As I was eating my breakfast (it will not be my liquor consumption that kills me), drinking my second cup of coffee (one cup is never enough), reading the newspaper (all politicians, cops and everyone else associated, however tenuously, with the fucking government is a fucking crook) and watching Ma shake her moneymaker (the bigger it gets the better I like it) out of the corner of my eye as she attended to her coffee shop's other customers on her busiest day (Friday), I got to thinking. Sonja says, "Don't think, just do." She is right, of course, but if our brains are roughly 75% beer, you cannot help but think now and again when you do not have a beer in one hand and a remote control in the other.
This is what I was thinking - How the fuck do I keep on waking up and going to work day after day, hangover after hangover, week after week, month after month, year after motherfucking year? It does not make any sense. Firstly, you want to keep sleeping when the fucking alarm goes off; secondly, you have better shit to do than show up at the sawmill and pretend you give a shit about how much money your company is losing; thirdly, your head fucking hurts; fourthly, you put your life in danger driving on the highway to work with every other demented motherfucker in town, none of whom give a shit about anything but getting home later that day and having a few drinks (and about a quarter of them have already had a drink before they start their car in the morning); fifthly, after a few decades of work all you have to show for it is a broken down house, a broken down car and a body and mind so broken down if you could trade it in, like you can do with a broken down car, the only time a dealer would give you a dime for it would be at a push, pull, or drag sale.
Metaphysicians, the motherfuckers who try to answer questions as yet satisfactorily answered in mankind's brief history, ought to spend more time figuring out why we keep on working instead of whether or not there is a God, and if there is, why are all his believers starting to make Charles Manson look lucid.
7 comments:
Charlie, like all con men, Pope Ratzo and Andy Warhol spring to mind, would dispense the occasional nugget o' truth, just to keep the hook in. I believe he would say that we squares, we who have not figured out the grooviness of prison life, go to work because we are scared. Unlike The Pope, Charlie has transcended fear and is happy on death row, unraveling his socks and using the thread to knit little devil dolls. For myself, I found going to work and pretending to comply with the whims of one or another boss to be a just barely bearable deal. Better than prison or running some kind of art or religion hustle.
Kinghell Beer.
That's all I can say - kinghell.
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Hang on a second.... here's a thought.....Is it possible that, if there hadn't been a gosh-golly-darned God myth already, would not the kooky Calvinists, including the precious few that didn't look at least a little like cousin Charlie, have been forced to invent one anyway just to make sure we got our asses to work every morning?
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You hit the jackpot here Beer. I'm almost in a mind to reprint this over at Molly's Blog (with attribution of course. Would you mind ?
I would be honoured if you did Moll. Is it possible I have been getting out of bed to go to work all these years to avoid the Canadian authourities' attempts to have me re-patriated to Alberta, a province with no teams in the Stanley Cup play-offs, to help replenish a labour market decimated by the mass suicidal mania of that province's snowmobile worshippers.
Entirely possible Beer.
Either that or the Goddess needs anarchists to act as suds-guzzling moles for the Wild Rose Party.
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I have routinely detested every moment I ever spent working out of somebody else's pocket. Only a fool would think otherwise.
Also. I have routinely detested every moment working even for myself. Only a fool would do so, and only a fool would carve out a living - as a self employed idiot - doing shit they could not stand.
That makes me a fool twice around the clock.
You are a writer, Beer. A guzzler of beer and a turner of words; gunning your rig with the best of them.
Everything else is coincidental.
I work out of my home now for the most part. Sales. Which means I can get absolutely wasted every mothafucking moment of my working day if I so choose. But I don't. Because if I do, than I will lose my job and NOT be able to get wasted every mothafucking moment of my work day.
I hate irony.
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