When money is funny everything is a joke. Showing up late with bleary first person shooter eyes isn’t a big deal these days. The muttonchops were a surprise. We’ve got a few shitasses here like you. Most are recent hires driving new cars home to McMansions with garages bigger than my house. All on zero down. I’m talking palaces in gated communities, flat screens wider than the SUV and bi-curious housewives who take it in all three holes.
We didn’t have that shit in the Eighties. Houses looked like houses, only the fat chicks had big tits and assholes were exit only—unless you were a fag. And if not, you’d have to be goddamn curious about anal to find out that way. All you little fuckers do is hold up your phone sideways and say let’s be famous.
Pre-hire aptitude and personality assessments suggest you held on to the game controller longer than most. Sure, there is always some room for interpretation. Yours, however, painted a clear picture of habitual kicking back, fucking off and jizzing on yourself. Nothing in your profile suggests any ambition beyond that. Yet here you sit, claiming to have sworn off farting around and suddenly become serious about life in the form of seeking what is commonly called a real job—that shit you call a moustache notwithstanding. Why? Gotta be pussy.
And so you cast your bread out upon the water. A series of interviews floats back, like a turd that refuses to be flushed. At one corporate nightmare after another, each interview is more meaningless than the last. The business parks all have the macabre quietude of a mass shooting event just before the first shot rings out. You push through the rejection and keep filling out applications. Now here you sit.
The job market has been unforgiving of your lack of relative experience. I, however, am willing to look beyond traditional indicators to fill positions. My motives are my own. Not all skills translate well into standard résumé format but are nevertheless valuable. For instance, one forthcoming candidate once confessed he’d read the job description and thought, “fuck it, those baggies of Adderall didn’t sell themselves. I can do that job.” I concurred. The convertible Mustang out front is his.
Let’s assume you possess similar suitable alternative skills and we bring you onboard—What then? After so much toil and avoidance, you show up on your first day late wearing stain-resistant khakis only to log on, kick back and fuck right off. Unlike real work, most corporate jobs can be done in an hour or two a day. When we consider the position that way, your personality and skillset are perfectly suited for it. This country was not made great by a dogged determination to reach the top, but rather how easily one can land squarely in the middle. You can popcorn fart your way into any neighborhood you please.
You should see the look on your face … somewhere between fright and how fucked up is this place? It’s pretty goddamn fucked up, if ya wanna know. But ask yourself this: with the current high rates of unemployment, does it really matter? Spend some time in front of a mirror learning to control your facial cues. Develop a poker face. You walk around an office job looking like that and people will start sneaking in weapons again just in case you snap.
A good recruiter offers refreshments before outlining the interview, describes the position, desirable qualifications and asks situational questions. Allow the candidate a chance to ask shit, mention others are being considered then usher them to the door.
Those best practices were developed to find highly motivated self-starters willing to exceed expectations while accepting shit pay and abusive supervision. Ideal candidates wait for us to call with an offer, accept and are never heard from again. The squeaky wheel types … I’m like a hot chick after a blind date with an average guy. I don’t wanna hurt your feelings, but if you keep calling it’s gonna happen.
A great interviewer incorporates best practices into a unique style. Please open your WelcomeBox. Notice the bottled water, printed job description, benefits booklet and a branded squeeze ball to relieve stress. Refreshed and informed? Fuck yeah you are. Maybe we didn’t take turns reading the shit aloud but you’d be constrained to deny you took possession of the box. Was that professional? Fuck if I know. But my decision analysis form will show it was. That’s called documentation, and it’s the corposlob’s best friend. Even if you shot the place up while on probation, my ass is covered.
Reviewing benefits invariably generates questions about what the medical covers. Think about it. How could I possibly know if Group Plan B covers microbes from a river in a different hemisphere? Go down that road and all you see are ailments: The hemorrhoid in payroll, the hermaphroditical VP, the superfluous third nipple in sales. You start forgetting names. My point is, read it yourself. I’ve already read it. Think of it as me teaching you how to fish.
You got one thing going for you, kid: Three people used to do this job. Now it’s just me. The workload didn’t change. I’m behind the eight ball on closing out requisitions. Common sense says that was caused by the increased workload.
The company, however, doesn’t see it that way. In other words, they don’t give a fuck about my problems. It’s only fair, then, that I don’t give a fuck about theirs. This no fucks given standoff is where a guy like you gets his start. So far, it’s the only thing you’ve got going for you.
You really gotta invest time in developing that poker face. Your expression changed from excited puppy to crestfallen. Fuck that shit. There is no tissue in the WelcomeBox. I can’t be that guy. Think of it this way: consoling you in this forum is a form of work. If you work for free, that’s what your work is worth. Building self esteem is not part of my performance-based bonus plan. I wouldn’t ask you to work for free …and your rape me starting salary will not change even if we were BFFs.
Never question why somebody hires you. What do you care? You wanna be paid in hugs? Let the rubes jockey for approval. You and the boss aren’t gonna live off love. Concern yourself with showing up on time and hope nobody takes the look on your face the wrong way.
The WelcomeBox also contains a specimen cup and two packets of liquid hand sanitizer. I’m going to outline how you might fit in to our corporate culture and possible career trajectory. Afterwards, look in the box and make a decision. If you want the job, take the cup down to the clinic for mandatory pre-employment drug testing. Directions are also in the box. Remember what I said about ideal candidates. We don’t need any reunions. Don’t call me if your paycheck isn’t right.
And if, after listening, you realize corpo life is not for you, use both packets of sanitizer thoroughly before shaking my hand on your way out. I’m out of sick days and can’t risk catching anything.
So … Where do you see yourself in ten years? Standard question. Bet you’ve been asked it a lot. What’s the real answer? In ten years you’ll be forty, fat and financing a nasty black market Viagra habit with home equity lines. I’m talking coming home dog tired to find your daughter banging some dude on the sofa, your son wearing a furry rabbit costume while gaming and who knows what the fuck your wife is up to. At least you’re making the minimum payments on the bills, right?
Then things get hairy at work. The new VP is from an unrelated industry—which means he doesn’t know shit but got hired anyway. He addresses the steep learning curve with denial, paranoia and anger. The department heads, all old timers, resent what they interpret as a lack of respect. Some leave, others are fired. Nobody reaches out to the clients. The competition sops up the disgruntled old guard who, in turn, bring several unhappy clients with them. They come at the new VP with vengeance because that’s exactly what it is.
He brings in new blood, which happens to be old blood from the last place he ruined. His new old crew are loyal—and why shouldn’t they be? He’s dragged them around the country to every job he’s taken. They know all the platitudes … metrics, cultural change, corrective action plans … none of it works. The P&L is fucked. The death spiral begins. I’m talking closed doors, conference calls and managers disappearing for days without explanation.
The situation reaches critical mass. The VP could fall on his sword, beg former staff to return and eat whatever shit they shove in his mouth, or double down on his fuck up. He doubles down. Only one card left to play: massive layoffs. Your first bloodletting is nigh. Despite positive performance reviews, you cop the chop in early rounds. Long hours, weekends and unused vacay didn’t mean a goddamn thing. In the end, they were suspicious of your longevity and tired of looking at your shitty face. You weren’t new blood.
“Why me?” you protest. “I been here hella long.”
“Yeah,” new blood bleeds back, “and we know the only way you could have lasted was being involved in some pretty nasty shit. You’re done.”
So there you are, forty, fat and belly-up. Your neighbor, not content with stealing your WIFI and reading your mail, now gestures loser with one hand on his forehead while pointing at you with the other. He wags his tongue through split fingers at your wife. Fucker smells your diminished purchasing power and is taking liberties.
That is not the only indignity. The school sent home information about reduced cost subsidized lunches. A local food bank inquired if you would be receiving instead of giving this year. You can’t live like this. You gotta get psyched. Forty is the new thirty, right? Start clawing your way back. With any luck, around the time you turn fifty, your net worth will be back to where it was last week.
With a professionally-polished CV packed with keywords and lies and a fresh burner phone to provide cover for gaps in employment, you apply to everything. Jobs with descriptions you don’t understand for companies you’ve never heard of. Fuck it. Let the hiring manager figure it out. It works. You land an interview.
“Break out the new-and-improved bulletproof watertight khakis,” you shout to the wife, forgetting her phone sex shift was underway. “Daddy’s going back to work!”
“Thank fucking God,” she yells back from the spare bedroom as you hear the unmistakable sound of a four battery dong crashing into a computer monitor. The work-at-home gig does not suit her. She presents herself in the flesh shortly thereafter, clothed only in a Vajazzle and residual Astroglide crust.
“You said hired, right? Please say you said hired. I can’t keep doing this shit.”
When interview day arrives, you park the old beater Honda out of site. Nothing screams loser like a decade old piebald rice burner. You find a gas station for a preemptive piss, then bound towards your destination with all the confidence of someone who has been there and done that. No sudden urges will break your steely concentration today. You’re psyched. And then your reflection in the mirrored glass entrance door comes clearly into view. The ol’ prostate, it appears, has let you down yet again in the form of a large wet spot where balls once dangled.
The new bosses were going to figure out who was dribbling piddle on the bathroom floor sooner or later, but if it happened after date-of-hire, onboarding and orientation, you might be protected under the Americans with Disabilities Act. Showing up with a fresh piss stain, however, changes everything. The pants were supposed to be watertight. That’s why you bought them. In the commercial, a waitress spills an entire pitcher of iced tea in dude’s lap and he got up bone dry. That’s a form of guarantee. Blatant false advertising, right? Hell, start a class action suit. But that won’t mean much to the wife:
“Great,” she’ll say in that tone reserved for dick-related failures. “I’ll end up homeless because you can’t remember to shake your cock. Haven’t I told you to sit down when you go?”
Now you gotta introduce yourself with a wet spot the size and shape of the Gulf of Fucking Mexico. Gorbachev had a less conspicuous spot on his forehead. You refuse to go down without a fight. Duck into the lobby restroom and create a diversion by splashing water on the super pants. Sometimes you gotta get wet to be dry. Look the hiring manager dead in the eye and express indignance. Insinuate suspecting the faulty fixtures indicates a deeper problem within the corporate culture itself. What kind of bullshit company is this? Swing for the fences.
The cameltoe at reception doesn’t notice. You stand back from the tall front desk and point at your junk patch:
“I’m here for an interview and your bathroom sink splashed me!”
“It happens sometimes. I am so sorry.”
It happens sometimes? This changes everything. You’ve been handed an alibi. The chick up front said every other bum is walking out drenched. Somebody’s gonna get hurt. You’re just looking out for the next guy. Fucking genius. You’re golden. There’ll be food around the corner for you.
The wall behind the front desk is adorned with low resolution prints of scans of felt pen sketches. All share a common theme betraying something like a fetish and a truly impressive collection of Sharpies. The recurring motif is selfiesque poses of a heroin chic savior with flowing sandy blond hair and a well-kempt Just For Men beard—a veritable manscaping messiah with a bar of Fight Club soap in one hand and the tween entertainment dollar in the other. On second thought, you ain’t got no alibi.
“It’s Jesus,” she says, reacting to your dumbstruck expression. Evidently you accepted suffering in silence rather than taking my advice and developing a poker face.
“That’s what he looks like in my dreams!” The Son of Man flashes the same bad boy member of the boy band smirk in every drawing; replete with frosted tips and arched eyebrows. A duck-faced Jesus. This chick is nuts.
“The company can’t make me take them down, but they don’t want me talking about it during work hours. There is a war on Christianity. But Our Lord is the ultimate warrior. We can’t even say Merry Christmas anymore.” A MMA rockstar Jesus. What the fuck, man.
“Sometimes,” she says, “you gotta wonder whose country this is.” Her felt pen renditions look far more like someone who shows up at Midnight with a slab of ribs, box of condoms and carton of Newports than savior of soul and, or, country.
“The Muzzies get extra time to pray and don’t have to work on their holidays. Can’t make them mad. Instead they pick on the ones who will turn the other cheek.” You inquire if the company happens to employ many Muslims.
“No, but you know what I mean.” Fuck yeah you do. That was the set up you were counting on. Assertively exhale and blow that smoke exactly where she wants it.
“Good,” you break in before she can continue. “Because I will not work for a company that lets terrorists pray all day while Americans do all the work.”
Her emphasis on the long A vowel makes it sound like two words. A-men. It is her way of co-signing onto what was just said. A-men. This guy gets it. He’s one of us.
“Wish more people around her were like you. Hope you get the job. I’ll pray on it. We need more Godly men here.” She may be nuts, but you need all the help you can get.
“Have a blessed day.” And with that, you are past reception and bounding towards the conference room with a soggy dick and brown nose.
The more substantial broads in the org chart will not be fooled. Gen-X corpo-cougars have little tolerance for anything less than a highly functioning cock and balls. A middle-aged unemployed loser with potty problems? They’ll smell it all over you. And so a decade into working life, all you have gained is a wet crotch and the sobering realization that you gotta piss sitting down if you’re ever gonna work again.
And what does an aging washed up corposlob do once finally back on the inside? Stay off the fucking radar. Pounce on every email the moment it arrives. I’m talking reply to the fucking world. This is a an email-based economy and not responding is interpreted as out fucking around. Even if you only reply with “thanks,” the perception is you are on the job and working hard.
Digger was great at that. He was a thirty year man. Single digit employee number. Went way back. Regional Something of Somewhere. Who knows what. For the last twenty of those thirty years, a framed poster of a smiling man has stood as the centerpiece of our lobby. You probably saw it on your way in. Above the face reads Your Company Has Core Values and below it, Shouldn’t You?
Digger was the smiling face on the poster and the words were his own. HR held an ethics slogan contest when the office blowjobs and sink ejaculation fad out of hand. Pipes were clogging. Something had to be done. Needless to say, his slogan won. Over the years, it has been used on posters, T-shirts, balloons, screensavers, mouse pads and trophies. Every branch in the world displays that poster in its lobby. Whenever we merge or acquire, first order of business is to send out those posters. Nobody ever asked what the core values were and neither Digger nor HR bothered to explain.
Other than that, staying off the radar is what he did best. The guy lived in stealth mode. He’d talk all the major sports—except golf. Motherfucker was semi-pro in college and smart enough to keep it to himself. A corposlob scratch golfer is a dangerous contradiction. VPs wonder what you stand for. Nobody gives a fuck if you played football in school and never went pro. But a pro-level golfer working a shit job in some office? Either you’re wasting natural talent—a talent they would give their left ball to possess—or you’re a fuck up. But you can’t not play, either. What kind of corposlob doesn’t golf? You a faggot or something? Why are you even here? Digs knew this and generally avoided the subject.
He was so far off the radar most only knew him as the Core Values Guy. Total gray man—but the gray man outlasts most. Nobody knew what Digger did and that was fine by him. He’d seen the wars and bloodlettings and was determined not to get caught short.
And then, out of nowhere, at this shit business park deli over lunch, he breaks character and blurts out how he’d bought a new TV.
“After thirty years with the company,” he says, “I finally had enough points saved up on my credit card to buy a plasma TV.”
This was back when plasmas were expensive as shit. The president of the company didn’t have one. Hell, the President of the United States probably didn’t have one. We were duly impressed. For the first time in his long tenure, Digger was the most interesting man in the room. He knew he’d fucked up.
The points were accumulated using his personal card for legitimate purchases during business travel. A detailed expense report was submitted, approved and a check cut for reimbursement. Standard shit. No code of conduct violation. It didn’t matter. Dude had a plasma, the best TV in the world. Within the month, Digger the Core Values Guy, Regional Something of Somewhere, was let go in a no-fault reduction in force—a RIF. It wasn’t until they took his company car keys that he realized the guy who effected the termination was driving him home. He sat in absolute silence, scared shitless somebody would ask for the TV. The next morning, he sent an email from a personal account to the entire corporate global address book:
I worked eighteen hour days for these miserable cunts. Thirty years! My wife’s strung out on diet pills, my son’s a faggot and all I got to show for it is a shitty TV. Get out while you can!
In the end, the miserable cunts had the last laugh. The email was turned over to Homeland Security. Local officers met agents at Digger’s home around dinner time. He answered the door holding a spoon and a can of cat food. His food stamps had not yet been approved. The routine investigation of terroristic threats was upgraded to a hostile domestic standoff.
“Drop the spoon asshole!”
Four words, three seconds and two headshots later, the standoff was over. Never know when a guy might throw a spoon in anger. The TV was confiscated as evidence and remanded to the protective custody of the winning shooter—a controversial decision requiring much deliberation. Two officers fired multiple shots, each scoring a solid Zapruder. It was impossible to know who fired the actual killshot.
The Department pressed the coroner for an official determination. Several thousand man hours, tax dollars and one secret coin toss later, a winner was declared. The plasma shall remain as evidence until such time as the rightful owner returns from the dead to lay claim.
Digger’s final termination had been effected. He was six feet under and belly-up. The company paid for his headstone, and his slogan chiseled onto it exactly as it appeared on the poster: The Company Has Core Values. Shouldn’t you? Unbeknown to Digs, his off-hand remark created a form of currency out of thin air. It had scalable value and no expiration. Assholes hold on to these little gems like coins and spend them when they need to buy their way out of shit. One fuck up is all it takes. If you can’t fly lower under the radar than Digger, consider packing it in. Maybe being a corposlob isn’t for you after all. Give serious thought to filing for Social Security—Mental or physical, your call. Play to your strength. That would be the time to start making those fucked up faces.
Wait on that fat retro check and when it arrives, haul your officially disabled ass down to the liquor store, cash that motherfucker and spend it all within a week. How do you think electronics stores stay in business? Nobody buys home theaters with real money. Only slobs with retro checks, tax refunds or personal injury settlements drop cash anymore.
Should somebody go all John Galt on you, tell them a dirty Mexican stole your job and no honest work is beneath you. Cite by name every family member who died in service to this great nation—even if they were actually meth cooks, weed dealers and welfare cheats. Testify how you have been turned down for the most menial jobs imaginable. You will shovel shit, dig ditches or flip burgers. Anything short of sucking cock in a highway rest stop toilet for cash. Such a passionately credulous and decidedly heterosexual work ethic will keep you off the neighborhood terrorist list more weeks than you will receive unemployment. You’re golden. No need to hide in the house all day.
I’m talking sunbathing on the front lawn in boxer briefs during working hours without anybody calling the cops and still tossing your keys into the fishbowl at neighborhood cocktail parties with head held high, wife willing and cock strong. Fuck it, apply for food stamps too. Once the first of the month rolls around, explore all the exciting places now accepting EBT cards. Start a food blog. Upload pix of gourmet burgers. Live the dream.
That first food stamp card swipe is gonna cut your pride wide open. Learn how to conceal it with your palm. Once you get good, you can enjoy the fabled free lunch realized. Let the corposlob inmates still serving time work for food. When I was a kid, food stamps came in the mail and were the size and shape of a license plate. They even used a special envelope. Even the mailman knew you were a bum.
Most of the old postal carriers were in it for the stay-at-home moms, lax open container laws of the day and funky Jeeps. They knew oversized houses weren’t part of the deal. The few who couldn’t match numbers on the envelope to the ones on the box ended up at the annex. When they fucked that up, they’d shoot up the annex. We treated them with kid gloves. If he didn’t deliver, we weren’t eating. And you never knew if dude was gonna snap.
Food stamps used to look like Monopoly money. Bums shouldn’t feel too good about being a burden on society. The Department of Agriculture issued the stipend instead of the Treasury, on the off-chance you misunderstood your place in the world. That place was somewhere between cattle and corn.
The bills made a distinctive, telling and deliberately loud noise when pulled out of the booklet. A loud rip followed by handing the checker an oversized piece of hot pink play money that looked as if you’d just passed Go. It was a call of the wild—a call invariably returned by a stiff-jawed housewife watching from somewhere down the checkout line, talking shit under her dick-scented breath. Must be nice. Wish I got free food.
My mother called them rich bitches. Thinking back on it, they were nothing more than two-bit single hole twats. They shopped in the same store as us, for fuck’s sake. But I didn’t see it that way at the time. Poor people don’t understand money. A hundred bucks might as well be a million. If you didn’t look torn up or live in our neighborhood, you were rich. That’s how it used to be. Now that the sub-slob class assume they will end up in prison sooner or later, there is no reason not to turn that supermarket on its fucking ear and upload the video later. Rich bitches only talk shit on the Internet now.
A few years ago—and by that I mean a few jobs, relocations and suburbs ago—one of my neighbors reached a breaking point. Several professional restarts all ran headlong into downsizing. Same shit we’ve all faced. That one year on, one year off cycle is rough. The guy can’t take it and fully commits. He mails the house keys to the lender and leaves the SUV in the dealer’s lot with the engine running. A year later, he turns up online, pushing a new venture in what the UN calls an economic development zone. I’m talking one of those dying shitholes where old craftsmen houses can be had for a buck and back taxes.
He sets up shop out of an old Datsun pickup selling vinyl adhesive skins for food stamp EBT debit cards. After careful consideration, he paints a simple message on a big piece of cardboard: Got Dignity? For a sawbuck, shame became pride. Food stamps? Hell no. Look again, asshole. That’s a goddamn platinum card. In time, he expanded to sports team logos, Pokemon, religious iconography, Goth shit, even school photos. But most people wanted the platinum.
The new location presented new challenges. Robbery and assault were part of his new normal. Big deal. It was the cost of doing business, but it didn’t matter. Nobody expected him to drink the Kool-Aid anymore. Loyalty was once again a private matter, rather than something proven in endless email chains. The locals didn’t give a fuck what he believed in. Plus, it was off book. The revenue lost to crime was substantially less than his tax burden, had he operated above board.
He sold the same product online, target marketing rednecks, survivalists and militia groups. He knew they all worried about RFID chips embedded in driver’s licenses. That got him on the no-fly list, but he didn’t care about that either. The old Datsun could reach any point in North America on two tanks of gas or less and his own EBT card was charged up with fresh food stamps every month. Fuck the airlines. The walls had been razed. He was free. There was no going back.
You have that duh look on your face again. Where were we? Forty, broke and sunbathing on the front lawn in Capri pants, right? That first ride is a bitch. That’s your downtime between jobs—a ride. Newbs always shit their pants first time out. We hear it during the terminations … I’m gonna lose my house, my car, my boner pills. When you see the look in a man’s eyes as he realizes the low cost four hour hard-ons are over, you understand what the Romans were like at the end.
That first ride is make or break. I’m talking weight gain, hair loss and, obviously, sexual dysfunction. By the second or third layoff, the Dollar Store knockoff Rogaine is working, the bitchtits have waned and gas station horny goat weed packets get your dick up for a buck. Those are financial adjustments—the easy part. Swallowing your pride … now that’s where the war is won or lost.
People take themselves far too seriously. As if buying a jet ski on payments means anything. Living paycheck to paycheck isn’t quite the same as a loaded trust fund. I’m talking set-aside funding for pre-matched genetically-compatible replacement organs from ethnic Albanians. They call it fuck you money. If you can’t say fuck you to a cop and drive away with the certitude of not only surviving but sleeping in your own bed that very night, you ain’t got it. You look no different, at a distance, from day laborers outside Home Depot. I’m talking big picture here.
Without multi-generational wealth and power, you’re just another pretend rich dad who thinks punching down gets you to the top—and that, I promise you, is what people in this day and age mean when calling somebody a faggot. Guys like us exist in the space between that new car smell and being two paychecks from the street. Glorified global labor arbitrage far more likely to drop to our knees than rise up. But so what. Still beats wiping your ass with your hand.
Where were we? Oh yeah … you’re fifty, third or fourth ride deep, wearing adult diapers and painfully aware of your spurious pedigree. Your monthly burn rate is insane. You got TVs in every room, crown moldings, flagstone patio with a stainless steel grill tied in to the main gas line for the house. Each layoff drops your savings and 401k lower and lower. When it is gone, there will be little choice but to leave the gated subdivision for zip codes previously only visited when GPS goes wrong. You’re thinking Filipinos living eight to an old stucco ranch just like what your grandparents had in some played out burb. Or maybe the pastoral feed lots where hillbillies change oil over storm drains while their wild-eyed Ritalin tweaking savage offspring do burnouts on dirt bikes on your front lawn. Won’t be so bad, right? The reality, however, is you can’t afford any of that shit on an unemployment check.
That means holing up in extended stay lodgings. Most are conveniently located in what FBI crime stats, social anthropologists and community organizers call a changing neighborhood. At least they have free HBO. Described on the website as a “classy corporate relocation solution,” from the ground it looks more like a refugee camp. Shitty diapers in the pool, soiled condoms stuck to the elevator doors and Mexican soda in the vending machine.
When unemployment runs dry, you camp out in the oversized SUV—which suddenly seems like your Best. Purchase. Ever. Until you miss a few payments. Then it’s shopping carts, sleeping open air and shitting behind bushes. Like most animals, after a few weeks in the wild humans revert to a feral state. Nobody comes back.
And when your wife gets fingerbanged by a cop at a DUI checkpoint, it becomes clear: You’re free range now. The car is searched without warrant or permission while you lay face down in the road. It’s purely for kicks and milking overtime. Eventually you are cut loose with a warning after a disabled old man rolls his wheelchair down his driveway to find out why his dog is barking.
“Get that piece of shit car off the street or it will be impounded. And get a job, loser!”
Cops love fucking with geezers, dogs and gimps. All three have a high likelihood of hesitating when being shouted at. Not promptly responding to an officer’s commands puts his safety at risk and—more importantly—creates an opportunity to fire at moving targets without anybody shooting back. Practice is vital in today’s law enforcement.
“Hands on your heads! You and the dog both! Hands on your fucking heads!”
When neither man nor beast respond quickly enough, officer safety is protected by firing a Taser. The electric current sparks when striking the metal wheelchair. The sparks ignite dry grass, which spreads quickly and burns the house to the ground. The dog is shot on GP—general principle. All costs of municipal services rendered are deducted from the estate. The requisite passerby cell phone video, titled Fat Police Fry Cripple Blast Dog N Burn House is an overnight Internet sensation.
Back at the extended stay, you notice a message scrawled on the dusty SUV hood: I used this finger on your wife. Welcome to America, asshole. The real America.
So what’s it gonna be, kid? The sample cup or the sanitizer? Make your choice.
About the Author: Celestin d’Olanie was born in Highland Hospital just after the MLK and RFK assassinations on the day Governor Reagan sent choppers to gas students at Cal, and the Panthers shot up the Oakland Police station. East Bay born and bred, Celestin’s great-grandfather was an iron worker who pounded out the lamp posts that surround Lake Merritt.
Artwork: J.R. Goodwin