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The Solution by Ray Printer Friendly

So I don't guess I've ever gotten around to telling you guys what my job is. I work at a print shop. Kind of. Actually, I mostly take things that have been printed to the people that have ordered them. I sometimes work in the store, but I mostly drive around.

When I got hired, I emphasized the fact that what I really wanted to do was graphic design, and the guy doing the interview assured me that they regularly promoted from within the company. What I later found out was that the graphics department consists of two guys who have been there for years and will probably continue to be there for years.

So what I am is a delivery driver, until I get student loans paid down, credit cards paid off, and a savings built up. Or until I get fired.

I think back to that semester I was taking all those stupid hours, barely seeing my wife, barely doing anything but going to school and sleeping.

All so I could deliver a packet of papers to a filthy hippie who looks at me like something he would wipe his ass with, if filthy hippies did things like wipe their asses. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I've been fighting sickness for about two weeks now, and I've been incredibly paranoid the last couple of days because almost everyone in our production department got strep throat. I'm not sure if I have it or not, but I know that my throat feels like I've been trying to breathe sand and porcupines.

Aside from the throat thing, I feel pretty good, although the steady intake of Advil Cold & Sinus has started to wire me up a little. Point being, I am in no mood to deal with hippies.

Even when I'm not sick and tweaked on pseudoephedrine, I get irritated with hippies. They bug me. I'm not talking about your everyday recycler or chicks who don't wear bras. Those people are all right (chicks without bras are better than all right, for obvious reasons). What I'm talking about are the assholes who think we need to live like cavemen, if cavemen drove dweeby little bikes and constantly whined at people and did nothing tough or cool like cavemen are supposed to. People who stink because they don't bathe, who think their natural oils keep their hair clean, and then have the nerve to whine about others causing air pollution.

When these dorky little fucks drive you into a murderous rage, Austin, Texas isn't the best place to live. But I hate the heat, too, and I manage to deal with it.

Today I had to deliver a package to a hippie store. I don't know what they sell there, exactly, because I don't give a shit. I walk in and I hold my breath as much as possible, and I get out. I ignore their all-natural remedies (a.k.a scam medicine), and all their little booklets about how to live pure, and all the chunks of incense (easier to burn that stinky shit than it is to actually wash your dirty ass, I guess).

Usually, they catch me at the door, sign the necessary paperwork, and hustle me right back out--I guess an angry fat guy in nice clothes and a necktie isn't the demographic they're going for. Today, though, I had to walk all the way to the counter. There were three of them lazing around behind the counter, doing whatever it is hippies do when they aren't crying and hugging trees and rubbing themselves down with pig shit.

Don't try to tell me those nasty bastards don't play around with pig shit, either--you don't get to smelling that bad all on your own, no matter how long it's been since your last bath.

I tell the guy that I've got a delivery, and I try to hand him the packet containing their order. He just looks at it. Then he looks at me.

He sighs.

"I suppose we can take it."

At this point, I'm already about to punch him. You "suppose you can take it?" You fucking ordered it, you rotten-smelling dipshit! But I'm back in the customer service industry, and one of the main rules is that you don't get to assault the customer. Which is bullshit, it really is.

I put the packet down on the counter, because he's making no move to take it from me, and I'm not going to stand around holding it all day. He picks it up and flips through the contents.

"I just need a signature here," I tell him.

He glares up at me. He yanks out a few pieces of paper. "Is this recycled paper?"

I'm tempted to tell him that yes, it's totally recycled, but I'm kind of afraid he'll pull out his dog-urine paper-testing kit or whatever, and find out that I'm lying.

"I really don't know, sir," I say, because I know it irritates the hell out of guys like this to be called sir. "I wasn't the one who took the order, and I wasn't the one who printed it." I'm being very civil, because when it comes to taking shit from customers, I'm a professional.

It's kind of too bad that all that nonsense about aura is make-believe, because it would be great if the dude could look at mine and see what a fuckhole I think he is. He finally signs the paper, making noises of disgust as he does it.

I got out to my truck, cranked it on, and let it idle for a minute, air-conditioner on high for no good reason. Just doing my part to destroy the world.

I stopped recycling, you know. If a planet needs my help to survive, I'd rather kill it. I look forward to the post-apocalyptic wasteland. I won't ever get to see it, of course, because I'm old and fat and practically blind without corrective lenses. I'll be one of the first to go. Like Piggy from Lord of the Flies.

And I'm okay with that, as long as I get to die with the knowledge that the rest of humanity isn't far behind. That hippie all worried about his sixteen sheets of paper? Fuck him. I hope I live long enough to eat that nasty bitch. I'll make a cape out of his skin and use it to send smoke signals from my pile of burning tires. I'll signal the rest of my post-apocalyptic gang, tell them where they can find a group of eco-friendly pussies--known in the new world as "food."

We are a world of sniveling crybabies, and being knocked back to a polluted stone-age would probably be the best thing for us, at this point. We could quit fighting about stupid shit like universal health care/socialized medicine and start fighting for our lives. Religious fanatics could finally stop fighting if we were all in Hell. And the whining pussybag hippies would be lunch. I bet they taste like bacon. Bacon that's been dropped in the dirt, though, because I'm sure the filth is bone-deep. Rotten bastards.

I think it would be good for us as a species to get knocked down on the food chain some. In an ideal world, the dinosaurs would make a comeback. How much would that fuck with both science and organized religion? Just out of the blue, dinosaurs show up, start hunting us down.

It'd be scary as hell, but I think we'd stop warring with each other. Well, not the Middle East, because those motherfuckers would kill each other right through a dino-attack, I bet. But in this scenario, they finally kill each other off. There's like one guy left, and just as he slays his last enemy, he realizes the error of his ways--he should have been loving his fellow man, not killing. But then a pterodactyl swoops down and eats him.

Meanwhile, back in the states, we all pull together, like we do when it really comes down to it. Hell, we even join up with the Mexicans and the Canadians.

It's a scary, violent world, but it's also a peaceful world. Does that make any sense?

Muscles have to be broken down before they can be built up into something better. I think that's where the human race is quickly headed. There's still hope for us--we aren't quite to the point where we need a dinosaur cleansing.

But we're getting close, boys and girls.

And that's my psychotic manifesto of the evening. Please don't call the FBI on me.


posted 9/17/09


Comments:
Entered By dean fearce From california
2009-09-17 04:03:59

this is twisted, why am i laughing? oh yeah, the present human condition is just what we deserve because we created it . . . i think that message was in there somewhere . . .


Entered By Jesse From Austin
2009-09-17 22:25:04

Maybe California deserves this condition. I'm of German-Irish descent, born and raised in Texas... Damn it if I'm not ready to fight for a new world of my own design. In the context of this, uh, manifesto - I'm the one ridding the T-rex. And I have a lasso. Made of razorblades.


Entered By Trey From Cowtown
2009-09-18 03:07:51

My lasso will be a braid of Twizzlers and Slim Jims. I'll be riding a Unicorn named Dirk. Everyone loves Twizzlers and Unicorns...


Entered By Ganessa From New York
2009-09-21 02:22:38

So, I haven't been around in months, and I come back to find this? Looks like you're doing well, Ray. Geeeez. :)



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