That son of a bitch ain't been born

Today I tried reading what was intended to be an uplifting and inspirational tail about a family's journey. Instead I got to this line:

One important segment of an American family's journey from the humiliation of slavery to the very top of the nation's ruling class.

and stopped.

Ruling class? What the hell are they talking about? Where did I wake up this morning? No matter what some people may think, we don't have a ruler, we have a president. Somebody who presides. Somebody who serves the citizenry. Not a king. Not a grand poo bah. Not a high priestess in charge of blood sacrifices. The way Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin had it planned out, we would elect people to represent us, and we'd let them do so if it suited us.

In the last part of the 19th century it became popular among some segments of wealthy European society to purchase large ranches on the American frontier. Books could be filled with the many examples of the two different cultures clashing, but the story I like best fits my view of this situation and politics in general. Most versions have it taking place up in the Panhandle.

A proper Englishman rode up to a dusty ranch house and found a cowboy shoeing a horse. "I say good man, might there be something available to drink, my throats quite parched?"

Talking out from between the nails he was holding in his lips, the cowboy pointed and said "The well's right there."

The foreigner repeated his statement, but this time the busy Texan only had time to jerk his head in the direction of the well.

When his demand for his horse to be held was met only with a glare, the flustered Englishman said "Tell me, where is your master?"

Spitting the nails from his mouth and standing straight, the dirty cowboy told him "That son of a bitch ain't been born yet."