Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Dystopian Clusterfuck

Trump won the election.  I don't know how and I don't know why.  I've heard various explanations, like the bowels of the earth opened up and spewed their contents into the crankcase of a busted 43 Oldsmobile owned by the Devil and maintained by Pep Boys, to the raging hoards of disaffected and unemployed white male population of the mid-United States suffering simultaneous attacks of Mad Cow Disease.  I tend to favor the latter theory since those types of people eat a lot of hamburger.  People have short memories nowadays, but there was a time when the very thought of grinding bovine spinal cords and brains into hamburger meat sent people running for the shitters all over the nation.  Now?  Ah, who cares?

It wasn't supposed to turn out this way.  In fact, on the night of the election results coming in I was at a potluck with some friends.  The guy with the big eyebrows brought margeritas, somebody made tamales, somebody else a salad.  I brought pasta and we were all geared up for a jolly good time.  But by 8 o'clock things weren't looking the way they should.  It should have been a landslide for Hillary.  What kind of moron would vote for a slimy psychopathic con man with a dead red squirrel on his head?  I went home and binge watched a few episodes of "The Walking Dead" on Netflix, downed a glass of wine with an Ativan chaser, then hoped and prayed the morning would bring something other than it did.  Hell, I didn't even make it to the real morning but awoke at 3 AM and just had to check. There it was "Donald Trump to be 45th president of the United States."  It's hard to describe what I felt.  It was similar to what I felt on 9/11, when I knew what we needed in the Whitehouse was an enlightened leader, only instead we had George W. Bush.  I felt like Chaos had been unleashed only it was so much worse that that sort of disorganization implies.  It felt as if all the worst impulses of the human animal had been shot up with meth and let out of the zoo.

Civilization is a thin veneer.  It dropped away like a pervert's piss-stained pants.

In other news, and because this is blogging and nobody gives 2 shits about continuity, I quit my job today.  I was working at a luxury resort where people pay enormous amounts of money to eat healthy food, do yoga, waggle giant fire hoses around in the gym (this is a real exercise), get their tarot cards read, receive psychic readings, find out why their bowels are acting up or their penises won't follow their commands. Menopausal women are very upset because they're no longer the fuck machines their rich husbands married and are panicked at the realization that it's only a matter of time before they're traded in for newer models.  I worked in, "Medical," which is just across the walkway from "Metaphysics," "Spiritual Consulting" and, ah, I think golf.  I worked at this resort for nearly 3 months-- close to a record for me-- and never saw a sick person.  Rich people would come in to get their blood drawn to find out how they were metabolizing their vitamins, or if they were allergic to cumin, or whether spandex caused them too much stress and was giving them a rash.  Since the ascendence of "Medicine for Profit" commercial labs have sprung up all over the place mostly pandering to these kinds of people.  These labs will test for anything and charge more for it than the GNP of many small African nations.  And rich people fork over the dough too.  My job was to draw blood and send it off to these labs.  The labs would send back long reports telling everybody to eat more kale and less fatty food.  Beware the Medical/Industrial/Kale complex.

Now really, saying I drew blood is kind of an exaggeration and in the end the reason I quit.  Oh, I'm good with a needle, no problem there but the management was never quite convinced I would be able to treat the rich people with the deferance and fealty they deserved.  You have to fawn a lot over the monied classes, and if one of them is convinced that having a tiny needle stuck into an arm vein is tantamount to open heart surgery, you have to treat them as if it is.  I suppose in the end, and when all was said and done, I just didn't have that in me.  Mostly I had, "grow up you fucking babys!" stacked up like planes over La Guardia on a Friday night.  Still, I thought I hid it pretty well.  But maybe not.

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