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It’s the buzz in the lounge. It’s the prattle around the water cooler, the conversation near the coffee pot: the poor obsessive-compulsive woman who had eight babies… to add to her present six children. What she did not have was a “job” and a “husband.” Sandwiched between the tsk-tsks and the cluck-clucks is grousing about how “I made my mortgage payments, and now I have to bail out the people who didn’t." That’s right, Gomeretta… all by yourself you gotta support 14 more kids... and buy 7 million houses.
Oh yeah… and you and Mr. Gomer are “pro-life,” right? The Gomers are completely incapable of saying the word, “tax” without tacking “hard-earned” on the front and “dollars” on the back. Gomeretta has thirty years in the school system, won’t join NEA because it’s “socialist,” but will defend to the death her cupcake break and counts her vacation and sick-days like Silas Marner. Gomer must grovel daily to keep his “job” as auditor in PonziCo International’s Paper-clip Counting and Surety division.
Gomer needs to sit on an inflatable donut so his ’rhoids can swing freely over his orthopedic office chair. Stress, you know, watching power-point presentations and eating cookies at least twice a week. It’s a meat-grinder, I yell you. The Gomers are outraged, yes they are, and they aren’t going to take it any more… because their “tax” (tack on the prefix and suffix yourself) are going to pay for… well you know… Octupletta and her test tubes that a judge oughta tie off and throw away the key.
Don’t waste your time telling the Gomers that the judges are too busy shipping juveniles off to private “contractors” to help PonziPrisonCo create shareholder value. They’ll give you the same look they gave you six years ago when you pointed to their yellow magnets and Chinese-made Suburban-fender flags and told them that Saddam didn’t have diddly-dick. The trillions that have gone down the terror-toilet are as remote as the clicker that changes the channels on the why-doesn’t-it-work-now teevee.
But I aint talking about “them,” Jack, I’m talking about YOU if you wasted one second watching a broadcast, responding to a “poll,” voicing an “opinion” or even joining in a conversation about Octupletta. You know who you are, and by God, there are millions of you out there in the US of Asshats. The snakes are jangling the keys in front of you, and you drool and mesmerize while your (children’s) very own death by war, pestilence and famine is bearing down on you like a freight train with a billion-watt headlight.
It’s like this: we hit the iceberg, the bow is almost underwater, and you are “outraged” because somebody on the Deck-chair Lineup Committee might have gotten an extra piece of chicken at the Bon-Voyage Dinner? I mean; what-the-fiddle-so-I-may-avoid-the-involuntary-asterisk-so-as-not-to-offend-the-“swing-voters” kind of stinking “bull shoe” is THAT? Let me boil this down: very soon, the grunions in your neighborhood are going to kill you for a roll of toilet paper. They are going to sip soup out of your skull.
What the HELL is WRONG with you people?
