Sunless Slavery 4/20/12

To pluck an ear hair: grasp firmly between thumbnail and index finger, or any fingernail and thumb, whichever gets you in deeper, and jerk out. Same process for nose hair; some say this can kill you, but here I am. The closer to the grave you dance, the wilder the wiry hairs grow. Ain’t gettin’ no ‘lectric trimmer. Just gonna keep on pluckin’.

Cheap Dude in the middle of multiple 12 hour night shifts, half crazy and bone tired. No matter how hard you work, tomorrow always comes, with more work. Supposed to be grateful. Yeah, you need the money, but how does that make the work suck any less?

%$#@!

Seldom discussed reason to have a family: on days you would rather eat a bullet than go to work, you skip the tortured inner dialogue, go make coffee and pack yr lunch. Somebody’s got to make the rent for those clowns.

Seldom discussed downside: good parenting is endless thankless work. No matter how horrible your work day, there is a quitting time. At home something’s always broken, dirty, stinky, needs mended, washed, disinfected. Kids eat, make messes, and demand attention. No one says thank you or good job, it’s what you’re supposed to do. It feels like perpetual failure.

And…It…Never…Ends.

So take heed young wannabe parents. It’s not all sunshine and lollipops. Very little, in fact, thinking back.

%$#@!

Whatever happened to Hoppity Hooper? Cheap Worker could not Goggle the cartoon frog, interzone access had been terminated after a “virus" got in the four shift workers’ shared computer. Must have been a flesh-eating virus, the computer works fine.

(Of course I could look up Hoppity Hooper later, but we’re pretending I wrote this fractured epistle at work. Note to any co-worker reading at work: I did not actually write this at work. Maybe a little. Get to work yourself!)

Repetitive jobs can be done half asleep, leaving the mind free to wander. My brain is like an orchestra which I barely conduct. The free form jazz and modern classical that erupts is not necessarily pleasant, but accurately whack.

Scrubbing toilets for The Man, or for The Kids: sucks either way.

Each time he turned off his tiny magical ‘mp3’ music storage/retrieval system, it blinked a tiny stupid message: “See You Later.” One day he’d had enough: “No! You won’t! You don’t have any eyes!” But the message still blinked. No ears either.

A cement mine/manufacturing plant is a burnt dirt factory. You dig certain dirt, haul it, crush it, grind it, cook it, grind it again, then sell it. Dust gets in every body hole, most shifts. Coats every vehicle and structure, pinkish near the mouth of the steel beast, grey near its fiery anus. The humans are tiny, crawling among the machinery, attending to its needs with their tools. Continuous electro-mechanical roar, jet engine loud. Never heaven except after quitting time, and maybe on pay day.

Payday: Not What It Used To Be.

%$#@!

Is it possible to get “swamp ass” so bad that you have to go on disability? On summer days it seems possible. Grandpa used to call it “galded” butt, probably meaning “galled,” since galded is not officially a word. His cure was powdered corn starch, which works, fellow sufferers. He also said, if you got dog crap on your shoe, that you’d “stepped on a Dutchman’s razor.” And now for something somewhat similar:

“He Walked Out With His Life”

   It took me three days to walk out of the Grand Canyon with a broken bone.

   I had told my sons to walk ahead; I had to stop and wipe the sweat out of my crack, to prevent a galded butt episode. No need for young sons to have that mental image of father, they heartily agreed.

   Up a little side canyon I turned to sit on a ledge, slipped, almost fell, and tweaked my pinky finger. After unspeakable backpacking butt-drying ritual, the last three days of the hike went fine. I didn’t find out pinky was broken until much later. You can see why they didn’t make a movie about it.

%$#@!

Ah for the good old days, when a person was judged by the content of their character, not the content of their bladder. When pot-smoking bad workers were fired for being bad workers, and pot-smoking good workers were tolerated. If people do the work, who cares what they’re smoking?

People don’t always get lazy and stupid from smoking pot, it’s a lazy stupid excuse from lazy stupids. A regular pot smoker smokes for the same reasons anyone smokes anything. To relax, take five, get through the day, recharge, lighten up, cheer up, to elevate. To cough a little while.

There is also something inherently bad-ass about sucking hot gas from a burning fire stick. Even if it’s just dried lawn clippings in a paper towel, like Cheap Kid’s first effort. Fire! By your lips! Daredevil!

%$#@!

“I and I”: God lives in all of us, and so, you and me are one.

Playing on the mp3:

“You are the only light there is

For yourself, my friend."

Gogol Bordello

Religious and social constructs try to make us in their image when we are young. Throwing these off to construct your own self can be frightening, but is the only real freedom. You get to decide who you are and what you are about, at any age, right now. Fear Not!

Or as a renegade Jew once said: “…The kingdom of God cometh not with observation: Neither shall they say, Lo here! or, lo there! for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you.” (Luke 17:20-21 KJV) You don’t hear that one from the pulpit much. Once folks understood, the pastor’d be out of a job.

Lies are lies, no matter how well-dressed and rehearsed the speaker. Truth is truth, even from the butt crack of a buffoon. This from a coffee-drunk hick working too many night shifts. Disregard.