The Latin language has given us a lot more than many English-speakers realize. Besides such obvious hit phrases as carpe diem and caveat emptor, there are zillions of individual words-- even the word "zillion," which is a slang creation based on the word "million," from the Latin mille, which is actually "thousand." (I say this with confidence, as I took five years of Latin.)

Here's some Latin that's in the news: bonus, which comes straight from the original, an adjective meaning "good," but in this masculine rendition, can mean "good man." In the sense we'd come to understand the English word (until recently), a bonus was an extra bit of goodness-- something good, given to someone who'd done some good work. Not having the sort of career in which bonuses are traditional (unless I include my long-ago waitressing, when my income was dependent on tips, which are like bonuses-- a really stupid way to pay people, but that's another subject), I haven't really experienced bonuses. I'm hired for a certain fee, and that's what's in the envelope when I've completed the job.

Now we are learning that some people are guaranteed bonuses before they do the job, regardless of how good (or bonus) their as-yet-unperformed job performance may be. The irony of this business with the mysteriously anonymous executives at AIG, mighty contributors to the collapse of the world's economies, is that they were much more malus (bad) than bonus-- rather, they were mali (that's the plural form). Granted, nobody seems to be able to grasp exactly what these "financial instruments" were, but all seem to agree that they were ridiculously risky at best, and wicked at worst, relying at their root on the confluence of ignorant home-buyers and greedy, immmoral lenders. Apparently these mali felt no responsibility for any of what happened so far below their Olympian positions-- the stench of nastiness having eventually wafted away as these loans passed from bank to bank, until they made their way into "instruments." It's practically celestial!

We're told that the mali have contracts which simply cannot be broken or renegotiated, unlike those of the UAW, or teachers all over the country, or any number of peasants who are desperate to maintain any kind of income in our feudal system. Therefore, many pundits have been telling us Americans to just pay up and forget about it. I say, fine! All I ask is that the AIG bonus recipients throw off their cloaks of invisibility and step up to accept their awards in public.

I envision a modest platform on the National Mall, bearing the President, representatives from Congress, the major labor unions, and a few foreclosed-upon citizens. In the front rows, the AIG mali, dressed in their best suits (although I'd think even their worst suits must be pretty nice, and maybe a better plan for when the audience starts lobbing rotten eggs). Each name will be called out by the Sergeant at Arms, and that malus (or mala-- I imagine there may be a lady or two) will step forth proudly, to acknowledge their service to their corporation, their nation, and the global economy. Each one must state his or her name again, and give a short statement about their year's work, and why it merits this additional million or two.

Then, they can look President Obama in the eye and tell him why they should accept something that amounts to a fortune to most of us, and not crawl on their bellies to, for example, North Minneapolis, and hand deliver it to several families who've lost their homes.

As I fear they won't find that difficult at all, the President will give them their bonuses, on behalf of a grateful nation... except perhaps we could call them what they are: maluses. Bad payments to bad people, as a reward for having done bad things.

Afterwards, I'd like to invite all those lucky winners of maluses to my home, where I shall prepare a batch of a new cocktail I've devised for the occasion:

THE MALUS

3 oz tepid swamp water

1 drop rubbing alcohol (to sanitize the water, and add a touch of bitterness)

Shake with 4 oz warm gravel, and pour all (do not strain!) into a chipped Baccarat flute. Garnish with the pith (the bitter white part of the rind) of a rotting grapefruit. Bottoms up!