Any bolt or sprocket

My job is stupid and sucks so much out of me, my soul is missing at the end of the day.

'Jobs' is a kooky concept that most of us grow so accustomed to that we forget how kooky the concept is. My job, for example, is to do whatever I'm told to do by some woman I barely know, who barely knows what I do.

That's her job, too, I'm sure.

And her boss's job, repeated all the way to corporate headquarters. It's such a huge operation, nobody knows squat about anything in any detail, really, and all of us trade 1/3 of our waking hours for a paycheck.

The ultimate boss has maybe 200,000 people under him. He doesn't know anything about my job, of course. He doesn't know my job exists, and if he did know he'd be trying to outsource my work to Burma or Bangladesh or Mars.

He's a smart CEO, and that's what smart CEOs do. He's so good at his job that the company is in bankruptcy proceedings, but he looks good in a suit so he makes thirty times what me and my co-workers do.

And what do we do, me and my co-workers? We sit on chairs and push buttons, like George Jetson at Spacely Space Sprockets. It's repetitive and boring as fuck, but they're important buttons, those buttons we push. The company couldn't function unless someone was pushing those buttons, and if you push the wrong button, you get called into the boss's office and screamed at. Push the wrong button too often and you get fired.

We're all as replaceable as any bolt or sprocket. With a few hours of training, you could do what I do. Anyone could. All that's required is doing what you're told, and hitting the right buttons … over and over again … all day … five days a week ... until you come home, barely even you at the end of the day, and then you rest up to do it all again tomorrow.

That's my job. That's probably your job. That's 'jobs'. That's how I afford my room at the rez hotel, my movies and popcorn at the Castro and Roxie and Red Victorian, and my deep-fried disappointing dinner from Burger King.

♦ ♦ ♦

Here at the hotel, I knocked on #306's door, but there was no answer again. He sure has a busy social life for a guy who can't hardly talk.

From Pathetic Life #2
Tuesday, July 19, 1994

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.


Pathetic Life 

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