Picture the elite of old. I knew them—men like Washington, who swapped plow for sword and led with quiet iron; or my humble self, tinkering with stoves to warm the common lot. Flawed we were, but we aimed to do, not merely to be. Our rank sprang from results—a bridge raised, a law crafted, a fire doused. Now gaze at this fevered year, and what do you spy? Politicians who rule by bluster, scribblers who hawk half-truths for cheers, scholars who preach on matters they’ve never touched—these are no elites, but elitists, grasping power like a miser clutches unearned coins.

Take, for instance, the halls of Congress, where once I saw men reason through the republic's knots. Today, they bicker like magpies over scraps—witness this very week, when Representative Jasmine Crockett, that firebrand from Texas, lit a blaze by claiming Trump's supporters, nigh on eighty million souls, suffer a "mental health crisis." President Trump, with his usual thunder, hailed his voters' loyalty, while Crockett, ever the brash orator, doubled down on a podcast, painting half the nation as unhinged for their ballots. By dawn, X was ablaze with cries of a misplaced snobbery—Crockett, they swore, was scheming to vilify voters, perhaps to shine as her party's provocateur or curry favor with its fringes. A tale spun from her words and a congresswoman's swagger, yet it flew faster than my kite in a gale, fanned by headlines and retweets. Where's the proof? Thin as a cobweb, yet the clamor drowns all sense. In my time, a lawmaker was a carpenter of the state, measuring twice and cutting once. Now, she's a mummer, juggling words for the mob's roar, ethics be damned. I'd sooner trust a squirrel with my almanac than these folks with my liberty.

And the press—oh, how my printer's heart bleeds! I labored over ink to enlighten. Today’s scribblers chase phantoms, puffing Crockett's rant into a national feud, proof my craft has fallen to elitist hands. Yet, hope glimmers. In muddy fields and smoky streets, I see soldiers, athletes, and healers—true elites, proven by works, not words. Over four missives, I'll unmask these elitists—first in Congress, then in newsrooms, then in ivory towers and social salons—before hailing those who still serve. Join me, for as my almanac said, "Many lack the originality to lack originality." Next, we’ll stalk the political peacock further, where bluster buries service.

Till then, keep your kite aloft and your wits sharper,
Your humble servant,
B. Franklin