Less and less relevant the more you read.
For the consideration of those who joined me months ago to form TEAM FUCKUP. It's this Sunday, with a $10 entry fee, and Andy and I are both sort of ambivalent on it. We all know Amish would gladly join. But what of us? What of little Cricket? PeePants Henderson? Young Goathead? Crusty Pete (me)?
One of the laid-off transcriptionists here just asked the other researcher what she's going to do now. "Go back to chasing retards," she said bitterly, and I couldn't help but imagine those county fair greased pig chasing competitions. Except the pig was replaced with a special kid, of course.
This job—working with the disabled, even from a distance—turns you into a terrible person. Terrible! How I hate the disabled now! I want to kick them in their wobbly knees! And I can't decide if it's because I'm sick, because there's something genuinely bothersome about the other, or if it's just because they're the client group—in the same way that P. Hut made me hate fast food customers, the UNI library made me hate patrons, and the NAR made me hate writers. Maybe it's not so much that I hate the disabled, but that I hate whoever it is I'm supposed to serve in any given job.
I'm trying to write a story right now that, at its most basic, involves a guy in a wheelchair, a stoner, a disgruntled worker, and a stolen snake. The wheelchair guy necessarily has to be very annoying, because that's his character, but then is that me stereotyping or discriminating? Maybe I should make everyone annoying? Who knows. What I do know is, he's getting a snake across the face.
. . .
Part of a research request I just received (elipses not mine):
"……it will inspire you! Bring a nose plug………"
. . .
Even though Bil smells like streudel, I think we should go see him—and those other people who live there. I say we because, as most of you know, my car is still sitting outside the flophouse, lopsided on its three good tires, heartless with its dead battery, insides decaying as plastic drops away from the door and my emergency bottled water freezes and thaws and freezes and thaws inside the trunk. Someday I will get that car. Someday when the temperature climbs out of the Fucking Freezing part of the thermometer.
But I'm not goin anywhere unless we eat pizza.
. . .
For the sake of achieving easy, sleazy fame, I'll be installing video cameras around Le Chateau. This will capture all the drama of house life, including all beer box shaking, love snake kissing, Halo playing, Amish insulting, snow tracking, drain clogging, and popcorn stealing. I resolve to leave in even the popcorn stealing, despite the fact that I am the shameless thief.
One of the laid-off transcriptionists here just asked the other researcher what she's going to do now. "Go back to chasing retards," she said bitterly, and I couldn't help but imagine those county fair greased pig chasing competitions. Except the pig was replaced with a special kid, of course.
This job—working with the disabled, even from a distance—turns you into a terrible person. Terrible! How I hate the disabled now! I want to kick them in their wobbly knees! And I can't decide if it's because I'm sick, because there's something genuinely bothersome about the other, or if it's just because they're the client group—in the same way that P. Hut made me hate fast food customers, the UNI library made me hate patrons, and the NAR made me hate writers. Maybe it's not so much that I hate the disabled, but that I hate whoever it is I'm supposed to serve in any given job.
I'm trying to write a story right now that, at its most basic, involves a guy in a wheelchair, a stoner, a disgruntled worker, and a stolen snake. The wheelchair guy necessarily has to be very annoying, because that's his character, but then is that me stereotyping or discriminating? Maybe I should make everyone annoying? Who knows. What I do know is, he's getting a snake across the face.
. . .
Part of a research request I just received (elipses not mine):
"……it will inspire you! Bring a nose plug………"
. . .
Even though Bil smells like streudel, I think we should go see him—and those other people who live there. I say we because, as most of you know, my car is still sitting outside the flophouse, lopsided on its three good tires, heartless with its dead battery, insides decaying as plastic drops away from the door and my emergency bottled water freezes and thaws and freezes and thaws inside the trunk. Someday I will get that car. Someday when the temperature climbs out of the Fucking Freezing part of the thermometer.
But I'm not goin anywhere unless we eat pizza.
. . .
For the sake of achieving easy, sleazy fame, I'll be installing video cameras around Le Chateau. This will capture all the drama of house life, including all beer box shaking, love snake kissing, Halo playing, Amish insulting, snow tracking, drain clogging, and popcorn stealing. I resolve to leave in even the popcorn stealing, despite the fact that I am the shameless thief.
0 Replies:
Post a Comment
<< Home