|Here's the main thing.|
Every damn day I sit down in front of this slowly rotting pile of paper I call
my desk and try and think of something to justify my position in the world. So
far it hasn't been working very well. Actually it hasn't been working at all. I'm
getting off here Mr. Busdriver. No more thinking for me. I'm strictly a capitalist
robot from here on out. Time out for fun. Cunning runts swirl about me in a cloud.
The flock running astray, straight past the action figures and skidding into the
"Tourette's Barbie" display. Observe the broken limbs, cracked big wheel parts
skittering across the floor like insects, no longer noble givers of speed. All
I can hear is hundreds of tinny taiwanese fleshtone voiceboxes screaming out
their obscene exclamations!
I beg forgiveness. I bow out slowly. Slink through the glare and noise towards the flashing horizon of NintendoSoft WebGame Machines. Starting them off young, getting them used to "just enough" and "almost good enough." So it won't bother them when their new DVD player's random feature keeps playing song three over and over. So it won't hurt so bad when their luxury side impact airbag goes off when a shopping cart hits the door and breaks their ribs. So it won't seem so sad when the Takamoto-Schultz CongloMonopoly buys their parents house and grinds it into the ground because demographic analysis demands another frogurt stand at the intersection of 1st and Elm. They'll be ok.