Wednesday, March 25, 2009

conspiring against my illness

Such a fun, fantastic weekend, has devolved into the horrible situation of having to deal with an irritated, sore throat. This throat's morphed into a raw pain, covered in phlegm. It's a fucking drama queen. It got "a due notice" and thinks it's the end of the world. This throat had never been unemployed before, but then came the downsize at the expense of a floundering economy; the local clam-bar and juiceria have fallen along with the government IT specialist. It used to work for the Dept. of Homeland Security, but the coup of the NSA lead to Beckström dragging it along with him. This was merely to cushion the fall. My throat got axed from its position based mostly on vague accusations Beckström made of its failure to efficiently manage intelligence during past risk levels. It was such a vague accusation but one to be expected from an agency that experimented with domestic data mining; people need to be fired or let go because of minor infractions when a vie for power's at hand. The changing of the guard is met with fatalities of a superficial kind, yet an evil power won't have sympathy. All the for best yeah? No problems with being freed from cold war, at least that's the way I'd feel.

It took all of three weeks for my throat to find a job as an IT specialist for New York Life. THREE bloody weeks! There are some financial specialists who've been looking for a job over a year. This fucking throat of mine is out of work for a mere three weeks and collapses into a frantic paranoid state. It feared coming down with yellow fever and then not having life insurance, and also something about germ-warfare in subway corridors. I would say to it, "You're fucking bonkers! Are you panicking because of the likely hood of total economic collapse, or are you just insecure about not having a pick-ax to hammer away at that mountain of debt you've been chipping away at? I've always told you the banking system would get you in trouble, but some people have literally been thrown out onto the street because they allowed the media to pander to their deepest wants and desires. These blind fools allowed themselves to be stabbed in the back while their hands were severed. But a large collapsible SUV was promised if they complied. And to tie my digression with can you afford that huge collaspible Escalade with 30" rims?"

After I'm done with scolding, this throat I used to call my own becomes a skulking mess. It doesn't wash, it sits alone and plays the same old James Bond game for the Gamecube it's been playing for the past six some odd years. It takes rejection so fucking personally! I mean, it DID find more work. Motherfucker's just a stubborn insecure prick. I think my throat fears socialism the most. It listens to The Savage Nation periodically and keeps a lot of commemorative currency as collectibles. If some ridiculous coincidence occurs that a PIECE OF HIGH-GRADE STOCK PAPER LAMINATED WITH SILVER PLASTIC ever becomes valuable, I'll sell my vinyl sleeves for fucking sushi platters. Mad spicy tuna...mad spicy tuna.

Honestly, this douchebag simpleton of a throat I used to have is so easily jipped. And now that his creditors have repossessed its fucking Escalade, he's got no way of commuting to work. The subways are out of the question. Cab fair is just eating away at my throats savings. It's become a nuisance and a slug, slowly being dragged down amid the transition towards a high level of connectivity. I don't want to appear mean, but it's come to the point where I'm going to have to evict this throat I used to have.

Telepathy is not yet an evolutionary trait, is it?

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Blogger Vila H. said...

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8:36 PM  

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