So here’s my wish for Rupert Murdoch, and it’s not all that my heart wishes for him, but some things shouldn’t be said aloud. I want him to walk in the shoes of the unemployed for 100 weeks, but with only 26 weeks of unemployment insurance. I want him to have no way to pay for food, and for him to be passed over for every job applied for, day after day after painful day. I want him to lose his car, his home, and his dignity. I want him to sit in a bureaucrat’s office and apply for emergency food stamps, aid for the children, Medicaid benefits and place himself at the mercy of others, who may or may not be merciful.

I want him to rot from the inside out from the constant anxiety of having to wonder if he will ever reach the age where he can claim Social Security benefits — benefits HE paid for. I want him to lie awake at night wondering where he can go to collect aluminum cans and glass bottles to turn in for the recycling money so he can bring home groceries that night.

I want him completely humbled and humiliated, to be prostrate before the government agencies he so sneeringly dismisses, to know what it is like to have nothing, not to be able to rely on anyone, and when he is so low there isn’t a lower place to go besides hell, I want to lean over and whisper in his ear, “This is all your doing. You, and you alone, are responsible for it.”

And then I want him to rot in the hell he made for himself for all eternity, while his remains are picked apart by conservative vultures.