Richter, you were right.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Richter, as I look around me, that Hideous Truth™ you mentioned yesterday is all too true.  This is no century for humans.  Those of us lucky enough to have jobs are overloaded by the fact that we all have to wear 5 hats because the company can't afford 4 other people (might piss off the Shareholders, and that won't do).

As a result of this, we have to "enhance" ourselves, to deal with the stress.  This enhancement usually involves ingesting chemicals that allow our minds to continue functioning without snapping.  And does anyone want to see that?  I think not.  The prospect of you or I running amok through the offices wearing nothing but boots, a chainsaw, and a silly grin is just to horrible to contemplate.

Of course, our bodies were never designed to run on these additives, so one day we'll all fly to pieces like a stock engine running on nitrous oxide.  Our replacements will wonder how the hell we functioned at all, how everything got done, and they'll still be wondering 2 months later when they visit the Spider doctor to talk about these mysterious ailments they have cropping up. 

Did James Pierpont ever have days like these?

Those who aren't so fortunate, of course, mostly turn to alcohol and other "illegal" drugs, to forget that they are simply cogs The Machine™ spit out, and that they've been left behind by the entire system...save the parts of the system that want its student loans back.  The irony here is incredible.  The banks loaned out the money to create more useful cogs, and when those same banks fucked everything up, they are attempting to squeeze blood from turnips in an effort to regain the training money that was wasted due to their own stupidity and greed.

One colollary of Murphy's Law states that when you drop a tool or a part, it will roll into the least accessible part of the work area.  In the case of those spat out of The Machine™, those cogs usually wind up under bridges, totally inaccessible for any further use...they get all covered in grime and rust, and their insides are all eaten out by solvents (usually alcohol and/or meth, but anything to help them forget that The Machine™ has forgotten them.).  But at least they're quiet, and you don't trip over them (often).

Welcome to the Future, Richter.  We've eliminated (overt) racism for the most part, but in exchange, we've added formerly excluded minorities to the parts bin.  We have gadgets, we are SWIMMING in gadgets, most of which are designed to make us quiet and productive.  Wherever it is we were going, well, we're here.  In the future. 

And the future isn't done with you, yet.

Or Kill me. 

[Requia ☣]

 

I am either too fucked up or not fucked up enough to respond to  this properly.  For now you get mittens while I try for a solution to that.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

I am either too fucked up or not fucked up enough to respond to  this properly.  For now you get mittens while I try for a solution to that.

PILLS HERE!
- Louis

[-Kel-]

Sigh....send alcohol to this unemployed loser.  IE....me

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Sigh....send alcohol to this unemployed loser.  IE....me

When you can no longer afford alcohol, then you have to use the more expensive drugs.

Irony, of course, remains free.

[Richter]

You beat me to the punch, sir.
It's there though, that feeling that a stock human is Obsolete.  We have to be better, faster, more efficient.  Glad you're a Delta?  Hardly, we need MORE BETAS.  Stronger stims, better mood suppressants, and the closer you are naturally to savant level processing the more you'll be used.  Not like you'll be valued.  You'll just be another anonymous section of pipe, judged only be how freely you let the data flow, inevitably cast out and disdained by the Boss who beleives hitting you with a tiny ball pein over and over is a part of the job, and soemthing that should be well within your operational tolerances.  

Running hot and Cold are not enough anymore, now we need to be alternately shuttling hot pitch or liquid nitrogen.  Take the enema and STILL be able to act right in the break room.

Got a problem with that slappy?  Ask HR.  They'll fix you up with a hot iron or some quickclot to the wound, a spike of something speedball, and send you back to the races.  

We are the age of duct tape and baling wire psychology.  Barely held together until we're commitable.  

[Richter]

The Rant that Roger Outdrew:

A Public Service Announcement: DRUGS

I hear a lot of noise about the drug use recently.  You all need to cut that shit, you're giving it a bad name.
More!  Less!  Harder! Softer!  A little to the right! Oops!  They make a pill for that! 
These chemical methods of altering our fundamental brain experience are symptoms of how we are working ourselves into a fecal impaction of a self aware species. 

Conversations with The Good Reverend Roger on the horror of the TRUTH and being serious about having a good time have convinced me that we've worked ourselves into a preschooler's cubby hole of a life.  We expect to have everyone functioning in exactly the same predictable manner every moment of every day, and compensate chemically when we CAN'T.

Can't relax?  Can't perform?  Can't get it up, down, or accidentally?
There's a drug for that.  Pills for everyone.  Every color of the rainbow.  Oh, have a coffee or a martini too. 
Keep buying them up.  This isn't your affable neighborhood shaman dispensing a tea or a shroom to give you a little perspective; this is a monster of industry.  They need habits, not solutions.  Take the pill, accept the yoke, and accept the fact that you'll be pulling their cart for the rest of your natural life.  Feel better?

Wait a second though, before we bog down in technicalities.  Let's not frot the surface when we can drive the question right at the heart of this angel dusted vampire.  WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING THIS?

Daily you jack yourself up, run yourself ragged, take more to de – jack yourself, can't seem to shit, and you wonder why?  Fellating the insatiable idols of performance, efficiency and professionalism in this expectant high falutin excuse for Gomorrah, you are slowly pickling yourself into a pillar of some mighty strange salts and you wonder WHY?

REPENT.
SLACK.
And start using for recreation!  Self medicating just so you can cope is working on the pitiful level of a neurotic hamster.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Running hot and Cold are not enough anymore, now we need to be alternately shuttling hot pitch or liquid nitrogen.  Take the enema and STILL be able to act right in the break room.

We're beyond that, here at the refinery.  The breakroom resembles Arkham Asylum when ALL the baddies are in it at once.  We all slam coffee to make our fuzzy heads clear enough to get our job done, but not quite enough to fully wake up...screaming until your throat bleeds is simply not done, and implies that perhaps it's time for you to "spend more time with your family" (under a bridge).

[The Good Reverend Roger]

WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING THIS?

Because it's crowded under than bridge, Richter.  It's powerful crowded.  And whatever the world might do to my kids, at least I can keep them out from under that bridge, at least til they're adults.  Til they've had a childhood.

That's the finish line, Richter.

And that may very well be the most awful thing I've ever said here.

[Richter]

Running hot and Cold are not enough anymore, now we need to be alternately shuttling hot pitch or liquid nitrogen.  Take the enema and STILL be able to act right in the break room.

We're beyond that, here at the refinery.  The breakroom resembles Arkham Asylum when ALL the baddies are in it at once.  We all slam coffee to make our fuzzy heads clear enough to get our job done, but not quite enough to fully wake up...screaming until your throat bleeds is simply not done, and implies that perhaps it's time for you to "spend more time with your family" (under a bridge).

Mental illness is still a stigma, and letting out the symptoms still a cardinal sin anywhere.  You might not be SOUND, SOLID, or in control of your faculties.  I walk a fine line any time I let the WEIRD out at the office. 

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Running hot and Cold are not enough anymore, now we need to be alternately shuttling hot pitch or liquid nitrogen.  Take the enema and STILL be able to act right in the break room.

We're beyond that, here at the refinery.  The breakroom resembles Arkham Asylum when ALL the baddies are in it at once.  We all slam coffee to make our fuzzy heads clear enough to get our job done, but not quite enough to fully wake up...screaming until your throat bleeds is simply not done, and implies that perhaps it's time for you to "spend more time with your family" (under a bridge).

Mental illness is still a stigma, and letting out the symptoms still a cardinal sin anywhere.  You might not be SOUND, SOLID, or in control of your faculties.  I walk a fine line any time I let the WEIRD out at the office. 

Our weird has gotten loose.  It is tolerated only because we are still - for the moment - effective in what we do.

How long we can keep this up is anyone's guess.

Everyone's in the club car, Richter, nobody is driving the train.

[Richter]

Running hot and Cold are not enough anymore, now we need to be alternately shuttling hot pitch or liquid nitrogen.  Take the enema and STILL be able to act right in the break room.

We're beyond that, here at the refinery.  The breakroom resembles Arkham Asylum when ALL the baddies are in it at once.  We all slam coffee to make our fuzzy heads clear enough to get our job done, but not quite enough to fully wake up...screaming until your throat bleeds is simply not done, and implies that perhaps it's time for you to "spend more time with your family" (under a bridge).

Mental illness is still a stigma, and letting out the symptoms still a cardinal sin anywhere.  You might not be SOUND, SOLID, or in control of your faculties.  I walk a fine line any time I let the WEIRD out at the office. 

Our weird has gotten loose.  It is tolerated only because we are still - for the moment - effective in what we do.

How long we can keep this up is anyone's guess.

Everyone's in the club car, Richter, nobody is driving the train.

...and in the grand tradition, if that train doesn't hit anything, once it's coasted into the station, they'll never thank you. 
They'll just be black shirt with big fucking boots, billy clubs, and policies to get you BACK IN LINE. 
The Bureau HATES anything that won't fit in a drawer.  The Bureau doesn't stand for Armoire Fati

[Richter]

WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING THIS?

Because it's crowded under than bridge, Richter.  It's powerful crowded.  And whatever the world might do to my kids, at least I can keep them out from under that bridge, at least til they're adults.  Til they've had a childhood.

That's the finish line, Richter.

And that may very well be the most awful thing I've ever said here.

I can only support this motivation.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Running hot and Cold are not enough anymore, now we need to be alternately shuttling hot pitch or liquid nitrogen.  Take the enema and STILL be able to act right in the break room.

We're beyond that, here at the refinery.  The breakroom resembles Arkham Asylum when ALL the baddies are in it at once.  We all slam coffee to make our fuzzy heads clear enough to get our job done, but not quite enough to fully wake up...screaming until your throat bleeds is simply not done, and implies that perhaps it's time for you to "spend more time with your family" (under a bridge).

Mental illness is still a stigma, and letting out the symptoms still a cardinal sin anywhere.  You might not be SOUND, SOLID, or in control of your faculties.  I walk a fine line any time I let the WEIRD out at the office.  

Our weird has gotten loose.  It is tolerated only because we are still - for the moment - effective in what we do.

How long we can keep this up is anyone's guess.

Everyone's in the club car, Richter, nobody is driving the train.

...and in the grand tradition, if that train doesn't hit anything, once it's coasted into the station, they'll never thank you.  
They'll just be black shirt with big fucking boots, billy clubs, and policies to get you BACK IN LINE.  
The Bureau HATES anything that won't fit in a drawer.  The Bureau doesn't stand for Armoire Fati

Hey, just to make your morning as much fun as last evening, google "bonus army".

Go ahead, do it.  Our heroes are all there, doing what had to be done, for The Machine™.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING THIS?

Because it's crowded under than bridge, Richter.  It's powerful crowded.  And whatever the world might do to my kids, at least I can keep them out from under that bridge, at least til they're adults.  Til they've had a childhood.

That's the finish line, Richter.

And that may very well be the most awful thing I've ever said here.

I can only support this motivation.

But isn't it awesome?  You literally have to poison yourself for your children to have a childhood.