You ever hear of Fred Taylor? Not the running back who screwed me in fantasy football every week. I'm talking about bastard Fred Taylor, the guy who brought a stopwatch and a pile of left hemispheric assumptions to a steel plant over 100 years ago. He said his "system" would utopianize industry--and then society– through perfect efficiency and science. There's one rule about pricks: they don't know they're pricks. If someone knows he's a prick and is content with it, he's even lower in the ethical anatomy. He's Google. Google knows they're doing bad things but they keep doing it and lying about it, but heck, if I were a whore of the federal government, maybe I'd do terrible things too. Why do we call them "sex workers"? That's the problem with euphemisms: they sanitize the fun out of words. That's the point, of course. By sanitizing, we remove the stain: by removing the stain, we remove the moral judgment. The thing is, it's fun to judge. I know, I know: we shouldn't judge. But frick. If you can't judge whores and Google, you don't have enough sense to pour piss out of your boot. When I was in middle school, the guys got into a continually-running sophisticated game of punching one another in the genitals while we moved between classrooms. Eventually, we all carried our books with two hands in front of our crotches. We were pricks: that's my judgment and I'm sticking to it. Our girlfriends, I should note, weren't terribly impressed either. If there's any time in life to be a lesbian, middle school would be the time: you're wearing make-up, dreaming about the future, fantasizing about the glamorous life . . . and the boys in your grade think it's hilarious to hit one another in the genitals.
The Unsound and Little Fury
A tale told by an idiot