Friday, October 08, 2004

No Lament...

Ch. 2

No Lament for the Life of the Lamenting

5:30pm. Charles P. Wennings, as his photo-copied sign and Dial-a-Label-badge stated, was still proudly manning the security desk, as he had done for the past fifteen years. All in all, it had added itself up to be a typical Wednesday. And at the end of every Wednesday, without fail, Charles indulged himself in a little rush-hour porn. His crappy computer terminal, to keep sensitive network information from the curious eyes of temp-hired security monkeys, was dial-up and off the building’s main security backbone. It was put there to keep the poorly-paid: entertained. Every Wednesday, after all the elevators were done spitting out trench-coat executives and mini-skirted office assistants, Charles took full advantage of this web-enabled perk. He always claimed to suck at navigating the internet whenever his wife requested help configuring their email at home, but found the rich world of online porn without a single lesson. It was as if he was born to locate the stuff.

As he was lazily perusing a sight that had apparently dedicated itself to the fetish of ass-fucking pregnant teenage women from Malaysia by barnyard animals, he noticed someone approaching the counter. He quickly faced the console away and looked up to greet this ill-timed visitor. “Office hours are 7am to 5pm sir. You’ll have to sign… Oh, hey Mr. Harding! Long time no see!” The visitor bellied up to the bar, and breathed a thick wave of whiskey humidity into Charles’s face as he responded. “Hey Charles, I just need to pick up a few things, that I, umm left here. Mr. Jacob knows I’m dropping by and got it all ready for me. I just need you to key me in to the thirty-second floor.” Charles began to slowly shake his head, crinkling his features, giving away all the hidden wrinkles that marked his 55 years on the planet. “You know I can’t do that Mr. Harding. I escorted you out, remember? You’ll have to come back next Tuesday when Mr. Jacob returns from Bombay.” Mr. Harding stepped back from the desk, putting his hands on his hips, parting the unbuttoned flannel shirt underneath his synthetic leather flight jacket. A tuft of messed hair flopped down to his face, and was promptly blown back up with one shooshed breath. “Yeah, see that’s the thing, actually. I really needed this stuff earlier than that. It’s all healthcare related, and I really need to get my Cobra plan up and going. I have the kid, and all, so I need that… stuff… done. So I need it tonight, I can’t wait until next week.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you Mr. Harding.”

Mr. Harding took another step back, grabbed his chin, tucked his head, and scratched his patchy beard. It made the sound of Styrofoam being rubbed on sandpaper. Charles hated that sound, it made his funny bone tickle.

“Is there someone else in the building you could call who would bring it down to you? Because I can’t let you on that elevator. Especially not to the thirty-second floor. That’s a security level.”

Charles sat back down, and peered over at the activities of a petite, brown woman and what appeared to be a half-dozen goats. A fantastic voyage into the ecstasy-laden world of unknown fetish was about to happen out in internet land, and this Harding guy was about to void Charles’s ticket.

“Uh, no, I don’t know anyone here anymore Charles, they all kinda severed ties with me after the, uh, scandal, or whatever you want to call it.” Mr. Harding was beginning to take on an air of desperation that was so palpable that it pulled Charles away from the barnyard antics playing out on the screen.

“You aren’t going to leave without that paperwork, are you.” It was not a question, but it was aimed at Mr. Harding through the blinkless eyes of Charles.

“No. I really need that stuff. Gotta get Chaz to the pediatrician asap. Ear and throat thing. Maybe strep.” Then his tone changed rapidly to nervous and urgent. “Look Charles, I don’t care how, but it has to get done tonight. You gotta get me up there. I am beyond serious here.”

Charles stared deep into Mr. Harding’s eyes, passing his focus from the left, to the right, to calculate the true gravity of his desperation. “Alright, I’ll go up there and get it for you. I know what sick kids’ll do to a man’s weekend. You should see a doctor too, Mr. Harding, if you don’t mind me sayin’. You don’t look too good.”

“Don’t worry about me. Thirty second floor. Box of papers in the main conference room.”

“The one by that balcony, right? With all that TV equipment in it?”

“Yes, all that multi-media communication-video-conference… yes, by those things.” And then, Harding let out a wet burp. He wiped it off with the sleeve of his jacket and let his right eyelid droop down a bit.

Charles winced, pursed his lips, pushed his rolling chair back, and started walking toward the elevator. His keys were jangling, creating echoes that could have been mistaken for a million keys, bouncing off the polished marble walls by the elevator bank. He arrived at the first open elevator and entered. None of the elevators would operate after hours without an access key, so he fumbled through his set to find the green plastic-gripped key that slid into the proper slot indicating the thirty-second floor. As soon as the key was turned, the doors began sliding to meet one another. The sound of running footsteps echoing through the outside hall was ended when Mr. Harding flew into the elevator, just between the closing doors, ramming Charles: first against the mirrored wall, and then to floor. Mr. Harding stood over him as the elevator smoothly ascended the necessary levels. Looking down on a gasping Charles, he apologized for his behavior. “Sorry to do this Charles, but you wouldn’t let me up there man.” His bangs were hanging down over his face, which was blocking the overhead lights in the cabin, making Mr. Harding look even more sinister than the situation designed. “They could have fucking called me to get the goddamn story straight. I’ve just been tired, that’s all. They’re on some fucking witch-hunt around here and I got fucking burned. That’s it. That’s all it was. Not some ‘Potential Breach of Ethics Policy’ shit. No one even knows what that FUCKING MEANS.”

Charles’s neck was underneath the well-worn Nike Shox on Mr. Harding’s left foot. The pressure was slight, but it was enough to keep Charles from testing the situation. “This ain’t the way Mr. Harding. You… got to… follow protocol…” The weight behind the shoe was increasing as Charles tried to reason with him. But the reasoning appeared to be a fruitless effort. Fearing death, Charles said nothing else to the thirty-second floor. When the door dinged “now open!”, Mr. Harding paused for a couple of seconds, staring into the stressed and bugged-out eyes of the sweating and slightly squirming security officer under his shoe, and then in an almost whisper, spoke. “We all have our time here, Charles. You have yours, and I have had mine. Maybe I fucked up, maybe I didn’t. But everyone blames me. I blame me. And I’m just tired of blame-blame-blame, do this, do that, no: not right, gotta follow the protocol, blame-blame-blame, fuck the whole thing. It’s about time… Jesus, I need the rest.”

And with that, he released his captive and bolted through the doors just as they started to slide back together.

“Mr. Harding!” Charles choked, as he sat up. “Mr. Harding! Timothy, don’t…” But the doors had already sealed shut, and the elevator was dutifully making its way back down, irreverent to the tragic, self-inflicted end of a human tragedy, incapable by cool mechanical design to recognize what just transpired in its maw.

Back at his desk, on his screen, the goats had finished their confused ritual with a strange hairless ape, and were wandering around the set while stagehands carried the hardly-conscious woman out of web-cam range, womb and all.

Never With Permission

“You serious? I told her the party was going off at ten. She should have known.”

Shelly rummaged through a bag of tortilla chips on the kitchen counter, fumbling over crumbs and bits, searching for a piece substantial enough to scoop into the ravaged bowl of guacamole by the microwave, left over from the previous night. The bowl had smudges of green down all sides, and appeared to have been up-ended or knocked off the counter at some point during its service as a condiment vessel. Shelly’s vibrating youth was a welcomed contrast to the shambles that her apartment was in: the destructive wake of a collegiate kegger the night before. Between crunching on the salted chip-bits, she posed and answered questions to Amber, on the other line of the cordless phone.

“I know, I know. She’s been acting all weird lately. I swear, it’s like she’s been PMSing for the past two months or something.”

Half-empty cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon littered the counter, and empty red Solo cups blew in the wind outside the sliding patio door off the kitchen, mixed in with leaves and cigarette butts, circling the keg trashcan. Flies were making their rounds amongst the post-party wreckage. The kitchen floor had a film on it, like fly paper, and Shelly’s sandals shlacked and shtucked as she moved around on it, while she picked at various remnants from the retired festivities.

Finally, she settled in on the bag of tortilla chips, and thoughtfully chewed while listening/responding to Amber’s chatter.

“Yeah, I remember her saying something about that. She was all ‘I don’t feel like partying it up tonight, I have that real estate exam on Monday,’ but whatever. She’s depressed or something.”

As she continued to graze over the chips in the bag, she consistently missed a dead cockroach that had made its way into the bag at some point in the earlier hours of the morning and died. She touched and nudged the crispy carcass a number of times, but neglected to choose it due to its lack of guac-scooping surface area.

“Actually, I am starting to worry about her Amber. I mean, this is just not like Carrie to be so anti-social. She knew that Kev was going to be here last night. And she’s always been after him.”

She flipped the roach twice, half-considering it, still not looking at the bag. Her brunette hair was more of a light honey than cocoa, and it looked even lighter as the bright 3pm sun shown through the kitchen window above the hanging-fern sink. The fern had seen better days, and almost appeared to be trying to jump out of its basket and into the ever-moist sink. Through months of neglect, it had become brown in the center and greener over the edges. A victim of neglect.

The dead roach had apparently entered the bag, made not of the abundant food available there, and decided it was a pleasant place to raise a family. There was a ripe egg amongst the tortilla shards, being pushed about the depths of the bag by Shelly’s salty fingertips while she searched for usable pieces.

“No kidding? Shut! Up! You made out with Kevin? Whoa. Good thing she didn’t come then.”

As she paused to concentrate on Amber’s replay of events which led to her and Kevin’s late-night rendezvous in the upstairs bathroom, Shelly took in a deep breath of stale liquored air. She made a noxious face, and decided that the backed-up sink needed to be emptied of beer caps, fruit pieces, napkins, and stagnant whiskey water. The disposal would have to wait until after the conversation, as Amber was sensitive about phone etiquette. So she began to fish out the un-grind-able elements, placing them to the side of the sink, wincing with each successful pluck of party garbage.

Amber, Shelly and Carrie had been close since middle school, when they were all on the dance squad together. Go Wildcats, fight-fight-fight! They danced for the basketball team in their miniscule northern Mississippi town. There were too few boys available to make a full football team, but they managed to put together enough lads between 6th and 8th grade to participate in some barely-qualifies-as-a-school division for basketball. They played two other schools, and they routinely swapped players, as fairness required. This environment helped the girls become extremely close, but Amber often thought that it denied them the opportunity to “really see what’s out there”. Shelly never seemed to mind the quaint smallness of their hometown. She even appeared intent on returning there, after “seeing the world.” Carrie just seemed to follow the opinion of whomever she happened to be talking to at the moment. She was always apt to act as an emotional weather vane. Forming opinions never seemed a priority to Carrie.

But now, they were in Durham, trying to go to school. Shelly was taking a semester off to “get” herself “together.” This is the third such semester, peppered between below-average stints of education. Sometimes, she feels that she is only there to find a good man. She does not know what she wants to do, and does not believe that a degree in Marketing will help her discover her real desires. No one taught ambition back in their smallish hometown.

“You call her then. I don’t want it to seem like I’m harping on it, you know? Besides, she still has my Chapstick, and I’ve been hounding her about that. You know, that flavor isn’t available around here, and I’m soooo addicted to that stuff.”

Shelly needed Chapstick the same way that bull-riders need a thick leather glove to avoid cutting their palms on the reigns. In its absence, she felt vulnerable and unsightly. To not have it around was to run the risk of rawness, puffed-flakiness, and to wake up in the mornings with blood-cracks running down her chin. Of course this never actually happened to her… but she attributes the successful avoidance of such discomfort to her always having her strawberry wax-stick readily available. Hence the “addiction”.

CDs were strewn all over the coffee table, interspersed with wax drippings from candles that were allowed to burn all the way down to their anchors. The table finish is undoubtedly damaged as a result. During the course of the night, a bong was overturned a number of times, splashing its gritty, funky contents on the couch and on the well-worn pathway in front of the couch, behind the strewn coffee table. In what would be a very cliché way, the lamp next to the couch, in the corner of the two-bedroom town home, was missing the shade. But it was never removed by an over-zealous party-goer, for it was never there to begin with. Just like the rest of Shelly’s furniture, it was obviously “found” on a curb, or “abandoned” by some long-forgotten roommate. Nevertheless, it gave light, which is more than the overhead light could do. Shelly was never good with bulb replacement for ceiling lights. She claimed that she was afraid of getting shocked, or falling from a chair while stretching to delicately screw it in. But in reality, she was just plain lazy.

“She’s had it for the past week. When you call her, mention it, will you? Seriously. I am so not kidding.”

The roach had been fingered back and forth, front and back through the bag. She touched it more and more often as her dipping options were being exhausted.

“Oh, and did you see when Chuck punched that townie last night? It really turned me on. I mean, the guy totally deserved it for grabbing my ass like that. What an asshole. I am so lucky Chuck is still my boyfriend. I mean, if that guy had been bigger, I still would have lost my shit on him the same way. Some guys just think that hip huggers are an invitation or something. Anyway, like I was saying, Chuck knocked him out cold!”

Shelly was rearranging all the bags of chips from around the kitchen, consolidating what she could, making room on the counter to sit. She came across a bag of mesquite smoked barbeque chips, and placed it to the side by itself.

“I don’t know what happened to him Amber. I guess his friends carried him out or something. I don’t care. Asshole. I just found a bag of Chuck’s favorite chips. Awww, he must have been too sick last night to eat it all. Half a bag left.”

She picked it up and dropped it a couple of times, delicately, playfully, being careful not to crush any whole chips that may still be inside (she was already struggling with chip rubble within her bag of Tostidos).

“That was kinda strange huh? Yeah, he just got sick I guess. He came over to me and was like, ‘gotta go honey, I think I’m gonna spew. Joseph was makin’ me do shots…’ and then he burped a wet one. Joseph is like, evil or something. When Chuck and I get married, he will be banned from Jo. No ‘Jo’ time for my man!” Then she giggled, half at the idea of barring Chuck from doing something, and half at the dream of marriage. In a poorly lit corner of her mind, a little light flickered when she had the thought of marriage. Her dress, the flowers, the way the sun would shine, the happiness, the faceless but perfectly shaped body of him, and the absolute perfection of that day… Oh, and Chuck too.

She pried open the bag of barbeque chips, and removed a greasy and heavily powdered specimen. After scooping it into the guacamole, listening intently to Amber chatter, she leveled it to her mouth and shoveled it in. Squinting in disappointment, she folded the barbeque bag back up and moved back over to the bag inhabited by the dead roach and egg, still neglecting to inspect the contents.

“No, he was definitely not feeling good. I could tell. He might have already hurled in the backyard. I’ll probably find his pile over by the hose where I saw Jeremy and his date screwing… yeah, on that broken picnic table… I know! She better be on the pill, girl!”

Shelly picked the chopstick out of her hair, letting the strands drop down to her shoulders. She tossed it behind her and bent over to pick up a tuna can from the floor, bits of tuna dropping from it as she tossed it into the corner where the Jenga-filled trashcan sat, emitting flies.

“Yeah, Kevin’s cute I guess. That’s between you and her. I am totally staying clear of that one.”

She slipped her smallish hand back into the tortilla chip bag, re-fondled every piece of chip dirt, and the roach. She then moved back over to the barbeque bag, opened it and removed a sizable piece and bit half of it, looking focused on Amber’s high-pitched voice squeak things of little importance. She eyed the guacamole bowl as she reached back into the bag, and made a face of disgust. Then, she sparked upright and bounced just slightly.

“Oh, oh, oh. Wait, don’t call her for a bit. Chuck is taking her to the doctor today. Remember? She’s probably going to get back on the pill… I know. That’s probably what has her so jacked up. She said she needed to borrow my car for a visit to her doctor, and Chuck offered to drive her so I could have my car so I won’t be late to work today. Such a sweetie. If he knew it was her gyno he probably would have said ‘hell no!’ but I didn’t tell him that. I hope he isn’t too sick to do it. I’ll call his cell in a minute to make sure. I can drop her off on my way to Bennigan’s. God, I hate that fucking job.”

Amber and Shelly knew that Carrie needed to be on the pill. Her monthly movements were especially rough, and she always got migraines as a result. It was curious that she decided to vacate the pill for the past four months, but her friends never questioned that decision.

“Me too, I hope that gets her back into it. Yeah, maybe that’s all she needs.”

Shelly reached over to the barbeque bag, fished around for a bit and with a disturbed look on her face, removed a small tube of strawberry Chapstick. She held it up at eye level, inspecting it, turning it around and around in her grease-slicked fingers.

“Holy shit Amber! My Chapstick was in Chuck’s bag of chips! Awesome.” A quizzed look fell over her face for a moment, and then relaxed itself away. Her left hand drew up to converge with her right on the little plastic tube. She twisted it open and applied a thick layer of strawberry flavor no. 4 wax to her salted lips.

“I know, who would have thought. Weird, I guess I don’t need to ask her for to give me back what’s mine then… I know, crazy, huh?”

She reached over to the bag of tortilla bits, pursed the opening closed, and rolled it all the way down, compressing the crumbled contents. As she was shtuck-shtucking her way across the sticky floor toward the tower of refuse to deposit the chip remnants amongst other soon-to-be-forgotten garbage, the egg hatched…

Hundreds of baby roaches poured from the shell and began making their way in the world, like many things surrounding Shelly: with her help, but certainly not her permission. Life, as Shelly had grown to know it, continued to occur around her. It almost always occurred with her help.

But certainly not with her permission.

Thursday, October 07, 2004

Are you kidding me?

Maybe it is my advancing age, or my personal advancement in the area of cognizance, or even that my diet has changed a bit recently (more breakfast tacos). Whatever the reason, this country is looking more and more insane by the day. I'm just breezing through CNN's kaleidoscope of today's events, and I cannot help but feel disturbed. Here's a re-cap of some crap I'm talkin' 'bout:

1) Dude is nuts. And supremely stupid. And I can say that, without bias (sure, why not?), because I am simply surveying the facts and making a sound assessment. If you want to do someone harm, you don't write them a letter explaining who will be exacting it, and how it will be played out. Never mind the hatred behind it. Stupid people tend to harbor things like hatred. The hatred is more of an easily spotted symptom of stupidity. This guy has a profound case of stunted intellectual ability. "One man Aryan Nation"? Crazy what? Very sad. Very dumb. He should do us all a big favor and get an education before he hurts someone (namely: himself).

2) Presidential (and Vice) debates. Blah blah blah blah nanny-nanny-boo-boo "I have a list here, in my hand, and running in my head, of why I think you suck and I can kick your ass." - "Oh yeah? Well here's MY list on YOU, and it is 12.3% longer than yours on me, and mine contains more granular statistical references based on more current yet galactically more vague data. So there poo-poo head. My dad can kick your dad's butt. Suck. On. It." Moderator: "Issues? Whuzzat? Shut up public, we're trying to have a popularity contest here." We know, we know. You have nothing of any substance to say, and feel the need to wind-bag it all over the media at every opportunity. Phhht.

3) Religion is upon us. Potters House is all up in everything all of a sudden. I remember these knuckleheads from my Alief childhood back in Houston. TD Jakes is a damn good salesman. I appreciate good faith. And I appreciate people finding some kind of meaning to their existence. But I don't believe PH is in business to help anyone but themselves. Zealots should scare you too.

4) Rumsfeld. I don't need to elaborate on the insanity within.

5) Green Day is still referred to as "Punk". No. They are not. Not that they aren't good, but they are no longer punk. Face the facts. No one is. No one has been punk for quite some time. Please let the insanity end. We are all tired of pretending.

6) Somebody patented the fucking combover, 26 years ago. If that isn't nuts... then fuck it. What is?

Wednesday, October 06, 2004

Spanish looking typing is easy

But I am not, in any way, literate in the language. But that shouldn't be a problem for me to type the stuff, since I am unable to read it anyhow. No proofreading for this fucking post, yeah!!!

After clicking the "next blog" button somewhere in the neighborhood of five billion times, I have come to the conclusion that this particular blogsphere is comprised chiefly of:

5%--- Instapundit-types (Yes, you are totally making a difference in the presidential race), busted-ass adverts (Welcome to Malaroy Life Insurance Blog! <- you are dumbasses) and misc nothing-writers such as myself.
10%--- Teenagers from Malaysia (I lUrve Ur Bl000000gerz grlz!)
15%--- Teenage girls from the Midwest and Florida (Yes, that boy totally wants you, and that other girl is a total bitch - beat her up tomorrow during phys ed)
70%--- Spanish typists (I have clue: not, what you are typing about, and that gets me totally amped up about your craft)

I want to be part of the majority here. No more marginalization for truecraig, goddamnit. I live in Tejas, and that is close enough to Mejico for me to spout the language like I know it. Without having to bother actually knowing it. Damnit.

To all you Spanish Typist fans out there: I can type Spanish looking stuff too, watch. And don't you worry, those evil Repubicans can't read darkie languages, so don't worry about me offending anyone (yup, spellcheck caught that one). We're soooooo safe here! They can't even decipher your use of front-of-the-statement punctuation! This stuff is like fucking kryptonite to their Superhuman Sensibilities! It is on like... El Kong de Burro.

***Begin truecraig spanish-type now***

?Ahora! !Yo soy una biblioteca muy sobrosa! .Donde esta los pinche gringos con juevos; !Es para mi familia cabron? :Que Suerte!

Pardoname for un momento:

)Los burritos mas buenos, por nada punte en los cabezas estan una vida loca picante. ?Es soy importante en los solamentes para Taco Bell' !Queso en las abuelas por los tios en la casa. Es para usted. ;No mas problemas para los ninos va a Old El Paso o en pais de Dos Equis.

!Los pollos muy barachos. ,Yo tengo una poblano pepper por los chiquitos con Gorditos y Nachos Supreme!

!!Es verdad. !El gordo jefe es una puta grande! ?Callete, es verdad, es puta negra por mi peros blancos!

Fin, putos. Me voy.

Monday, October 04, 2004

Waiting for #6?

I bet you are. You'll have to wait. I ranted today instead.

My next one involves another airplane ride. Really, it is rather similiar to Drink Story #1.< The look on the mother of that kid... fucking classic! Good times, good times...

Sort of similiar story, anyhow. Wait.

Owning the fuck up... damnit.

I am tired of thinking about it. Really, I am. Too much to consider. Too much humiliation to own up to. Lazy, that is what it really boils down to. And you cannot really apologize for being lazy. You can admit it though. But admitting such fault really sucks donkey nards. Yes, I said nards. And I mean it too. I need to barf up a wandering rant concerning something I have no right to rant about. Yes…

Why bother? I am just some random guy. Things have always “happened” whether I got involved or not. Shit went down long before my arrival. I can only assume that they will continue long after I pass. My day-to-day life is enough for me to deal with, really. I don’t need the extra headache of monitoring the activities and decisions of people/bodies so utterly abstracted from my daily life. It all seems terribly complicated, and I am far too busy to get wrapped up in the mess of it all. Leave that to the professionals…

Ah yes. Stoned and worthless apathy. That little bit of “whatever man” that allows us to pull ourselves through our little bit of day. So easy. So tempting to just let it all roll right off. Water from a duck’s ass, eh? Yes. Soooo easy. Just watch cable instead. Truck on down that path of least resistance. Why try to tough it out?

Screw it. I’m taking that easy path instead.

Or… am I?

It seems to me: that particular path has the least amount of resistance for good reason. There is a-lot of control in the hands of a relative few. Would it stand to reason that they follow the same path as every other shmoe out there? Every sad bastard and their sad sense of entitlement has plowed down that shitty path-of-the-popular, wallowing in mediocrity and anonymity. That trail of self-importance (over social consciousness) is well marked. Well traveled. Even recommended, secretly, by those who benefit most by persistent indifference. It was blazed by our laziest ancestors. And they were the majority, I guarantee. The duped majority. The “middle class” that always foots the bills and rarely REQUIRES representation. That portion of the population that simply says to themselves: “well shit man, I guess this is how things are” without ever wondering how they got to be that way in the first place. That portion of the population that has been brow-beaten to the point where they wave a white flag when confronted with the possibility that they will have to ACT in order to be heard. “Someone else will pick up the slack…”

No. They won’t. Not for your sorry ass, anyway. Why should someone look out for you and your interests when you are perfectly capable of taking care of that yourself? What stake would anyone else have in maintaining your apathetic existence? What stake is there in that, anyhow?

This country has typically been controlled by a two-party system for the majority of its (rather brief, thus far) existence. But they have not always been the same two parties that we have today. In fact, the two parties of today have only persisted through time in name only. Their policies, politics, and platforms have consistently changed (contrary to what they might have you believe). Smart money would predict changes going forward. Change will not occur to your benefit without your input. If you don’t participate, then you are guaranteeing that you and your interests will be left out. That doesn’t mean just voting. You have to actually think about what you want, and what the system can/cannot provide. Then you have to work toward speaking up for yourself and your interests, or finding a proper representative to do this work for you. You must be diligent in your efforts to promote change and sincere in your desire to affect betterment. Get off of your shoulder-shrugging ass.

Otherwise, your apathy will be rewarded in the form of a system and government, which will be as indifferent to your situation as you are to it. You will reap what you sow. Your elected officials will only feel the need to consider YOU as much as you consider THEM. Your apathy toward them\their decisions will earn you as much in return. You and your future genetic material (“invented”, cloned) will be left out. You and yours will fade away into that nameless void of apathetic middle-class. Neither successful, nor revolutionary, and certainly not courageous. A formless watermark on the pages of the intentional, action-driven, winner-written history of mankind. An accidental, not-even-footnoted existence. Wow. How impressive.

Your forefathers worked for you to be better than this. Your children deserve better from you.

Or just ignore the Drink Story guy, and go back to slugging away for a fist full of nothingness. Why not? After all, I am just some random guy.