Well, you called it. I'm hanging up my meat hooks.
At first, packing meat for a living was a dream come true. But, man, it tires you out. I just don't have what it takes to pound, pound, pound for ten hours a day. I asked the other guys how they do it, and it turns out I'd have to take up doing a lot of drugs. I'm open to that option, but can't afford it.
So I've switched to a slightly less lucrative, but much more energy efficient career. I now work at Souplantation. I toss salads.
Yeah, it's... unsavory. But rewarding. It makes people happy. I get great tips. It's a job that's hard to go home and leave totally behind, but still.
Anyway, I was tossing this one particular salad when I had a revelation. A flash of truth, telling me why I'm here. Why I live and breathe this tortured, sexy existence: to poop on asshole's car door handles and windshields for money.
I've taken about seven naps this weekend. Bliss, I tell you. You should give it a try some time.
I sleep, therefore I am.
I watched Solyaris last night. It's an interesting look at what constitutes life and humanity; a subject that's always fascinated me. If you haven't read it, you should check out Philip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
What's funny to me is that the issue is almost entirely masturbation. We don't have sophistocated artificial intelligence. What we do have doesn't remotely seem human. But it's still a hell of a lot of fun to think about.
In high school, I had a friend named John F.. John was the coolest, and the most anti-establishment guy I've ever known. He ran for student body president. He put up these awesome posters of himself holding up a wooden stake with nails through it. We had two assemblies for the candidates to address the student body. During the first one he gave this moving speech about political machinery and stuff. For the second assembly, he decided to sum up. All he said was: "Masturbate. It works."
At first, packing meat for a living was a dream come true. But, man, it tires you out. I just don't have what it takes to pound, pound, pound for ten hours a day. I asked the other guys how they do it, and it turns out I'd have to take up doing a lot of drugs. I'm open to that option, but can't afford it.
So I've switched to a slightly less lucrative, but much more energy efficient career. I now work at Souplantation. I toss salads.
Yeah, it's... unsavory. But rewarding. It makes people happy. I get great tips. It's a job that's hard to go home and leave totally behind, but still.
Anyway, I was tossing this one particular salad when I had a revelation. A flash of truth, telling me why I'm here. Why I live and breathe this tortured, sexy existence: to poop on asshole's car door handles and windshields for money.
I've taken about seven naps this weekend. Bliss, I tell you. You should give it a try some time.
I sleep, therefore I am.
I watched Solyaris last night. It's an interesting look at what constitutes life and humanity; a subject that's always fascinated me. If you haven't read it, you should check out Philip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
What's funny to me is that the issue is almost entirely masturbation. We don't have sophistocated artificial intelligence. What we do have doesn't remotely seem human. But it's still a hell of a lot of fun to think about.
In high school, I had a friend named John F.. John was the coolest, and the most anti-establishment guy I've ever known. He ran for student body president. He put up these awesome posters of himself holding up a wooden stake with nails through it. We had two assemblies for the candidates to address the student body. During the first one he gave this moving speech about political machinery and stuff. For the second assembly, he decided to sum up. All he said was: "Masturbate. It works."
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