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"Is this how you protect my daughter?" asks Tess, furious

Tutor, as Mentor to Audrey, our once and future queen, was hired by her mother, Tess, who owns a controlling interest in the world, as a last resort, when all the other options in Wealth Bondage had been exhausted, including temple bells, a family therapist, a Wise Man, a defrocked priest, and a whole troupe of Most Trusted Advisors dressed as clowns. When Tutor had arrived it was down to medical doctors, an iv, and talk of shock therapy, for 8 year old Audrey who would not get out of bed.

The most insubordinate and louche of resources, The Happy Tutor himself, was Tess’s last option. (She had found Tutor in an autographed copy of Erasmus’s Praise of Folly in the Castle library, next to a diary of Rabelais in which Tutor had figured as a drinking companion in their Oxford days. Tutor had once lived in the adjacent Castle, it seems, and had served as Tutor to any number of princes, princesses, saints and moral monsters. Tess had Googled him and found he was still semi-active, at the corner of Wealth and Bondage, in some kind of Dumpster of Broken Dreams, filled with old books, tossed there by the prep school students on the way home at vacation.)

Tess’s attitude to Audrey might be best expressed in her own words, “I would wrap you in cotton batting, if I could.” She had said that earlier when Audrey, testing her cartoon theory of walking on air, if you don’t look down, had walked off an embankment that she called a cliff, and fallen, nearly breaking her neck. As Audrey was helicioptered out to the main land hospital, Audrey had said to Tess, “I am sorry, Momma, I looked down!” To which Tess said, “I would wrap you up in cotton batting if I could.” 

Today, Tutor is standing at attention to be dressed down by Tess. Tess heard that he had been seen dropping Audrey on her head. (Which he had been, holding her by her ankles and dropping her on her head from a foot above the floor. Her thick, bushy, hair had buffered her fall, and she loved the game, wanting to do it over and over. Then she had turned the table, telling him that she would hold him by his ankles over the parapet, "to build trust," which she had, before he wiggled back to safety.) "Why did you put Audrey at risk? How dare you?" Tess demanded to know.  Tutor said, “To build trust, M’am.” That did not fly, so the question was repeated as, “I hired you to help her not hurt her!” To which Tutor thought fit to reply, “Not all help is helpful, M’am.” That did not fly either, so the question was repeated as, “I hired you to protect my daughter and keep her safe.” To which Tutor thought fit to respond, “There may have been a misunderstanding, M’am.” At this point Audrey came into Momma’s bedroom, and went up to her Tutor, standing at attention, too, to take her share of the blame. Tutor continued, “M’am, this young sprite, is a menace to herself and others. I had assumed my role was to protect the world from her, our once and future Queen.” Audrey reached her little hand up, to hold his. Defiant, together, two against the world, with an eye to saving it. Unbowed even before the wrath of Big Big Momma, she who owns a controlling interest in the world.

We are all playing hurt, protecting ourselves from damage done long ago. Audrey. as you may remember, was conceived in a gang rape on the passed out body of a 19 year math prodigy, on the Trading Floor of Wealth Bondage, at a party in young Tess's honor, to celebrate a trade in which she broke the Bank of Brazil, reducing the country to mob violence, and making $ten billion for WB. All her life Audrey will seek Real Dad. But how can he be found? DNA tests on every trader in NYC? Their random guests? Her Father is Creative Destruction, the Dionysian/Apollian, life/death force that drives the economy, politics, war, art, the moral universe, nature, our biology, and the global economy itself. Tess had never had more than one glass of wine, and three Champaign toasts in her honor at a dinner had been her undoing. Pregnant and ashamed, Tess, already in the Forbes list of wealthiest people, had fled to this remote Castle by the Sea, to hide her face, and her swelling belly. She had vowed that no one would ever hurt her daughter as she had been hurt. A remote Castle quarried from volcanic rock, whose moat is the roiling sea. Seal Team Seven, indeed a small army of mercenaries. 24/7 surveillance cameras in every nook and cranny of the Castle. Background checks on every employee, every visitor. Audrey is about as safe as nearly infinite money can make any child.

But Momma, wary and vigilant as she is,  is a good momma, and seeing Audrey standing so tall, to take her punishment, whatever it might be, by her Tutor, prepared to take his, even if it is banishment, how could her heart not melt? “Well, Tutor, you do have a point. How will the world fare, once Audrey inherits it? How can it possible survive?” Hugging her kid, she continues, “He is right, you just might turn the whole world upside down, and for the better, too, but please, Tutor, can you build trust next time in some other way?”

How a bedtime story may yet save the world

Tutor has told his young charge, Audrey, a bedtime story, a made up story about her favorite heroine, whose name happens to also be Audrey, a girl her age, with red hair like hers, who lives as she does in a Castle, and whose Momma owns most of the earth. The Audrey in the story also has a Rescue Dog, named Rex, as the does the real Audrey, and both have freckles and unruly red hair. The Audrey in the story set out to Save the World, since she already owned it, and rules it. It is not clear how she completes her Quest, because the real Audrey fell asleep, and the story ended with, "And Audrey and Rex and Audrey's Mom, and Tutor, and Cook, all lived happily ever after." The real Audrey drifted into sleep with an angelic half smile, a girl without a Real Dad, who feels, and is, much loved.

Love lives "in minute particulars" as William Blake said of poetry; the love of one kid, one dog, one Momma, and even one Cook and one Tutor. From the habits of the heart so formed, a child may thrive all her life, drawing on that secret store. And if she is a rich kid, maybe she can love those who have less, or nothing at all, as she loves those closest to her, and in loving them, save them. Is that part of the story? Tutor thinks so, but he is almost alone in the world of Dynastic Family Wealth Governance, which suggests that for the rich to save themselves is a big enough job in itself. At least it is Job One, lest dynasties last less than 100 years, like a great deep rooted sliver beech, and the heirs of the heirs' heirs have to get a job. For Tutor, a priest of sorts, true teaching is a gift, in the circuit of the gift, from grace, to gift, to gratitude, and back again, up and down and around. From those who charge more you get less. "And," Tutor mutters, eyes flashing, "from those who charge most you get least. What these Wisdom Consultants to Dynastic Wealth are selling is not a pig come to market, but the holy spirit who brooks no sale. And they know it, being wise, and they do it, being who and what they are."

You can see why, back in the day, Tutor, as Dungeon Master to the Stars in Wealth Bondage, was considered by some a Satirist, one of the cruder sort whose patients often died in agony, strapped to the wooden table, or whipped, beyond pleasure, or broken upon the rack for the edification of the masses, or hung, drawn and quartered, or just beheaded with the head then impaled on a spike. Only now in his dotage does he limit his Noble Trade to sermons and bed time stories.

"Love is the only answer, and for love alone I ply my trade. May God forgive me for all the Kings I have flattered, the Courtesans I have pimped, the Wealth and Wisdom Advisors whose humbuggery I have let pass unchallenged, and the pleasure I have taken in inflicting pain on those who deserve it. Even now, what I would give to preside at just one more beheading, or maybe even an entire Dynastic Family! So many miscreants; in America alone the candidate list is endless and growing because these families already last so long, like an invasive species, crowding out the republic and civil society. So hard to pick just one subverter of the Republic. The Judgment and Sentencing. The long wait languishing in prison. Then, the long solemn procession, the walk up the steps to the stage, the condemned one pleading, me giving the final blessing, along with some unlooked for moral approbation, then nodding to the headsman, the hush that falls over the crowd, awaiting the satisfying thump of the head into the wicker basket...." So, Tutor, the Penitent prays, after hours, in his dank cell, his soul wrestling with his Maker.

If you would like to support Tutor and his Important Work, please send me the money. I will be sure he gets it, net of a flat per gift handling charge and a reasonable percentage-based agency fee, subject to certain per gift minimums.

In Praise of Folly in Client Engagements

What a nightmare! Woke up in a cold sweat, screaming, and clutching my privates with both hands. Tutor, in my dream, had his "bovver boots" on and was kicking me as I curled up in a fetal position naked behind the Dumpster at the Corner of Wealth and Bondage. Apparently, I must have called myself wise, or a wise counselor to the world's wealthiest, or some such hokum, because Tutor was shouting, "You miserable sack of manure. You call yourself wise? If you were wise, you moron, you would keep your wisdom to yourself. If you were wise, would anyone in their right mind work with you? A word to the wise, Jackass, 'Speak truth in parables, and you may live to your next client engagement.'"

For the record: I don't think I have ever made the rookie error of calling myself wise, except as joke, or in a satirical way, to illustrate a Fool who thinks he is Wise, but if I have ever on this blog or in person given anyone the impression that I really am such a blockhead, as to consider myself wise, please accept my heartfelt apology. I had no intention of misleading you. I assumed all along that you can see I am Fool. Do I have to spell it out in my client engagement letter? Sign here. "I recognize and acknowledge that I am taking moral advice from a world class Fool. Signed. ________ A Rich Fool."

On Love as A Principle of Family Governance Properly Considered in a Dynastic Context

Tutor is a bit of an outlier among Wise and Virtuous Mentors to Dynastic Wealth. For one thing he is ordained, and few of the others are, though many have Divinity Degrees, and one or two have been defrocked. He is the only one who doubles as a Moral Mentor to the World's Wealthiest Families and Dungeon Master to the Stars in Wealth Bondage, providing Correction OTK, and the sacrament of penance; the others are mostly attorneys, wealth advisors, or Trust Officers plying their Noble Trade in Wealth Bondage, inculcating virtue, but without confession, corporal punishment, repentance, and absolution.  The Happy Tutor is not Wise, in fact he is a World Class Fool, and proud of it, while they are wise enough to say so, loudly and often, and even in print, or from the dais wherever wealth advisors congregate to master their craft. They are Virtuous, as you can tell from the pious expression on their faces, the stilted prose, the blue blazers, the grey slacks, or the skirts no shorter than the knee. They are from plebian or shopkeeper lineage. He is of noble birth, the third son of a Duke. They are upstarts. He is Old School, a protégé  of Diogenes, a boon companion of Erasmus and Rabelais, having mentored heirs since the age of Cicero and the collapse of the Roman republic. They serve Dynastic Wealth in a more recent collapse. They make $5,000 to $10,000 a day preparing the money for the heirs and the heirs for the money. He has taken vows of poverty and chastity, and been faithful to the former. They serve families faithfully who serve themselves, in a paradise of the rich, which the advisor prevents them from losing, from a fickle turn of fate. Tutor serves families who would serve the world. He prepares the heirs for the money, and the body politic for the rule of the few. But these are not the only differences between the real deal (Tutor) and the upstart popinjays at the private banks and family offices.  

Tutor, in Hawaiian shirt, priest pants, and Jesus sandals  is lounging on Audrey's bed, in her stone walled room in the Castle by the Sea. Her small, gymnast's back, in her blue denim jacket is turned to him. She is at an age where ignoring her Tutor, or any authority, is now her "thing." She is paging through People Magazine with a black marker in her hand. She is drawing horns and mustaches on any heir she can find whether standing by their Dad and Mom, or on a boat, or by a plane, or at a party, or on some island. The heiress to the Pig Farming Fortune. The heir of the Chocolate Bar Fortune. The heir to a Casino Fortune. The heir of a South American playboy who privatized a national bank. The grandson of a head of state, exiting a limousine in a motorcade. Her point of view is that each is a competitor, like rival nobles, to her as our once and future queen. Each will be vanquished as Momma consolidates all the world's wealth, and Audrey inherits the world and with it all the temptations that Satan showed Christ on the Mount. 

Here is what makes Tutor truly different from the other, more contemporary, Trusted Advisors to Extreme Wealth. For one thing he is at least 2,000 years old, but he stayed young by always loving and being loved by a kid. Audrey is one of a long succession. So many dynasties have risen and fallen. So many rulers have gone to the dark side, prospered at the expense of the body politic, or been ultimately purged to restore the body politic to sanity and health. He has worked with them in Rome, Carthage, Greece, Byzantium, London, Paris, DC, Istanbul, Buenes Aires. Each of those kids, whether smart or dumb, beautiful or homely, hale or frail, no matter how thin the blood by interbreeding, no matter how disgraceful in conduct, was precious to him. He loved each and every one of these little monsters, some of whose names are famous, some infamous, some buried and forgotten. He still has a jewel from the nose of one kid's carriage horse, pulled off at Moscow station when her family fled Russia. From Rome, one coin, a kid's talisman. From Paris a handkerchief steeped in royal blood. Each of these kids he loved as if each were his own. 

Tutor is Tutor and sui generis. He works wonders with the most unhappy or confused wealthy kids in the world.  I watch and study here in my Dumpster surrounded by old books, the canon of many civilizations fading into one another over time, endlessly telling the same old stories of quest, tragedy, and the human comedy. I was just now reading Chekov, in a beer stained edition tossed here by some student headed home for vacation. I do keep up with the coming fusion of the liberal arts and Wealth Bondage. I see the Doxies on Parade in and out of Wealth Bondage Headquarters, headed all over the world to create wise and virtuous families of wealth, while preserving and growing Assets Under Management in Perpetuity. I read their benumbing Texts on Human Flourishing. I see much on therapy, much on finance, much on family values, and much that is driven by wealth as a master metaphor for all good things. But, you know, in all these years not once have I heard any one of these $5,000 - $10,000 a day Mentors to the Heirs, say that they love the kid. Not one has mentioned reading bedtime stories, or cuddling a child as she falls asleep, or making paper dolls, or playing pick up sticks. Not one has mentioned the importance of reading a kid Fairy Tales, teaching Silly Songs, singing a lullaby, or learning a prayer. Yet, without love, and its tender, humble, thankless, daily ministrations, no kid can thrive.   

Who could possibly love that red-haired miscreant, getting black marker all over her fingers and her faded pink jeans, defacing People Magazine, and plotting world conquest? I hear Tutor, putting aside "The Vanity of Human Wishes," and laughing. "C'mere, kid. Did I ever tell you that you are very, very lovable?" Yes, he has, ad nauseam, and Audrey being a self respecting 9.5 year old squirms away. Love is for kids!  She is bent over now, looking back through her legs at Tutor. "I don't love you, Tutor, you are just my babysitter and I don't even need one. You are a Stupid Grown up! You work for Momma, and if you make me mad I am going to get you fired. No, I will have Momma's Seal Team Seven feed you to the sharks! They will drop you from the helicopter, Tutor, way, way, far out in the ocean! In the middle of the night! And you can't even swim! I won't save you!" At which harsh, and unfair, repudiation of his aching, boundless love, Tutor begins bawling like a child, pounding the mattress with his fists, while grownup Audrey goes back to conquering all comers. "Stop crying, Tutor," his charge admonishes him. "You sound very immature." His wailing becomes stifled, forlorn sobbing. On such conversations the future of our planet depends. 

Benediction for H. Peter Karoff

Friend and role model (too strange a man to be a mentor to another no less strange), H.Peter Karoff, poet, former insurance agent, founder of The Philanthropic Initiative, died on March 9. I attended services for him in Boston earlier with week, with bits of his poems projected on the walls, and in the program. I read this Benediction for him.

The Secret Sits
We dance round in a ring and suppose,
The Secret sits in the middle and knows.
-Robert Frost

Were Peter present, which he is, I would ask him if at last we do know the Secret. All these years he was asking how literature and philanthropy could be one. Maybe the Secret is that both are labors of love, confirming community. Bearing witness to the Secret, Peter was the wisest and the most foolish in any circle he formed. A gifted man, his gift was poetry, love, philanthropy, caritas, family, community. We can only requite his gifts now by passing them along, in our respective turns to be wise and foolish, giver and receiver, loving and gracious. I think that is what the Secret knows, but I am just guessing.  

How many millennia before money did we humans, without even books, or iPads, have love, or a beloved community? Life is not a gift but a loan, I think. Life is the grace period before the debt comes due at interest. Peter's account is stamped "paid in full." His obit is here.

The Lame Goat

Bedtime for the world's richest kid in her Castle by the Sea. "Real Dad" is a mystery, never known. Hedge Fund Mommy is busy bankrupting Brazil. Tutor, the Mentor that no kid in her right mind needs, is reading Audrey a story from a book with pictures. A parable, from one of the many tribes of Abraham. "Am I the leader?," Audrey asks, pointing at the lame goat. "You are the leader, but you are not a lame goat," says Tutor. "You are a very lovable human being and all four of your hooves are just fine. See?" And he holds all four, briefly, one by one.  

Now, some of my fellow Trusted Advisors to extreme wealth may ask, "What has love got to do with it?" I mean I have read and teach the Canon and to my recollection not one word in all those books about Wealth in Families about love. But Tutor is Old School, specifically Oxford, circa 1523. He loves kids and they love him. They are the hope of the world, even the kids who through no fault of their own were born rich. Some will go mad, or turn to drink or drugs, or become a criminal mastermind, or President of the United States. There is no answer in all those books, all that wise counsel research, because none gets down to love.

"I love you, Tutor," says the heir who will inherit a controlling interest in the earth, snuggling closer.

"I love you, too, kid. Now off to sleep."

Who Schools the Fish? Reflections on the Governance of The Families of Man and Beast

Audrey is on the volcanic ledge where the Castle rises from the sea's cold tides. With a staff she is stirring the waters where the fish come to feed. Tutor can see the speckled fish coming and going in schools, this way and that as Audrey muddles the waters with her stick. A kid alone on the rocks, tossed last year from her prep school. In the rooms where Trusted Advisors to Wealth come and go, discussing her case with Momma, discussing and rating her on her Capitals and Liabilities, it is said, "the jury is still out on Audrey; she could still go either way." A family therapist has a file on her so thick it bulges, and takes a thick rubber band to stay closed. Before Tutor came to the Castle, as Momma's last resort, Audrey walked the cold stone floors barefoot at night, in her white shift, eyes wide and fast asleep. Therapist said she is looking for her father, and no one even Momma can name his name, or say who or where he is.

Can this kid be fixed? If anyone could, it would be Tutor because he loves her and needs her as his connection to the future. "Hey, Audrey," he whispers, "how did fish form schools? Do you think their Momma made them?" Audrey knows his ways, a Silly Grownup among the Stupid Grownups, and holds a disdainful silence, agitating the waters and scaring off the fish. Yet the question sinks in. At bedtime she returns to it, "So why did the fish form schools?" "Same reason," says Tutor, "that lambs form flocks, the birds fly in formation, ants form mounds, and the whales come in pods." "Because their mommas make them?" "Yes," says Tutor, "thank God for Mommas! Your Momma loves you very much, and so do I." His little lamb falls asleep, with Tutor her teacher, pastor, Mentor, babysitter, enabler, straight man, fellow traveler, kindred spirit, and lost soul. What has love got to do with teaching? Child rearing? Giving? Faith? Poetry? Scripture? Schools of fish, or thought?

I was expressing my interpretation to Tutor, and he said, "What has hate got to do with it, Phil? Why do the schools humans form have teams that play against one another? Why do communities have boundaries, walls, gates, property lines? Why do fans of one faith, chant, "USA" and "Build that wall?" Why does one color lynch another? Why did Athens when sickness spread, burn a pharmakos, at the cross roads? Why in chapel at the altar where I give communion can you look up and see the Shepherd bleeding, like the lamb he might have fleeced and butchered? Why do we eat of his body and drink his blood like a bunch of barbarians? You mention art, and love. As for tragedy? Abraham and Isaac? The Book of Job? As for satire, and the blurred dance of the priest, the knife, and the goat? As for the bliss of conquest and subordination? As for pillage and what historians politely call 'rapine?'" Why do fish form schools? And why do dogs and wolves run in packs? Speaking of rapine, do you know the story of Audrey's conception on the killing floor at the Bank of Wealth Bondage, the night the traders and trusted advisors celebrated her mother's first world historical trade? So the capitals circulate, in the economy of wealth, love, rancor, and revenge."

Inspiration from below - that is really Tutor's problem.  I wish he would admit he needs help. I am all for speaking truth, but it is revolting, all the same. We humans wear skirts or trousers for a reason. Our Mommas make us, and rightly so.

 

A Word to the Wise on Wisdom Consulting to the World's Wealthiest

My role, to the extent I can get work, is helping wealthy families "beat the proverb: shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in the three generations," as Jay Hughes and his many followers say. Helping families, very rich ones, help themselves is my calling, as others might be called to serve humanity, God, the body politic, or art. We all have a Summun Bonum and helping the rich get richer, and stay rich forever, is mine. The problem is that there are only a few hundred families that can afford a family governance team to prepare the wealth for the heirs and the heirs for the wealth, so the family's "capitals" (including but not limited to money, culture, education, political connections, self esteem, inside information, virtue, and spirituality) can continue to grow and synergize for 100 years. I can see the Trumps doing it, but they are on the low end as far as net worth goes for this kind of work. Without this education, I like to tell my family governance prospects, they risk being "deported from Paradise back to the Middle Class." I am always amazed that people buy this line of thinking, but almost anything people find flattering or self aggrandizing, will find a market. In a lot of families the moral mentor, and spiritual guide for the kids, has been a woman of color and of faith, from say, Mexico or Guatemala. The kids learn about love and ethics and spirituality, and family values, and can pick up Spanish, from their "Second Mother," as some call her.

The market opportunity now for me personally and for Tutor and for those we train in Wealth Bondage as Spiritual Guides to the World's Wealthiest, is that the low paid women who have served these families, for room and board and subsistence wages, are now being deported by ICE from the lower class here back to abject poverty in Mexico or South America. This opens a space for the more reputable moral instruction providers like me and Tutor, to raise Children of Affluence to stay rich and rule us. If you find this interesting and want to cash in, let me know. The superrich are the fastest growing market segment, they have all the money and power, and all the other capitals, too, and if you have aptitude and interest in serving as their spiritual guide, and are not too squeamish about it, there are openings all over the world. You think I am kidding, right? Buddy, there are actual placement agencies, for nannies, butlers, trusted advisors, family office staff, spiritual guides. You would know that if your own ancestors had not been deported back to the Middle Class for lack of virtue, or whatever. It is hard to explain this world of extreme wealth and privilege to losers like us, but it seems important, because it is systemic, unresisted, and apparently irreversible. Which is why I say, "Why fight it, when you can join it?" Call me.

Please Rate your Beating on a Scale of One to Five

Sometimes I am just not sure about Tutor. I can't tell whether he is operating as a Catholic Priest (Monk), a free lance morals tutor, a satirist, a Dungeon Master, or as an employee in good standing of Wealth Bondage, Incorporated, The Metaphysic of our Age. In any case, after singing a High Mass, in the Chapel at the Castle by the Sea, complete with incense, religious regalia, a crucifix on a staff, Audrey disguised an as altar boy, and Holy Communion, Tutor sent around a Zoomerang Customer Satisfaction Survey, with a five part Lickert Scale, rating his singing, the quality of the wine, the taste of the bread, and the degree to which the Sermon addressed the Customer's greatest moral improvement opportunities, and induced a change of heart that he called "repentance." How do you read this? Maybe at age 2000 or so he is finally losing his holy mind.  In any case, attendance is up at Chapel, and the weekly take in the collection basket is up 14% YTD. Tutor is buying better wine. He must be doing something right.

Estate Planning is Dead; Long Live Legacy Planning

In the Bank of Wealth Bondage, where The Happy Tutor was Senior Dungeon Master to the Stars, and I was his apprentice, working with the less corrupt clients, and those needing less in the way of Moral or Spiritual guidance, or corporal punishment, or who just wanted moral improvement at a lower price point, we were housed in the Family Wealth Division, and our Sister Organization was Estate Planning. Wisdom and Wealth was in the Chapel down the hall, near the sauna where I doubled as cabana boy, in my early days, before turning to prostitution, being saved by the Grace of God, and entering the wisdom and virtue field, at the high end. Last night, drunk as a lord, Tutor was holding forth on Our Noble Trade:

Estate Planning is Dead, Long Live Legacy Planning.  Estate planning is about preparing money for heirs, in the largest amount possible, as well protected as possible. Legacy Planning is about passing on assets, values, and a way of life that enhances the well being of the heir, family, and the communities important to them. Estate Planning is a financial science. Legacy planning is at the intersection of love, wisdom, money. Estate planners need to think like an attorney, even if they are not one. Legacy planners need to think like a liberally educated human being, even if they are not one.  Attorneys have a monopoly on the documents. They are trained to win, and make another lose. Uncle Sam is the enemy. The moral inadequacy of the macho estate planning paradigm is painful to behold, or to be subjected to. Legacy planners see the documents as a sunken treasure ship, around which an ecosystem develops. To be a legacy planner is to have a moral imagination, as well as technical chops. The attorney maximizes net to the heirs. The legacy planner asks how the family will thrive, as individuals, as a family, and as part of community. (Well governed, ill governed, despotic, democratic, saved or damned). So maybe estate planning needs “An Extreme Makeover," or better yet a Takeover by the poets, roisterers, and street prophets. Come let us drink!

Thriving communities. The purpose of legacy planning is thriving communities? I could be a comic at Heckerling warming up the crowd for Tutor who could give his infamous talk on "Passing on The Right Amount to Heirs." He has this Sermon based on the Book of Job, the parable of Abraham and Isaac, and the example of God the Father, whose Son inherited a crown of thorns and three iron spikes, to prepay the monstrous debt of sin of those in attendance, and their clients, for not just 100 years of dynastic hegemony, but until the end of time.  "What profits it that your client inherit the earth, and lose her immortal soul?" With Tutor's sermon orator voice, the rafters would ring.

He gave that Sermon, for practice, to Audrey, and it scared the bejesus out of her. He has to learn to back off.