Seattle Sells Its Future for $15 an Hour

The Seattle City Council, liberal brain trust that it is, has set an example for the entire nation by voting to raise the minimum wage to $15 an hour.

“This legislation sends a message heard around the world: Seattle wants to stop the race to the bottom in wages and that we deplore the growth in income inequality and the widening gap between the rich and the poor,” said Councilman Tom Rasmussen, who along with whackadoo Mayor Ed Murray and openly Socialist Councilwoman Kshama Sawant pushed this genius piece of economic policy.

Yessirree, undeterred by common sense or the need to keep business in their town, the members of the city council are showing America how Progressives get it done.

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They have a utopian vision to be sure, but I always wonder, if liberals truly think raising the minimum wage is the way to lift everybody’s boats, why are they stopping at $15 an hour? Why not $100 or more?

Just imagine how great that would be. …

You walk into your local McDonald’s, where the velvet-jacketed doorman ushers you inside. Your street-grimy sneakers sink into the plush red carpet as you walk blithely beneath crystal chandeliers on your way to the nearest cashier, who happens to be the only cashier, in fact the only employee in the whole place, which is fitted out in marble tables and gold-plated fixtures, but otherwise empty.

The lone cashier himself is a tall, lanky young man with safety pins through both eyebrows, a gold-plated doorknocker hanging from his nose and high-gauge earrings you could slide a curtain rod through. But his uniform is crisp and fresh, complete with white calf-skin gloves and top hat.

“I am help you?” he says in broken English.

“Give me a Big Mac and a large soda, please,” you say.

The cashier looks with confusion at the menu behind him. “Is Value Menu?” he asks.

“No,” you explain patiently. “Just give me the Number 4, large.”

“Four large Coke.”

“No,” you correct him. “A Number 4 … make it large.”

“Number Large,” he says.

“No,” you interject, wondering how you are going to get through to your cashier.

The cashier, however, seems to comprehend your frustration and claps his hands. “Alfred!”

A well-dressed, older gentleman with a British accent appears. “Assist,” says the cashier, waving his hands at the older man. He turns to you and smiles, “My buttle-er.”

“How may I be of assistance, sir,” the older gentleman says to you.

“Finally,” you sigh. “Someone who works here who speaks English.”

“Technically, sir, I don’t work here. I work for Master UckpockYeckyockPatang there,” Alfred says with the correctness of a British schoolmarm.

Uckpock smiles at you. “Last week,” he says, “I come border in seat of ’67 Chevy.”

“You came here in a Chevy?” you repeat by way of verification.

“Not quite sir,” Alfred interjects. “Master Uckpock arrived in this country whilst sewn inside the seat of a 1967 Chevy.”

“Now,” Uckpock says, beaming with pride, “I work here, get big house with pool. Million dollar, baby!”

“Oh,” you respond. “Look, could I just get a Number 4, large?”

“Certainly, sir,” Alfred responds, pressing the buttons on the register. “That will be $87.13, please.”

“Eighty-seven dollars?” you sputter.

“And 13 cents,” Alfred cheerfully adds.

“That can’t be right.”

“It is, sir, ever since the City Council raised the minimum wage,” Alfred says. “This McDonald’s is the only one in the city that’s managed to stay open. All the other employees had to be let go in order to pay Master Uckpock. And he pays my salary, of course.”

“Uh, perhaps I should go to a different restaurant,” you start to say.

“Very good, sir,” Alfred says, “I think there’s one just on the horizon there.”

“That looks far. I’d better gas up. Where’s the nearest gas station?”

“Arizona, I believe sir,” Alfred says. “None of the local fueling depots could afford to pay anyone to mind the business.”

“Oy. Just out of curiosity, Al, how much does Master Uckpock there make?”

“I believe it’s in the neighborhood of $80 per hour, sir.”

“Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat! I only pull down $40 an hour, and I went to college,” you groan.

“If it helps, sir,” Alfred begins, “I know someone who’s looking for a young person with a talent for sewing people into car seats. …”

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