Put this record on. I was just thrown out of a mental institution for presenting dance moves too gorgeous for others to handle. Keep it neurofunk and speed it up, ladypants.
»I am not here to lead. Forget the promised
land. You're gonna stay right here and work your lazy bums off, pay taxes, and
keep your hanging-by-the-neck business somewhere out of sight – at astonishing
distances, as far away from this facility as possible. Do yourself somewhere in
the woods. This is a place of work. I'm gonna show you how washing hands is
done properly after you take a dump in the shitter, so you
can go all crawling-like back home to beat it in your children, understood?
Thank you, go on with your work.« (an angel of
HACCP[1]
celebrating victory)
Anyway,
every workplace is an envirement, obviously. Mine – the workplace of my musts
and have-tos – is full of cardboard boxes and chips. In upper deck we store
condoms and tampons and such, bellow the ground floor (food supplies, beer,
chips, the poor man's junk, shit extraordinaire
with nothing (or is it: no-thing)
extra in it) is the sweet assortment... I was told, that there are cigarettes
and booze stashed somewhere. The promise of El Dorado[2].
Females included, not exactly a majestic grandeur and simplicity of heavenly
production, if you don't mind me being ungrateful swine. We, the men are stationed
beyond reach of any improvement or hope. Fucked up on the inside out, we trully
are.
I came here
to drain a little life-juice from almighty seductress, the milking cow.
Motivation rooted rather soon. Late but obvious fact, that suckment is mutually
»beneficial«, especially for the bad
guy party, the government-market hybrid as seen in Metropolis, the movie. Grand
motiff, the grandest motiff, that is – this motiff of a worker is frustrationed
in his fear-driven head, in some cases too large for the carrier's shoulders,
sometimes too small, or wrong in some other way. We are in your pillow, the oozy
mustaches from the under-underground.
»Sun Tzu teachings are closely observed for
billions of years and they are essential in any discussion about who is the greatest
general of us all.« (founder of
tea gatherings on the inside side of the yard)
Someday I'll
know for each of you, who washes after flushes and who doesn't, doggoned the
angel to thyself, intriguing by default.
Don't like
the idea of you staying put, working your lazy bums off, paying taxes, and keeping
your hanging-by-the-neck business elsewhere? You wanna join? The pie looks
delicious, doesn't it? Get in the line. And wait. Observe. Be there always to keep
a close one on your boss – someday he'll forget to do it proper-like. Maybe he'll
be in a hurry, stressed out, or just tired, and it's all good. It's the moment
you've been waiting on. That day his goddamn hands won't come near any standard
of the HACCP and then you just tell on him. That's it. Washing hands sloppy is
a fuck-up indeed. Always follow the way of an angel. Wash hands or carry your burden
for-ever. Teach others. Report the violators. It's never to late too have a
bossy career!
* I can't
claim this method, for I am a mouse. I bow my head when trespassing toilettes
while the boss is pissing, but I feel awkwardly satisfied just to be there at
the same time with the pisser, washing my hands like a king's surgeon, or maybe
a humble warehouseman with hygene tattooed on his shroomed pump.
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