<\/p>\n
The guy who used to have my job, sitting at my desk in the same filthy chair with broken rollers, died of cancer two weeks ago.\u00a0 I learned about this in the tearoom while I read the helpful postings on the wall (I teach Yoga!!!!\u00a0 $25 a class!!!).\u00a0 His former co-workers were talking very seriously at the refrigerator – grey-haired monsters who have had the same data entry cubicle job for 15 years – when they turned to me and said, “Andrew, would you like to give $5 so we can send flowers to Howard’s family?”<\/p>\n
I didn’t hesitate:\u00a0 “No.”<\/p>\n
My coworkers and I don’t get along.\u00a0 Actually, I don’t get along with anyone except for ex-girlfriends.\u00a0 Ironically.\u00a0 I think that’s irony.\u00a0 Nobody really knows what irony is.\u00a0 The dictionary just has a blank entry.\u00a0 “Irony:\u00a0 Use it any way you want, we give up.”<\/p>\n
The thing that bothers me is the “give money for sick people” routine.\u00a0 Let’s take a co-worker from my little department who got something or other and landed in the hospital.\u00a0 I think it was a stroke.\u00a0 I don’t pay attention to the details.\u00a0 There are thirteen “Team Members” in my department and each of us gave five to ten dollars.\u00a0 That money bought a generic bouquet of flowers.\u00a0 Say, maybe, $35 worth.<\/p>\n
My ten year old cousin is a deeply disturbed fuckup slotted for execution before her teenage years by most world governments, though she didn’t even hesitate when I presented that scenario to her.<\/p>\n
“What a minute,” she slurred through teeth that have never been brushed, “That means someone made money.”<\/p>\n
In the office, I’m often considered to be the anti-social “bad egg.”\u00a0 This bothers me, mainly because I’m not the one making a boatload of money off of the misfortune, maiming, and death of others.<\/p>\n
With that in mind, I made a series of tactless jokes about cancer and left the tearoom.\u00a0 I can do things like that because I have a disability.\u00a0 In a way, my neuralgia “episode” (my grandmother pronounces that ep-a-sued-e) that marked the start of 2005 was a blessing.\u00a0 With something like neuralgia, people assume you’re healthy.\u00a0 It’s not like I’m stumping around on a bad leg or constantly sticking forks in my ear.\u00a0 Especially after 15 months and a suicidal bravado built on misanthropy and disrespect for the needs of others, most people get it in their heads that I’m the original bad boy.\u00a0 Being knocked out, tearful, depressed and sucking broth through a straw for seven weeks really put things in perspective for some folks.\u00a0 Not the supervisors, of course, but…well, fuck the supervisors.\u00a0 The truly sick become pariahs after a while.\u00a0 Left alone to my own games, I sat in the middle of my office and masturbated while making wounded animal sounds.\u00a0 At least, I considered doing that.\u00a0 Not being able to talk, the occasional co-worker would spin by and use that opportunity to vent their spleen about how much our sucky job sucks.\u00a0 One of these spleen-venters is a beautiful and deliciously insane black girl.\u00a0 So, you see, masturbation…<\/p>\n
Well, we’re not here for that.\u00a0 I’ve had a black thing lately.\u00a0 It comes and goes.\u00a0 Sometimes I’ll go months with a black thing, then I’ll go back to my staple — mousy brunettes.\u00a0 My grandfather gets nervous whenever I go through a black thing.\u00a0 He’ll come to me every day and say, “I sure like that Brittany O’Connell,” or Sierra or Gauge or Jenna Haze or whoever.\u00a0 The latter two are a little off his radar because he has trouble with anal whores.\u00a0 Brittany and Sierra are 90’s girls, but they went anal in the end. There’s no escaping it, I tell him.\u00a0 All girls go anal in the end.\u00a0 If they don’t, they’re boring, and you know it.<\/p>\n
It seems that there was no such thing as anal sex in the 40’s and 50’s.\u00a0 I don’t believe him, but he says only the Krauts and the little yellow Japs would consider anal sex.\u00a0 Stand up Americans, see, never did that.\u00a0 He says anal sex is the last refuge for the misogynist.<\/p>\n
Anyway, he doesn’t like the black thing.\u00a0 It’s not that he dislikes black people, it’s just that I always make dinner-table threats to marry crazed crackwhores like Vanessa Blue, AVN’s 2004 Award Winning Director for Best Ethnic Series (BlackReignXXX).\u00a0 Not that I keep up on stuff like that.<\/p>\n
It’s unfortunate because black women don’t really seem interested in me.\u00a0 I believe that black men ride the large cock myth but, in realty, the educated person knows that the average black man’s cock is the same as the average white man’s cock.\u00a0 Further, black men are no good in bed.\u00a0 They’re all grudge fuckers.\u00a0 Me, I take my time.\u00a0 I’ve trained myself to last several hours.\u00a0 So black girls have no idea what they’re missing.\u00a0 I’m bigger and better than Khajid Mohammad Jones, their on-again off-again boyfriend.\u00a0\u00a0 Oh, now I sound like my grandfather.<\/p>\n
The training is all in the masturbation.\u00a0 How long can you go?\u00a0 After all these years, my masturbation sessions can last up to an hour and a half.\u00a0 I end them, ultimately, because they get a little rough on the old boy.\u00a0 That’s not something you encounter when you’re balls deep in Vanessa Blue.<\/p>\n
Of course, some girls hate lengthy sport fucks.\u00a0 It’s tough to get everything just right.\u00a0 My current goal is to start at 11pm and go till dawn.\u00a0 This allows for 20 minute breaks between orgasms.\u00a0 No more, no less.\u00a0 It’s important to have rules.\u00a0 Like in Vietnam.\u00a0 Women are like Vietnam.\u00a0 Lay still in the jungle, afraid to move.\u00a0 When you do, you get torn to shreds by smooth legs, shoulders, tits, hips, lips and this giant, bleeding hole.<\/p>\n
So I’m into black girls until further notice.\u00a0 Though I have been flirting with this Thai girl.\u00a0 She’s just the cutest little thing.\u00a0 I want to stick her onto my thermos like a Powerpuff Girls band-aid.\u00a0 She must weigh all of 50 pounds, and she has this cute way of talking and I like her tits.\u00a0 Fucking tits.\u00a0 Jesus Christ, what’s the matter with me?<\/p>\n
After I made the cancer jokes, I went back to my desk and sat down in my filthy chair and started moving papers from one pile to another when my supervisor spun by.<\/p>\n
“Andrew,” he said.<\/p>\n
“Supervisor,” I said.<\/p>\n
“Got a new complaint.”\u00a0 Pause for effect.\u00a0 “Just came in.”\u00a0 Pause.\u00a0 “Just now…”\u00a0 Pause.\u00a0 “Yep.”<\/p>\n
“Are you waiting for a password or something?”<\/p>\n
“The cancer comments.”<\/p>\n
As it turns out, my cheeky cancer-mocking spread like a brushfire through the staff, all of whom are ignorant savages well below me (I have to say that once a day or else I end up nude, huddled in the shower, drinking JD).<\/p>\n
It’s another of those marks on my record which, thanks to a complicated web of legal mumbo jumbo that has, in part, replaced the unions, can never be shared with other departments, references or any future jobs I apply for.\u00a0 Ever since junior high, the threat of “a mark on your record” has been a constant in my life.\u00a0 It was my first year of college when I learned that the records don’t exist.\u00a0 They never have, they never will.\u00a0 Well, unless you punch your boss or shoot up the office, I suppose.\u00a0 But “being insensitive to the death of a fucking stranger”?\u00a0 No.<\/p>\n
As I reveled in the knowledge that I could get away with murder, if I phrased it right, a strange emotional illness washed over me.\u00a0 Guilt, perhaps, that I could so easily mock the dead.\u00a0 I realized, sitting alone in a darkened office, that I occupied the job and, quite literally, the seat of this man who became ill in that same office, left work and, over five years, suffered greatly until he finally kicked it.<\/p>\n
I started to think:\u00a0 Hey, I have something in common with cancer man.\u00a0 He spent an extraordinary amount of time sitting in my dark office, breathing the sick air blowing through the 50 years of caked-on dust through the ceiling vent, pounding away at a computer and shuffling papers from one pile to another.\u00a0 I have followed in his footsteps.\u00a0 I’ve replaced him.\u00a0 Was the cancer in him or was it in the building?\u00a0 Would I, too, die horridly while everyone laughed in the tearoom saying that I had it coming?<\/p>\n
Should I, given this possible scenario, kill everybody in my office to prevent them from mocking my callous attitude about the death of a fucking stranger?\u00a0 Since many of them read this page, I’ll leave the decision up to them.\u00a0 I have begun a cancer fund.\u00a0 If everybody in the extended department puts $10 in the coffee pot by my desk, they’ll be removing a mark on their record or, as we say here in my house, they’ll be “buying their lives.”<\/p>\n
In addition to the $10, I would like a black woman and the Thai chick.\u00a0 And they’d better have piercings down there so, when they eat each other out, they can play with those pussy rings.\u00a0 All tongues and metal and weeping, oozing sex while I sit on my desk with a coffeepot full of money and laugh and laugh until I choke up a giant cancer tumor and fall through the drywall into the office next door.\u00a0 As the occupants of that office scream in horror at my prematurely aged face, riddled with open sores and eaten away to the bone in places, I’ll be able to rest easy.\u00a0 You want me to rest easy, don’t you?\u00a0 If you don’t, then you’re a monster, and nobody will mourn you when it’s your fucking turn to drop, my dear coworkers.\u00a0 Because if the guy before me got cancer from work, and I get it, that means you have it to.\u00a0 Maybe you get cancer from shuffling papers from one pile to another.\u00a0 We do that all motherfucking day, don’t we?\u00a0 Oh, yes.\u00a0 Paper shuffling cancer.\u00a0 Think about it.\u00a0 And pierce your clits.\u00a0 I’m a dying man.\u00a0 That’s my wish.\u00a0 You gotta do it.\u00a0 Yes, it’ll desensitize you over time but, hey, that’s not my problem.\u00a0 Dead man walking!<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[352],"tags":[353,400],"class_list":["post-2482","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-gsarchive","tag-gs-archive-2004-2008","tag-wage-slave"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2482","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2482"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2482\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2819,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2482\/revisions\/2819"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2482"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2482"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2482"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}