(Untitled)
I have this inexplicable pulling in my chest. I mean, I feel it physically because I feel it so strongly emotionally. I wish I knew what it meant. Or perhaps I don't. Maybe it would be painful. I don't know. Sometimes I just feel things for no apparent reason whatsoever and sometimes I can figure out why later because something that would
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10 years ago, I was 44, nestled in my supposedly secure corporate job,
where I was promised, "Oh, Steve never worry, you'll have a job, here
for life."
Then that same year, there was a 16 million dollar contract which they
couldna do, and they were gonna decline, and I protested, "Please
let me go to Detroit and do it!"
So, I did just that! I lived in a hotel room in Detroit and did their project
and the president gave me 3,000 of hush-money at Christmastime,
and we finished the contract, and it was huge and awesome and very
worth our while. I was the fuck'n "sacrificial lamb" their lone solitary
company astronaut (explains the 3,000)...all the other fuck'n bastards
had whiney-wives who would no doubt be hump'n the postman...
nobody else had the status of "divorced/single"...
so it had to be me!
And then the following year...after the Detroit fiasco...
2 fuk'n dinks that I, (capitalized I) interviewed and allowed to be hired,
had fuk'n wormed through my so-called secured position...
and I was still blessed, and I came up with a brilliant plan.
I created a database retrieval system for every single piece of
graphics in the entire company. A whole new job title:
"Photo-Illustration Coordinator".
And after a whole year, it was completed.
Then May 15th/1997, they announced 27 layoffs from my division.
Hundreds more in manufacturing down in Greenwood, Mississippi,
scores more layoffs in waves of killer lay-offs, after that...
...lump in my throat, here, dear Harvey-Pants...I feel for you,
Ireally do feel for you....
the whole company was downsized in such a truly sinister way.
And it was legal too. Nobody could do anything about it.
All the inner sactum brain-trust were killed off.
Many actually died. Gone. Six-feet-under, cemetaries.
Stress like that killed them.
And to make the reality even more real, Ms Parker,
those dust particles of radioactive isotope radium from painting
jet-aircraft dials from WWII, Korean War, VietNam War...
there's no way in hell to prove it for real, it's a bloody
X-Files episode lemme-tell-ya, Sherry, there's almost nobody
left alive.
And anyone left alive is probably a brain-washed yes-man!
The inner few were totally cocksucking yes-men!
Puke on them...I don't wanna know any of them.
Somehow, dear Harvey-Pants-Sherry, I want you to
start a small s-corp,
do freelance, make the customers sign a simple contract,
file 10-99 (have them file 10-99 if the amount is over 300 bucks)
and just keep going, and never worry about those ass-kissing
corporate pricks like your direct supervisor EVER AGAIN!
EVER!
Blah!
Your the best. I kiss you!
Happy Easter!
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