“I am prejudiced against because I’m a rich, white billionaire,” Irsay said in an interview with Andrea Kremer on Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel.
Bravely spoken. The problem of police harassing wealthy white Americans is a festering sore that has to lanced, drained and bandaged before we can call ourselves members of a just society. It’s true that Irsay was not shot to death in his sleep because the cops went to the wrong address, like some non-rich, non-white people have been. My guess is that it would be pretty difficult to mistake Jim Irsay’s address for anyone else’s, and he also has armed security guards there to discourage any street cops from barreling up his driveway and mistakenly shooting him.
Irsay has never had a police officer kneel on his neck until he stopped breathing, nor has any white billionaire ever experienced that. Nobody even wants the cops to kneel on Irsay’s neck until he chokes to death. That is what we want for Elon Musk.
Irsay has never been shot in the back while fleeing the police and subsequently had drugs planted on him to justify the shooting. You don’t have to plant drugs on Jim—he apparently had plenty of drugs on him, mostly oxycodone and hydrocodone, when he was pulled over. He also couldn’t remember the alphabet and told the arresting officers that he was having trouble finding his house, despite the fact that it sits on 16 acres and has its own golf course attached.
Nobody can look at these circumstances and not see naked prejudice at work. Jim Irsay has never had to labor a day in his life—he inherited his football team and probably a few other assets from his father, Robert. If he wants to swerve around the streets of Indianapolis (or San Diego, where he also keeps a notable spread), numb and drooling on painkillers and booze, is that not the pursuit of happiness that our forefathers wrote about, writ large?
When is justice going to be rendered? When will we see, instead of some seedy Million Man March in DC, a classy Billionaires’ March on our nation’s capital? A parade of limousines, with megaphones blaring La Marseilles from within, and the riders flinging jars of Grey Poupon at passers-by and each other, until l'égalité is achieved?
The very soil of our republic, soaked as it once was in the blood of patriots, cries out for fairness for the unimaginably wealthy. When will the ultra-rich rise up and shake off the chains that bind them?
Someday soon. Or, at least, they’ll hire somebody to do it for them.