New Job at a Big Ad Agency

There’s obviously something very important going on here. It’s good to know that you make a living doing something important. It’s good to be a pasty Caucasian in a cubicle, wearing a collared shirt, working from a laptop, dealing exclusively in the abstract and intangible. We’re living the dream, the pinnacle of corporate arrogance, delegating recklessly, circulating the money and not getting our hands dirty. Where am I now? Where do I want to be? I want to be staying on top, staying in the loop and protecting my interests. Because my interests are your interests and everybody’s fucking interested.

This is a brick in the foundation of the structure that supports us and our culture. Wholesome, hardworking, Protestant, American corporate culture. How’s that for impotence? How’s that for cancer? You work, and essentially live, to contribute to and benefit from this great entity. It is a collection of confused individuals with personal interests. Teams are for suckers. Upper management benefits from teams. The relationship between upper management and the teams below them is always parasitic. The teams contribute and upper management reaps. They will always extract their money from you, fake money, play money, soft money, make-believe money. It’s exponentially growing, endlessly inflating money. You will sit inside this monster and create data, information, filling up network space. All of this information will be totally non-referential, irrelevant, and without redeeming aesthetic value - servers and servers of it. All of it will be useless and irrelevant. Technology has served to facilitate the propagation and proliferation of useless, vacuous, poisonous information. All of it is crucial to the arrogant Caucasian orgy of money. American corporate culture is copious, ropey jets of financial jism, decorating the face of an underage prostitute. It is soulless work that contributes nothing to anybody but takes something from everybody. This is why I went to college?

The Train

The train moved slowly. Alongside it, in my car, I moved in the same direction. Parallel, but moving slightly faster than the train, I approached from behind. My progression up the length of it was a climb. My car on the road, and the train on the tracks, and the river, and the trees lining the road all went in the same direction. We were all lines. The river pretended to move, but ultimately went nowhere. The trees didn’t even pretend to move. Their numbers simply implied movement. The train moved, but had no choice. It moved on a track, and it pulled an enormous weight. It was a beast of burden. I, however, had a choice. I pulled a different sort of weight, but one no less heavy. I could drive along the river or I could not. I chose to move along the river. We each had purpose. The world fell off into oblivion behind us. There was no road behind, only road ahead. That road is all in one direction, the only direction, forward. It’s perfectly simple. We’re pulling all of that weight. We’re pulling slowly but with purpose. We’re pulling until we stop.

Broken Toe

She had a 1995 Honda Civic, beige, with no hubcaps, lots of rust, and lots of miles. Not her miles. Somebody else put them there. They came with the car. She had big sunglasses that faded from the top down to the bottom, with rhinestones around the frames. She had a smile bigger than her tits, which were considerable. She had dirty blond hair and a tight middle - a gorgeous girl. She was 20 and taking classes at her local community college. Eventually she wanted to be a doctor. Who was I to argue? I’ve never had any interest in smashing dreams. Not my thing. She was from New York somewhere, the western part of the state, just above Pennsylvania. We rendezvoused in a mall parking lot in Erie (about geographically halfway between our residences), and followed her to the hotel. We talked and all got pretty drunk on vodka and orange juice. Nothing fancy, though it got everybody loose, and served its purpose.

Admittedly, I was a little nervous, and I sat Indian-style on the bed, sort of squeezing my toes in my hands. I’m not sure why I was doing this, just a nervous behavior. At one point, I squeezed a bit too hard and broke one of my toes. It’s a disgusting and fascinating thing to do to yourself because you can feel it two different ways. I felt both the pain of my toe breaking and the toe breaking in my hand. It was remarkable, accidental, and incredibly stupid. I don’t know why I was that nervous in the first place; probably just leftover anxiety from less than smooth past experiences. Since I’m extremely familiar with the pain of broken fingers and toes, I didn’t visibly react. Neither my wife nor this girl had any idea. When I walked, I limped a bit, but we hadn’t driven up there for walking.

After the toe break we got down to business pretty quickly. My wife excused herself to use the bathroom. The blond girl took that opportunity to pounce on me and things got started very quickly and naturally. There was a great deal of screwing and it was all incredible. She had absolutely no gag reflex at all. I was astounded. I had never been with a woman who could perform that task quite so vigorously. Apparently, though, she had never been with another woman before, and applied that same reckless fervor to my wife. It was very hot to watch, though somewhat rough for my wife’s taste. I thought it was fantastic. My wife disagreed. Her irritation was poorly hidden but this girl was so consumed with performing that she was oblivious. She really wore my wife out and it gave me opportunities to recharge and recuperate. We had a great time getting each other off well into the night. We parted friends, though we haven’t stayed in touch.

Roadside Emergency

Most people keep some emergency materials in their cars. A jack. Spare tire. Flares. Tire iron. Jumper cables. I’ve got these things in my car, and I’ve used them on many occasions, except the flares. I’ve never needed those. My wife also has these things in her car, though she’s never had to use any of them. I doubt she would even know how to utilize any of the items if she needed to. She does have one particular item which she says is immensely helpful. She keeps a book of gothic horror stories under her seat. “In case of emergencies. You know, like if you’re stuck in traffic, or waiting for AAA to show up.” She plans well. You wouldn’t want to be stuck by the side of the road without stories of homoerotic vampires, blood and buttfucking. That would be insufferable.

An Impotent Tyrant

This jackass beats his dog all the time. I suspect it’s because his dog has a bigger dick than he does and he’s jealous of that. Regardless, this man takes out all of his disappointments and frustrations on his family and this animal. He lives next door. People near him live in fear of him. Nobody else does. Nobody else is impressed. He extracts his vengeance not on the deserving parties, but vicariously, on those who love him. And they do love him. Each time they forgive. They still snap to attention when he yells and do whatever they can to bring him contentment. The dog takes the worst of it and the dog loves him the most. That animal has heart. He can take a hit much better than his owner. You can see the cautious distrust in his eyes. I wonder how the dog sees him. Does the dog understand that he’s owned by a 46 year old, fat alcoholic boy who beats his wife and two kids? That he’s owned by a man who drives a broken-down, rusted-out F-150, and left the previous broken-down, rusted-out F-150 parked and unmoved on the street for a year, taking up a valuable parking space in a densely populated neighborhood? That he’s owned by somebody who dresses up in camouflage and runs around in the woods “being a man?” That he’s owned by a Bush voter? That he’s owned by a man who has a couch and miscellaneous garbage on his front porch? That he’s owned by a weak, imitation dictator who came from Wal-Mart? Does the dog know and understand all of these things? Is the dog that strong?