We try, we really do, to keep our heads shut and our mouths down. Class warfare? If you have to ask, we could never afford it. Still, it's agreeable to believe our ass cracks speak volumes when we assume the entry-level position, mooning Tank and Roo's net worth as we bend and stretch for Twee and Tiny's tax shelter. It's probably perverse to take a certain pride in the fact that we're too old for this, to congratulate ourselves on the flexibility of our pain thresholds even as Tink chisels into our lifelines and Trailer shoves his second residence under our thumbnails. Revenge is just a shredder away — but who would really suffer? Never Fudge or Gal or Bark or Cracker. Of course we have only to open the bloodstained manilla containing last year's deductions to see the legal names under which Jonathan Thomas Mary Susan inherited such serious money. But they have ways of making us talk and talk and never actually do a thing about it. Quite in spite of ourselves, we're always so tickled to get a glimpse of Chief or Princess or Strap or Wax. Of course we're going to come crawling back for more. Rich people's ridiculous nicknames are smack for the masses.