It is depressing and sad, but it makes perfect sense. Any field where individuals can wield disproportionate influence, they are bound to seek out justification for their being -- or, more problematically, intending to be -- irredeemable shitheads.
For self-absorbed pseudo-centrists wishing to salve their fractured political consciences, there's the freshly powdered pastel summer frock of Bobo Brooks, or perhaps the more testosterone-fueled ravings of Ann Coulter. And for well-heeled number-diddlers choking on their own pelf, there's Gordon Gekko.
I suppose it's good work if you can get it; even better if you can still excuse it enough to sleep at night.