God bless and good morning

If I have to narrow it down to the one social habit that I hate the most, I’m going to go with the custom of asking:  “How are you?” as part of the regular morning ritual.

This is one of those things that isn’t, really, a problem, it’s just overdone.  Meet me at the bar and, yes, how are you?  I’m doing well, let’s order our drinks because the waitress sucks and everyone sucks and I’ve been waiting for your fucking slow ass for 30 minutes.  Also, redheads, universally, don’t know how to fuck. Which is frustrating because they’re fascinating.  Well, in small doses.  But, anyway, I’m fine.

That’s perfectly natural.  Friends in a casual social setting asking after each other’s health.

Now, in the office, it’s good morning, okay, then:  “How are you, Nacho?”

How am I?  You motherfucking animal.  It’s 8am and I started my commute at 7am.  How do you think I am?  I’m forced to show up to a soulless sea of cubicles and work for pennies, living paycheck to paycheck, while my dreams are quietly crushed by 12 hour days.  Meanwhile, nobody in MIS will pay attention to me and all of my supervisors are about as lazy as KGB agents in Iowa in the first half of 1991.  Because MIS is too busy playing Halo or whatever the fuck it is they do down in their fucking dungeon, I’m forced to repair my own computer.  Just about every part is cannibalized from other computers throughout the sixth floor.  Yet nobody sees a problem with that.  I have to murder people for office supplies, or just wait for them to get fired so I can pick their corpse.  I’m dodging knife-fights on the insane bus ride home, and, as far as I can tell, my air conditioner is powered by gold dust, so even the comfort of my apartment is a constant weight on my shoulders.  I had dreams.  Real dreams.  Not house on the hill dreams or big swimming pools or Latina anal freaks.  My dreams were modest…but, with every passing second, I realize with horror that all of my dreams are impossible.

Then, as I laugh sadly at my paycheck (and it takes several vodka tonics to get to that point), I realize that it’s not just being a wage slave that makes me want to go on a shooting spree, it’s the small minded, delusional middle-American fuckos who expect me to be grateful for all this.  If I complain, I’m told that it could be worse.  At least you’re not in Auschwitz!  Here at Dachau many of the cells get the southern sun!  You should be happy!

Of course, those fuckos spend more time injecting Paxil directly into their eyeballs than anything else, so I shouldn’t take what they say seriously.  Just once – even if for a day – I want a boss who says, yes, the job sucks.  That’ll realign my entire world.  Thank you!  Thank you for being honest with me.

Anyway, I’m fine.  I’m sure you’re fine, as well, because we’re supposed to say we’re fine.  So everyone’s fine.  Everyone is just fine and there is no conflict in the world.  And if you end up choking on a piece of chicken in your office, I’ll be sure not to intervene, because we’re all fine.  God bless and good morning.