I have no ass and I must poop!

[Doktor Howl]

Okay, so you get a little sideways...Not a lot, you understand, but there's definitely a little wobble in the little motors that run your brain.  Good Roger is on one shoulder, and Bad Roger Redman is on the other, and they're both whispering advice, but there's a monkey in between screeching so loudly that you can't hear either one of them.

So you go through your workday with about a million things going on, both work-related and personal, and you really don't care because that damned Indian Head test pattern is on the inside of both of your eyelids, and the pills just aren't doing their thing right.  Obligations are starting to slip, deadlines are passing by, and the funniest fucking thing is that your boss takes a moment to say what a great job you're doing.

So you smile at him (And you try to make sure it isn't squiddy's smile, good fucking God, show THAT to the boss and he'll call the fucking cops.), and you say thanks, and you go back to spacing out, which everyone seems to think is a "absent-minded professor" look.  But it's not.

And then the SAP system takes a dive, and now you don't have even THAT to concentrate on, so you just sit at your desk and listen to the slushy noises as your bones melt, and give robot answers (That, strangely enough, seem to be correct.) to your employees when they come in to ask questions.

And that's what makes all of this so interesting...You know something's not functioning as advertised, but you can still give a pretty damn good imitation of being you, and you're kind of stunned by that fact, as you watch yourself get through the day without causing any undue alarm in your friends, family, or coworkers.  That's amazing, because your head is full of bad wiring and broken glass, and you really can't fathom how nobody is noticing it.

The temptation, of course, is to make a few bad decisions, and see if anyone notices.  Not because you suspect that they aren't real, but maybe because you suspect that you aren't...Or, more accurately, you might be real, but also invisible to those around you, like a piece of furniture or something. 

I've seen the same look on the whores in South Filth.  Their hard eyes look right though you as you drive by, like you don't exist (Arguably, for them you actually can't), but they have a trapped look that says "Hey!  I used to be a person, you know, a kid who liked to play and hang out with friends just like YOUR kid, but something happened and I stopped being a real person and became a commodity.  What happened?"

Funny thing is, I see that look on the faces of service sector employees and cube-farm inmates all the time, too.  And on housewives.  And students.  Everyone's becoming androids, tools, appliances for each other, and we've all stopped being people.

So at least, you know, it isn't just me.  Which makes me feel a bit better, in an odd sort of way.

Okay (for now),
Dok

[Hoser McRhizzy]

You see bad wiring and broken glass staring back and neither person says anything to acknowledge it.  Or, you try to, and get a cheery, hostile or forced-confused response (sometimes, all in one!). 

Funny thing is, I see that look on the faces of service sector employees and cube-farm inmates all the time, too.  And on housewives.  And students.  Everyone's becoming androids, tools, appliances for each other, and we've all stopped being people.

So at least, you know, it isn't just me.  Which makes me feel a bit better, in an odd sort of way.

I think I know what you mean.  There are days when everyone in my department has the exact same face.  Days when it's infuriatingly comforting, too.

(not the same thing, but this made me think of my face cracked)

[Doktor Howl]

You see bad wiring and broken glass staring back and neither person says anything to acknowledge it.  Or, you try to, and get a cheery, hostile or forced-confused response (sometimes, all in one!). 

Funny thing is, I see that look on the faces of service sector employees and cube-farm inmates all the time, too.  And on housewives.  And students.  Everyone's becoming androids, tools, appliances for each other, and we've all stopped being people.

So at least, you know, it isn't just me.  Which makes me feel a bit better, in an odd sort of way.

I think I know what you mean.  There are days when everyone in my department has the exact same face.  Days when it's infuriatingly comforting, too.

(not the same thing, but this made me think of my face cracked)

Yeah, it's not the same thing, because I'm starting to think that there's nothing behind my mask, you know?

And I seem remember a time when people - at least not all of them - weren't appliances or office equipment.  The hiring office said "Personnel" on the door.  Later it became "Human Resources", and eventually, in some places, just "Resources".  I listened to a vendor talk about getting a job done faster if we approved more resources.  He meant brick masons.  PEOPLE.  ACTUAL HUMAN BEINGS.  Resources.

How did this happen?  How did we let ourselves go back to the 1890 mentality of the disposable worker?  What is the half-life of a temp?  Ho ho!  Just get the job done and toss 'em in the dumpster.  If you don't like it, well, that's a big goddamn dumpster, right?  Plenty of room.  Now get back to work, or we'll replace you with another "resource" who's more amenable to their place in the natural order of things.  And nobody will miss you, because you'll have stopped existing, just like those people walking.

We live in a world of biological robots, just consumption-driven food tubes who forgot they were Gods, once upon a time.

And there's no way out.

[Dysfunctional Cunt]

No Dok, it isn't just you.  And I understand, it does make you feel a bit better knowing there are others out there having the same or similar issues.  For me though, feeling better just isn't enough anymore.

I'm just plain fucking tired.  I'm tired of working my ass off every day for nowhere near enough money to support a family of 4.  I'm thoroughly disgusted that my teenager isn't getting an after school job because he wants pocket money, or to save for a car, or the fucking prom, but because he wants to help me pay the bills.  I'm furious that I'm raising a daughter in a country that, while things are definitely better than even 20 years ago and better than many other countries as well, she will still be defined as inferior in the workplace because she is female.

I see that look every day.  In the morning I get it while I brush my teeth and do my hair.  Those eyes stare at me the entire ride to work in the rearview mirror.  Then at work, I can feel the depression and fatigue just weighing on me as I sit at a desk in an otherwise empty cubicle away from everyone else in the office, punished like a bad step child.

You get to the point where as you say, you want to make bad decisions.  You want to climb up on the arch and start shooting anyone wearing a yellow shirt because the color is just too fucking bright and happiness is no longer an option.  You want to get on the bus and just start smacking people to see if they actually can wake up or if they are so deep in the mire of life's crap they just can't make themselves care anymore.

I think I've gone beyond a piece of furniture or appliance to a doorstop.  I'm there, I do my job but no one gives a damn if I break tomorrow.  I'm easily and cheaply replaced.

And the worst is I'm trying to raise my kids in this bullshit.  To teach them not to allow themselves to be someone else's appliance.  For them to be the strong, smart and capable human beings they have the potential to be.  Then reality strikes and I realize, I'm just a monkey swimming in the cesspool of life and there is nowhere to go except down the fucking drain.

[Doktor Howl]

You get to the point where as you say, you want to make bad decisions.  You want to climb up on the arch and start shooting anyone wearing a yellow shirt because the color is just too fucking bright and happiness is no longer an option.  You want to get on the bus and just start smacking people to see if they actually can wake up or if they are so deep in the mire of life's crap they just can't make themselves care anymore.

Happiness is an option.  It's always an option.  It's just HOW you get happy that may be subject to change.

[Payne]

I intend to get back to this later, Dok. Got a reply being worked out in my head.

[Doktor Howl]

I intend to get back to this later, Dok. Got a reply being worked out in my head.

I'll be here when you get back.  At least I'm reasonably certain I will.

[Adios]

I hear ya Dok. It seems outside our 'sphere of influence' (used to be known as friends and family) that we are indeed dead.

Often, I want to trip someone just to see if they will lay there or get back up and continue on. Some days I want someone to trip me, so I can see what I do.

But I don't, and they don't, because it just not done.

But what makes it all worth it is when you meet an actual person, a real, living human being, who hasn't been ingested by the pod yet.

And so, we get up tomorrow to face another day of maybe, just possibly, finding another living being.

Meanwhile we laugh.

[the last yatto]

Human resources? They are more like political janitors, they sit behind their desks pushing paperwork, handling the bananas to give out to the other monkeys. Sitting above these Janitor monkeys are the robots who demand the monkeys work for less bananas so the robots can have more oil. Whose bright idea was it to hire monkeys to work on the machines? Not sure maybe it was a robot, maybe it was a monkey...

All I know is I have to get up before the sun to sit in a large cage with other monkeys to the big tree, and earn a banana for the day.

[Doktor Howl]

Meanwhile we laugh.

Or just sit at our desks and listen to our brains hum.  One of the two.

[Adios]

Meanwhile we laugh.

Or just sit at our desks and listen to our brains hum.  One of the two.

Well, I am trying to adjust to the new meds, so not as much humming as a distinct smell of burning oil and screeching noises.

[Doktor Howl]

Human resources? They are more like political janitors, they sit behind their desks pushing paperwork, handling the bananas to give out to the other monkeys. Sitting above these Janitor monkeys are the robots who demand the monkeys work for less bananas so the robots can have more oil. Whose bright idea was it to hire monkeys to work on the machines? Not sure maybe it was a robot, maybe it was a monkey...

All I know is I have to get up before the sun to sit in a large cage with other monkeys to the big tree, and earn a banana for the day.

One thing that I suddenly find very interesting is that we have old primates who don't do anything sitting on most of the bananas, and anyone who says that's wrong - or doesn't want to give the old primates more bananas - is called a "communist".

I mean, I've always known that, but now it intrigues me that so little effort is required to brainwash the smaller primates.

[Hoser McRhizzy]

Yeah, it's not the same thing, because I'm starting to think that there's nothing behind my mask, you know?

And I seem remember a time when people - at least not all of them - weren't appliances or office equipment.  The hiring office said "Personnel" on the door.  Later it became "Human Resources", and eventually, in some places, just "Resources".  I listened to a vendor talk about getting a job done faster if we approved more resources.  He meant brick masons.  PEOPLE.  ACTUAL HUMAN BEINGS.  Resources.

How did this happen?  How did we let ourselves go back to the 1890 mentality of the disposable worker?  What is the half-life of a temp?  Ho ho!  Just get the job done and toss 'em in the dumpster.  If you don't like it, well, that's a big goddamn dumpster, right?  Plenty of room.  Now get back to work, or we'll replace you with another "resource" who's more amenable to their place in the natural order of things.  And nobody will miss you, because you'll have stopped existing, just like those people walking.

We live in a world of biological robots, just consumption-driven food tubes who forgot they were Gods, once upon a time.

And there's no way out.

"Valuable natural resources."  Because that worked so well for the cod. 

2003, I went on the dole.  As a requirement for collecting the money that would pay a quarter of our rent, my fellow socialist leeches and I had to take a course: Me, Inc.  Run by a smoothfaced, condescending asshat.  "Remember: you're selling yourself as a product."  That blatant.  "Present yourself like you're a corporation.  Brand yourself.  See yourself as Me, Inc." 

Me, Inc for the McJob.

So, I work with a group of teachers now.  A few months back, one of them cheerfully reported that her 8-9 year old students are making portfolios: Putting their "content," "creative products" and photocopies of report cards into professional little packages.  No more sticking stuff on the fridge.  And the kids, she says, are getting incredibly good at Marketing Themselves.  I didn't know how to rage at that.  It just simmers. 

[Adios]

Yeah, it's not the same thing, because I'm starting to think that there's nothing behind my mask, you know?

And I seem remember a time when people - at least not all of them - weren't appliances or office equipment.  The hiring office said "Personnel" on the door.  Later it became "Human Resources", and eventually, in some places, just "Resources".  I listened to a vendor talk about getting a job done faster if we approved more resources.  He meant brick masons.  PEOPLE.  ACTUAL HUMAN BEINGS.  Resources.

How did this happen?  How did we let ourselves go back to the 1890 mentality of the disposable worker?  What is the half-life of a temp?  Ho ho!  Just get the job done and toss 'em in the dumpster.  If you don't like it, well, that's a big goddamn dumpster, right?  Plenty of room.  Now get back to work, or we'll replace you with another "resource" who's more amenable to their place in the natural order of things.  And nobody will miss you, because you'll have stopped existing, just like those people walking.

We live in a world of biological robots, just consumption-driven food tubes who forgot they were Gods, once upon a time.

And there's no way out.

"Valuable natural resources."  Because that worked so well for the cod. 

2003, I went on the dole.  As a requirement for collecting the money that would pay a quarter of our rent, my fellow socialist leeches and I had to take a course: Me, Inc.  Run by a smoothfaced, condescending asshat.  "Remember: you're selling yourself as a product."  That blatant.  "Present yourself like you're a corporation.  Brand yourself.  See yourself as Me, Inc." 

Me, Inc for the McJob.

So, I work with a group of teachers now.  A few months back, one of them cheerfully reported that her 8-9 year old students are making portfolios: Putting their "content," "creative products" and photocopies of report cards into professional little packages.  No more sticking stuff on the fridge.  And the kids, she says, are getting incredibly good at Marketing Themselves.  I didn't know how to rage at that.  It just simmers. 

They are proud and bragging about that? Seriously?

[Doktor Howl]

So, I work with a group of teachers now.  A few months back, one of them cheerfully reported that her 8-9 year old students are making portfolios: Putting their "content," "creative products" and photocopies of report cards into professional little packages.  No more sticking stuff on the fridge.  And the kids, she says, are getting incredibly good at Marketing Themselves.  I didn't know how to rage at that.  It just simmers. 

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!