Brothers and brothers! (There are no sisters here, right? Okay, good.) Thank you all for bravely taking your helicopters out to the suburbs tonight at this so-called “Applebee’s” dining establishment to stage a sit-in on imported French divans. We will make our voices heard, whether it’s from chanting by our assistants, Tweeting via our assistants’ assistants’ intelligent phones, or getting exposure through the national media outlets we own.

For far too long we have been under the thumb of politicians elected by the masses. The government may throw us a bone with the electoral college, a small group of elites who officially choose the president, but they always cave in to the popular vote. This spineless democratic pandering is not the kind of leadership deserving of our loophole-reduced four percent federal income tax. We need honorable men with polysyllabic names that sound British, culled from the top boarding schools and Ivy League secret societies, who will dictate policy according to the guidelines proposed in our clandestine meetings and jotted down by our third-level assistants! This is America!

Our demands are as simple as the plebeian wine-drinker’s palate. Stricter regulation of corporate-employee finances, such as those of out-of-control Duluth bank clerk Joseph Plummer! Yes to more of those blue shirts with the white collars that Michael Douglas wore in Wall Street! No to costly wars that don’t involve the control of oil, but if they do, then let’s definitely think about it, or even better, act quickly, then later let others ineffectually think about it because we’ve already gone in and now it’s too late to get out!

This country was founded on the proposition that all land-owning white men with wigs are created equal. Somehow we’ve gotten away from that mission, and now bewigged men are ridiculed and considered lesser. We are working with the Wigmakers of America to overturn that prejudice. If you can’t donate stock options to the cause, we will gladly take hair. Every follicle helps.

Ah, looks like our food reserves have arrived from the outside: soda bottles filled with Dom Pérignon Rosé Vintage 1959 and pizza-flavored foie gras. Mmm—who wants a little fresh-sprayed pepper?

Lock arms in solidarity, after first putting on your suit-sleeve protectors to prevent abrasions that might degrade fine Italian wool. Someone know a fiery protest song that won’t infringe upon any intellectual property rights? And a slogan we can print on T-shirts and sell at a 300 percent markup? And a T-shirt factory in Asia with lax workplace oversight?

Remember, the power is with us; we are the one percent. And for those who might forget that important number, we’ve struck an endorsement deal with Big Milk. Our faces are on their cartons, because we’ve been “missing” from American politics for literally weeks.

Let’s line up in an orderly fashion to be replaced overnight by our interns’ interns. See you in the morning—not too early, so we can all squeeze in a game of racquetball and a sauna. Maybe tomorrow we can lock out the customers who have so callously crossed our police-enforced picket line. Which one of us here owns Applebee’s?