|
|
the doldrums have descended upon the gulag... i mean, workplace. substituting for the usual frenzy of ass-kissing and invective, more totalitarian innuendo. post-PatriotAct, the company has installed a security system of unknown expense on all of the access doors. exit, without waving your choice of stupid card, sticker, or "fob", and the banshee wail of sirens alert you workmates to your forgetfulness, or idiocy. the interesting side-affect of this, after further investigation... is that each of the methods of access are coded to the individual employee. ostensibly, your movements in-and-out of the building can be tracked, entry and time. goddamn, i love this place. by the same token, i should probably love dragging a ball-and-chain from my ding-a-ling, too. bull. fucking. shit. it's just like the Prisoner. a number, not a free man.
the past few days of freedom have consumed in their usual blur. cutting back trees and shrubs from the house. buying engine components for tuning the truck. radio, and rescuing a stranded friend from the gas station where his car expired... lending the swedish rescue wagon, yet again. followed with two more days of scraping paint from heights. two beers on an empty stomach, each day. Ka-Boom! go the braincells. the heights of hedonism: sushi, toro/uni/albacore/spicyDancingTunaRoll. practice/qualifying/raceday for the BritishGP. hot damn, i know how to pah-tay. and, i'll be on my own for a week, in fourteen days. the lady, or the tiger? anyway... do yourself a favor, disgruntled types. especially those of the disenfranchised political variety. download theFCCsong. sing along, if you dare. |
|
|
