The life of every man on earth with the

exception of homos will be pointless

until he places it into the hands of a

femme fatale.

 

Instead:

Little silver pull-tab on Diet Coke can; whose idea was that, itís all on purpose, they do it deliberately b/c their whole lives are about manufacturing pop cans and it makes them so viciously miserable they take it out on the consumer, phone system is clogged molasses while everything else is speeding up, deviant capitalists slowing me down man itís a push-button-menu at the food stamp office where you canít get thru with your 20 year old rotary phone, eat shit and call again no, seriously, we appreciate your business, the customer is always spite in Austin Texas where itís 120 degrees in the shadeó how you coming with that refreshing Coke can, ha ha please enjoy the following fifteen phone messages before we give you the secret number to press so you can talk to a peon who also hates your guts, hereís how we get the veterinarian hospitalís brand new unlisted address while your German shepherd lays bleeding on the side of the road for your convenience, fuckin number never ever in the right yellow pages(?!??!) and even if it was the printís too small since your eyes are shot and you are out of the loop have a nice demographic, why arenít you dead yet? The market place seeks ambitious minds to design inscrutable, over-priced weed-whackers, hey ho, letís go Dr. Olestra, give me my cocktail and Iíll pay for your Jaguar, unacceptable, psychopharm college, canned asparagus, wimmen, see how they run like pigs from a gun see how they fuck with my pinprick condom just b/c they donít need one, let me show you a brand new use of an extension cord, step right in to our sterile off-putting thermonuclear pop-up buildings where our betters suffer within while trying unsuccessfully to open oh, anything, you name it, pencil-pak, compact disc, bag of cough drops, ibuprofrinbottle (nice touch), make me fly across country to find the appropriate disposable (nice touch again) bags for one of 50 fucking off-the-shelf vacuum cleaners whose goddamn hose attachments are not interchangeable, observe your grandfather, former CEO, wandering the halls of 10,000 square foot assisted living facility, crying, hysterical naked, canít open his Depends and pissing all over the walls, product marketing induced senilityó

Now you wanna call me during family time, family time, sorry fucking family time so we can chat about planned obsolesence, how does it smell, how does it taste, youíll be in the market for a new one any dayó

Take every underemployed man and woman away from their struggling togetherness and into your urgent focus group where they can earn fifty bucks fighting with their unemployed neighbors over how flimsy McDonalds can make their milkshake containers before the motherfuckers fold in your lap, oh and how Ďbout the packaging of the next president/toilet brush, same shit, itís all presentation, appearance counts when itís all you got, why are you here, sperm donor, weíre about done with all that sleep-walking too, why are you here, striver, provider, provide what, you live in an increasingly two-tiered political economy made of haves and have-nots, haves comprise less than 5% of nationís wealth, strive on stone chump, your two year old daughter is choking on a nicotine patch (ever heard of glue, genius?), you are what you look like, land of opportunity, maybe youíll get rich someday, land of your appearance is you, buy me a fancy dinner someday, let the good times roll, you know diamonds are a girls best snore and you are what you look like, gutless, incapable of subjugating fragile male ego (barf) to she who cavorts helplessly and recklessly every day with the devil beneath the deep gold sea.

 

But enough about you, lover.

Duct-tape girlfriend actin right?

 

 

yo,

trouble

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Home.

 

 

 

 

Copyright 2002 Robin Plan and troublewaits.com.All rights reserved.