Why shouldn't I work for the NSA? That's a tough one. But I'll take a shot. Say I'm workin' at the NSA and somebody puts a code on my desk, somethin' no one else can break. Maybe I take a shot at it and maybe I break it and I'm real happy with myself cause I did my job well, but maybe that code was the location of some rebel army in North Africa or the Middle East and once they have that location, they bomb the village where the rebels are hiding, fifteen hundred people I never met, never had no problem with get killed.
Now the politicains are sayin' 'Oh send in the marines to secure the area, cause they don't give a shit, won't be their kid over there gettin' shot just like it wasn't them when their number got called cause they were all pullin' a tour in the National Guard. It'll be some kid from Southy over there takin' shrapnel in the ass. He comes back to find that the plant he used to work at, got exported to the country he just got back from, and the guy that put the shrapnel in his ass got his old job cause he'll work for 15 cents a day and no bathroom breaks.
Meanwhile, he realises the only reason he was over there in the first place was so that we could install a government that would sell us oil at a good price, and ofcourse the oil companies use a little skirmish over there to scare up domestic oil prices, a cute little ancilliary benefit for them, but it ain't helpin' my buddy at 2.50 a gallon. Their takin' their sweet time bringin' the oil back, of course maybe they even took the liberty of hiring an alcoholic skipper who likes to drink martini's and fuckin' play slolum with the icebergs. It ain't to long til he hits one, spills the oil, and kills all the sea life in the North Atlantic... so now my buddy's out of work, he can't afford to drive, so he's walkin' to the fuckin' job interviews which sucks cause the shrapnel in his ass is givin' him cronic hemroids and meanwhile, he's starvin' cause everytime he tries to get a bite to eat the only blue plate special their serving is North Atlantic scrod with Quaker State....
so what did I think? I'm holdin' out for somethin' better. I figure fuck it, while Im at it why not just shoot my buddy, take his job, give it to his sworn enemy, hike up gas prices, bomb a village, club a baby seal, hit the hash pipe, and join the National Guard. I could be elected President.
|
RAGGARBRUDEN
Känns igen som ett stort lyckligt oväsen. Marscherar fram i lokalen med en öl i ena handen samtidigt som hon stöter som sjutton på intet ont anande killar. En långt ifrån blygsam varelse iklädd avklippt jeansväst som det står Chevrolet och pojkvännens namn på. Följer du av någon underlig anledning henne hem får du också mycket riktigt en svartsjuk 150 kilos volvoarbetare med matrester i skägget efter dig.
DEPPROCKAREN
Konstant uttråkad står hon vid utgången eller toaletterna. Tycker sig vara intelligentare och mer samhällsmedveten än andra, men kan i själva verket bara stava till Anarki, och då med sprayburk. Gillar poeter och sångare i punkband. Petar näsan.
OLYCKSFÅGELN
Om det så bara spills ut en enda öl på hela kvällen så är det olycksfågeln som får den på sig. Han fick också smittsamma utslag på sin första date, och har sedan dess haft ett rykte om sig att vara AIDS-smittad.
PERSONALEN
Måste alltid arbeta och ständigt umgås med alla dessa ovanstående. Ser därför alltid dödstrött ut och är ofta bakis. Att vidga sina vyer betyder för dem att gå till sängs med krogpersonal som arbetar på ett konkurrerande ställe och till och med i bland på samma ställe vilket också ofta orakar lite problem. Vet att Syphilis acquisita är förvärvad syfilis och inte medfödd.
MODELLEN
Har som förebild Birgitte Nielsen och Sillicon Valley. Solariebrun med ett otroligt självförtroende. Pratar aldrig med någon under- människa, det vill säga alla andra i lokalen. Blir hon tilltalad frågar hon: 'Och vem är du då?', på stockholmska trots att hon kommer från Yxböle. Är troligtvis hjärndöd.
|
What is laid down, ordered, factual is never enough to embrace the whole truth: life always spills over the rim of every cup.
|
So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
|
The naturalistic literature of this country has reached such a state that no family of characters is considered true to life which does not include at least two hypochondriacs, one sadist, and one old man who spills food down the front of his vest.
|
So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
|
So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
|