Thursday, January 04, 2007

I do not take, nor have I ever taken, shit from The Establishment

Like it? 
People have wondered where I've been lately.

I've been busy not taking any shit from The Man.

It takes up much of my day.

First, I have to wake up whenever I goddam well feel like waking up. I have my alarm set for the crack of Fuck You o'clock. Then I have to piss in The Man's corn flakes. Just to get that tight-ass riled up first thing in the morning. I often find, while I'm chuckling to myself over breakfast, that The Man has pissed in my corn flakes, too, just by being around and trying to get me to conform to his rules.

I dump the corn flakes, as I said, if I poke through and find the milk's a little yellowish, and I make a new bowl, and I eat the corn flakes with a dessert spoon, not a soup spoon, because I can't stand Society telling me what utensil I have to eat my corn flakes with.

Then my wife and I sit and talk about what we're going to do that day, whether it's shopping or making a chicken or whatever.

Sometimes I do some light cleaning, sometimes not. If I feel like it, not before. I'm not going to let The Establishment tell me when the tub needs scrubbing. I decide that, based on my own rules. And you know what? There are no rules.

I've been a little lax on the cleaning lately. So what? Dog takes a crap on the sisal rug, I'm supposed to get rid of it? Who says? You know how difficult it is to work moist dog crap out of sisal?

The Man would just love for me to sit there with a small handheld brush and a bucket of Pine-Sol and some paper towels, and then spend half a day letting it dry instead of using that time to work on Dan. Getting some Quality Dan Time. Sure—I'm supposed to sprinkle it with baking soda like a chump and vacuum until the fibers are clean. When I want to, you killjoy, you leech. That's when I'll do it.

I try to carve out a few hours every day to stand outside on my lawn and give anybody passing by the finger. If nobody passes by, like if it's during the day when most of Society's sheep are at work or school learning how to be bourgeois robots, I'll give the finger and twirl in all directions like a sprinkler, to indicate the world at large. This coincides, on the odd day, with the mailman. If I'm fast enough, I'll take the mail from the box, wipe my ass with it, and try to hand it back. But most of the time he's a couple of houses away by the time I get the belt unbuckled.

My wife and I eat lunch in front of the TV. Sue me. I don't have cable, though. The cable company is where The Man lives, so I won't kowtow to his demands that I plug in like a goddam zombie into whatever sick mental oatmeal he wants me to watch. So we pop in a movie. Something about people who don't give a shit about Mr. Big's rules, like "Die Hard," or "Predator," or "Die Hard 3." John McClane and Dutch are the kings of not taking any bullshit from Society, and so they are OK in my book. But some days I feel like watching those kind of movies is just what The Establishment wants me to watch, so we'll switch it up with "Pride and Prejudice," the one from A&E, which is the best version out there.

There are other chores I have to do. Like I'll write out the bills. I'll take the check for the mortgage and not put my account number in the Memo field, just to be an asshole. Or—and I'd love to see the looks on their faces when they see it—I'll sign my name all sloppy. You want decent penmanship? Screw you. I utterly refuse.

I'll spend a couple of hours catching up on the day's news online, not because I care frig-all about what The Suits Of The World are up to, but because I need to recalibrate my Bullshit Detector by reading up on current events and such.

All this sticking it to The Elites takes a while, and before I know it I have to get ready for work. I don't like going, but I go because it's an opportunity to remind some more people how conforming to their expectations goes up my ass sideways. Plus, I get to remind them how trapped they are with this fake bullshit of Rules and Regulations that some faceless puppetmaster called Decent Society is imposing on their ability to be free. Like "The Matrix" before it got all sucky with the second and third ones.

Commuting home from work is where I really get The Man's panties in a hard, painful knot, when I rock out to the radio. If I feel like it. If not, there's NPR. But if I feel for whatever reason that I need to give The Man a purple nerple, I'll plug the iPod into my Toyota's stereo and treat Society with utter disdain by rocking. Anything with a distorted guitar works OK, as long as it's loud and the people making it aren't some Corporate Stooges. I.e., Aerosmith no, AC/DC yes.

It doesn't even have to be when you're driving. Like, if you're at home and you need to stick it to The Man in a hurry, because you're busy with errands or whatever, just crank the rock for a few minutes. Some Skynyrd or Motorhead. Ted Nugent. What have you. Squares hate that, and what squares hate I like because I hate squares.

But it's best when you're driving, because then you can wave your dick, metaphorically, at the speed limit and sing along with Journey or whatever as loudly as you want without the neighbors getting all bent out of shape and threatening to send The Cops over to put a stop to you when you're just trying to express yourself freely. So that's how I spend my commute from work, just barreling down the road when the sun's coming up, yelling, "That's right, Steve Perry—I won't stop believin'."

I won't ever stop believin'.

No comments:

Related Posts with Thumbnails