But really, for your own sake, it’ll probably do you some good to give a little. Unless of course you like mink turbans.