Wednesday, June 04, 2003

The Joy of Work
by Skald (10/16/02)

Piss and scorn in my chest- I'm angry. I'm angry because I'm sick -- vomitous-- from working at Barnes and Noble-- tied to a cash register for 8 hours-- knees and ankles aching-- non-stop standing.... mind dulled by repetitive motion idiocy,

Weasel-managers harassing me to sell more membership cards,
The same goddam music on the intercom every fucking night,
Hawk-eyed supervisor-wannabe on my back-- looking for each and every deviation from company policy,

"not allowed" to sit, nor relax, nor chat with co-workers excessively,
"not allowed" to make a decision of any kind,
Shuffle to the intercom to call a manager for EVERY return, EVERY exchange, EVERY decision,..

If memory is accurate I had greater autonomy at my very first job with Arby's,.. when I was 16. I'm now 34.
I'd wanted a mellow job with no responsibility. I don't have responsibility but I'm hounded and chained like a fucking violent felon. I detest the place and the people who work there-- especially the smug morons who quote "policy" like religious fanatics. These trained monkeys inspire violent and wild fantasies--- I want to crucify them in each corner of the store. I want to dance and burn the place down.

This is sad-- corporate drones like this aren't even respectable villians. Those rapacious, black-eyed bastards in India-- they were scoundrels-- lying, hawk-faced bastards... they screwed me again and again but there was style to their theivery and blood in their arteries.

But the pale fucks at Barnes and Noble? How can you respect THEM? They are more akin to ticks than hawks.... ticks who suck and suck and suck but never draw blood. Bloodless, dis-satisfied, disease-carrying parasites. Their disease is desperation.

I want to slap them, piss on their books, spray semen on the computers, shout like a beserker, bite their grey necks...

Their humiliation enrages me- what does it take to sink that low? How desperate and fearful do you have to get? How empty must your life become? At what point did they surrender their dignity? When did the "Readers Advantage Card" become integral to their lives?

Its terrible to realize that the likes of Thoreau, Whitman, Basho, Kerouac, Ginsberg, Miller, etc... are housed in that place. I imagine they would prefer to be elsewhere. I certainly would.

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