Tuesday, November 01, 2005

November 1, 2005 (2,433 words out of 50,000)

1.

The best thing about this country is, no matter how dumb you are, at least fifty-percent of the population is dumber than you.

It’s all about your station in this country. You can be some third-grade drop out from Fuckedmysistertown, Kansas and find yourself in a situation where you need to get the best of the President, Rhode-scholar direct descendant of David, King of the fucking Jews, and all you gotta do is play the “common man card” and you’ll get along fine. Because the President, despite his lineage to the first great king of the tribe of Judah and God’s most revered disciple, he loves his power – and if he denies the “common man card” – he ain’t holding onto it.

I read about a guy that played the “common man card” to get his tax debt waved. Pillar of the community – local farmer – feeding something like point-zero-zero-zero-one percent of some ass-backward state like North Dakota. The guy was as dumb as he was ugly and he died a lonely virgin in a town with four chicks for every dude. Dumb mother fucker never paid a dime in taxes – IRS found him out. Now this cat starts going around and giving free corn here and there to the people in his community and making a big stink about how he gives all he can to this country – he gives us life, he gives us federally subsidized fructose that’s making our asses fat – and he does it without turning hardly a penny of profit – he’s a goddamn martyr. The easily manipulated people that live in his district, they all start believing this dumb fuck and holding protests for him. The local congressman is twenty-three years in the business and doesn’t want to start shit with his constituents that barely even know his name at this point - the last thing he wants is to get called back home to North Fucking Dakota where the blowjobs are less frequent than they are in D.C. due to the fact that his ice-queen fat-bitch of a wife has better things to put in her mouth. Things like carcinogens, fajitas and the occasional piece of deep-fried broccoli. So this congressman uses some connections and makes some calls and gets the IRS to bury this guy’s tax bill.

And this was a dude from North Dakota, never left his town, and never even started school. Plowing fields since he was five – never done so much as a crossword puzzle – and he outsmarted the IRS.

My friend Charles, this guy works the deli counter at Pathmark five days a week. Didn’t even finish high-school. Friendly as all fuck, he’ll slice your meat, laugh, tell those jokes that black people only tell to make white people feel comfortable around them – make them feel “down”. Once he loosens these white people up he segues into this sob-story about how he just got evicted and he has nowhere to live. You see that laughter instantly fade to an uncomfortable silence – Charles ain’t asking for anything, he’s just telling it like it is – how it’s hard to be black and trying to get by. So he lays this shit on and the rich white woman looks to her rich white husband and the rich white husband rolls his eyes and silently nods and the rich white woman turns to Charlie and says, “You can stay with us while you try to get on your feet.”

If it was a white dude they’d tell the bum to get a second job but they can’t do that to black folk. These poor black folk where ripped from their homelands to be slaves only to be kicked out of their plantations and cast into a world that didn’t fucking want them. And now here he is the result of your great white ancestor’s oppression, homeless and starved. This poor black man that was always so nice to you and always cut your Santa Fe Turkey extra thin and gave you an extra tenth (and sometimes a quarter) of a pound of meat. He’s always making you laugh, always making you feel welcomed, never down-trodden and always upbeat and telling humorous negro anecdotes and saying inappropriate things at inappropriate times like that black guy that looks like that black guy that stars in that movie with Jackie Chan. If it was a white guy, he’d be shit out of luck.

And Charles sells it. He gives the white folks that put him up twenty, thirty bucks a week, telling them that this is the most he can give while he has these fucking “I’m sorry massa” tears in his eyes. They try to turn it away but he insists, saying that if they don’t take it he’s going to have to leave.

He’s not a free-loader. He’s not a nigger.

And these white folk eat it up. “Charles is so nice,” they tell their friends, almost proud that they found a nice black man as if it was as elusive as fucking Bigfoot. Charles will stay there for a month until he finds his next mark, some other old white couple that laughed at one of his jokes he made about white people.

“Turkey? Why white people allllwwaayyys getting’ Turkey? Back in the ghetto, turkey was what we called the girl next doh’ that was always bobbin’ her head up and down like ‘dis. Yeahhhh – she bobbed that big ‘ole head on me, too. What you think? I see you smilin’. Turkey. What ‘bout salami? Ham? Don’t white folk eat bologna anymo’?”

Charles makes seven-bucks an hour, forty hours a week and pays twenty-bucks a week for room and board. He’s living like a fucking king because he’s smarter than these lawyers and doctors and kings of industry that aren’t averse to taking in a charity case.

At least fifty-percent of this country is dumber than you. No matter who you are. You can be the statistically and biologically dumbest person in the fucking world and there are still at least one-hundred-and-fifty-million people in this country that are dumber than you. Because it all comes down to how you play them. It all comes down to what your cards can get you. I’m a twenty-something, well paid white dude. I’m not particularly smart nor am I what some corny faggot might call a lady’s man. I have nothing going for me. And I’ll still get the better of more than one-hundred-and-fifty-million of the people in this country – I just have to play them differently.

I went on a date with this one chick, upper-mid-management type for some company that sells some type of something that someone needs so badly that they make over a billion dollars in revenue every year – I pick her up and her low-cut shirt is so fucking tight that the seams are sweating, trying to hold on with everything they got. She was wheezing with every breath because she can barely force her lungs to suck in the minimum amount of air that is needed to survive. Her jeans look like they were grafted on, displaying every crevice on her lower body from the camel-toe to the varicose veins that were trying to break out of the dungaree treatment. She’s wearing fuck-me boots that match nothing but her fuck-me perfume. She even pronounced my name J-oohhhhh-seph like the fucking sound of it forced her to cream her pants. I’m thinking this is a guaranteed score so I waste no time – an hour into the date I’m sucking her face over a plate of scalloped oysters in tomato sauce when she pushes me off and tells me she’s a Catholic.

I tell her she don’t act like it, backing away from it, and she insists on proving to me that just because she believes our Lord and Savior will damn her to hell if she lets my dick within a couple of inches of her pussy she’s still a fun chick. Five minutes later she’s sucking me off in the bathroom of Red Lobster, this thirty-year-old divorcee slut that’s on the end of her rope and can’t cope with the fact that her savior abandoned her. Two kids at home and going down on some dude she just met in a family-oriented restaurant where the waiters wear Hawaiian shirts and try to push the Key Lime Pie on you despite the fact that you stuffed your face with crab legs and fiesta shrimp. This six-figure a year, PHD in management, balls-to-the-wall tough bitch that masturbates whenever she fires someone is kneeling in piss, toilet-paper stuck to her shin, and asking me repeatedly if I liked the way her mouth feels.

Statistically there’re at least one-hundred-and-fifty-million people dumber than me. Realistically I’d say it’s closer to three-hudred-million.

After college I got interviewed by four of them. I came to them with my b-fucking-minus GPA and rolled up the sleeves on my Ike Behar shirt that cost more than their Men’s Warehouse suits, loosened my Prada tie and told them why, despite what seems to be a complete lack of qualifications, they should hire me to work for their company. And all they could do was look at me and say to themselves, “holy-fucking-damn, now this is the kind of guy I want to go on business trips with.” I came to work for them and they gave me a signing bonus and a salary and an office and extra vacation time and all the space I needed to “get adjusted” and all I had to do was go on business trips when they asked, sit in on some marketing meeting and then shove some dollar bills into a piece of dental floss that’s wedged up a stripper’s ass, making my coworker not feel guilty about the lap dance he got in the private room from the girl that’s younger than his daughter.

Spent five years in that place getting stock and bonuses and raises and promotions and did jack-fucking-shit from ten-thirty in the morning until I left at three in the afternoon. Got a pin after being there a year. A wooden block with my name on it after two. I got to choose between a set of steak knives and a clock for my five year gift but instead I chose a new job. I’m a professional business trip buddy – I get paid a shit-load of money to drive drunk and coax twenty-one year old women into showing me and my fifty-six year old travel partner their tits in exchange for a shot of Jaeger – I’m a hot commodity. You don’t see my position in the Times or on Hot Jobs but when I walk into an interview they know exactly what position I’m applying for – my hair frazzled, lip-stick on my collar – apologizing that I’m a little late but letting them know it was only because I had a long night. Smiling at them, making them feel like they’re part of the fucking boys’ club, like they even know what a long night is. Their goddamn faces light up; they wink and say, “Ahhh - long night. I know what you mean.” And they shuffle some papers and put their feet on the desk and try to let you know that they’re cool – that you guys can be buddies, go out for lunch together and exchange humorous stories about the hookers you fucked in some hole-in-the-wall rinky-dink bar in Mexico. Tell him the story about how some whore tried to overcharge you and you slapped her and kicked her off your lap, called her a “puta” and spat in her wetback-hooker face. Play into all of their masochistic and racist fantasies, make up the most outlandish stories possible because you know they don’t know the fucking difference; let them escape from their structured perfect fucking lives. Let them tell you their wife is a nasty little slut if you give her champagne. Let them tell you how much they’re afraid of niggers and spics – be their supportive shoulder so they can spew all of their sexual aggression and hatred on it and expect you to pat their head and tell them it’s alright while kicking back shots of tequila and doing lines of coke off of an underage hooker’s ass.

Who knew my b-fucking-minus GPA would have gotten me this far?

So when my supervisor, Dave, my current “best friend”, walks into my office and asks me if I wanted to hang out this weekend I have no problem abusing this racist cock-suckers’ corporate Yankee ticket privileges to get me some field-level box seats to see them trounce the Orioles for the eighth time this year.

This guy, Dave, used to be a Red Sox fan, apparently. Now all he does is cheer for the teams that are playing the Yankees. He comes into the office every day wearing some sort of Yankee-opponent gear. A hat, a pin – something. First thing out of his mouth when the Yanks lose is, “Did you see the game last night?” Fucking smiling. Never celebrates when the Sox win, just when the Yankees lose. He gets the company tickets and goes to the game and heckles the Yankees the whole three-plus hours. I go with him because I love baseball and don’t care how this asshole wants to ruin his life. We’d be on business trips and go to some random White Sox – Indians game or some shit and this fucking guy will be wearing a Blue Jays shirt and stare at the scoreboard, scream “Yankees suck” every time Toronto scores a run.

He’s the suffering Red Sox fan in New York City. A fucking red and green martyr.

So when he comes into my office and says, “Do you want to do something this weekend?” I don’t even think twice when I tell him, “Let’s go to the Yankees game and cause some trouble.”

He’ll buy me beer and pretzels and make some jokes about the “hot bitch” sitting in front of us and how he’d like to “pass her a sausage” and he’ll scream at Giambi for being a ‘roid freak and repeatedly remind Jeter that he sucks more cock than Rod Stewart and I’ll just sit back and quietly enjoy the game as I watch the Yanks put a double-digit hurting on the pathetic Orioles.

Three-hundred-million people in this country are just like David, relative to me. If you can understand that – if you can truly grasp what that means for your opportunities in life – you’ll do just fine no matter how dumb you are.

5 Comments:

Jason Copland said...

That was a great fuckin' read, man.

I shit you not.

6:18 PM  
Jason Copland said...

And they never proved that was semen in Rod's stomach!

6:28 PM  
Josh said...

:claps hands:

6:55 PM  
Jason said...

Well thanks to both of yous, surprised someone even read it.

10:52 AM  
Jacob said...

Hey man, I know I am a little slow on this, but I wanted to read the whole project once you really had some substance to it. Fucking grade A man. Really good stuff. You've set up this guy as a true blue Kentucky fried asshole.

I can't wait for shit to start falling apart on him. Great character setup man.

10:45 AM  

Post a Comment

<< Home