WARNING: This blog post contains graphic depictions of my wasted youth that in no way reflects on the other members of the 99%, but rather leeches off of their popularity in hopes that the mere mention of the 99% will illicit further readership.
In the international social system, the people are represented by two separate but not equally important groups: the destitute 99%, who don’t like to bathe; and the unreasonably r*ch 1%, who never have to wear the same pair of underwear two days in a row. These are their stories.
December 14, 2011
After a lengthy evening of bedside reading and late-night cyber intercourse, I startled myself this morning when I awoke prior to the nine o’clock hour. As I stretched my limbs, I was greeted by the heavenly sun. I gazed in wonder at its blossoming rays, remembering the words, of that guy, in that one Youtube video, who said the sun is one of few things left that is still virtuous and uncorrupted, knowing not of class warfare, Katy Perry, or my attempted tax evasion. I paraphrase of course.
The two family shih tzus, Sam and Molly Bean, greeted me and helped me to dress. As Molly tied a ribbon in my hair, I cradled Sam, softly humming the melody of “Sing Sweet Nightingale,” a song so beautiful, I nearly forgot about my dwindling credit score and non-existent retirement options.
I travelled to the house’s single washroom, where I bathed with toilet water and Comet. I proceeded to brush my teeth with such vigor and disdain, my toothbrush shattered, dramatically, in my hand, splitting into two pieces. This was the first red letter moment of the day.
After bidding farewell to the defective remains of the Crest corporation mouthpiece, I spent several hours baking Christmas
cookies. An activity formerly reserved for the bottom-feeders of society, unable to afford fancy Wal-Mart bakery goods, has at once turned profitable! This holiday season, I am selling cookie trays as a supplemental, unreported, income. I cackle in victory every time I deposit the virginal checks into my credit union, unmolested by the greedy, corporate, government, Wall Street, fat cats, gobbledygook.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon, indulging in the performing arts, single-handedly choreographing and performing a dazzling rendition of “Proud Mary” for the dogs. They validated my efforts with a sneeze and a yawn. I was touched.
By the evening I was off to work at the local coffee and donut establishment where lack of customers and professionalism, allowed me to blast Bob Dylan, write on my laptop, and obnoxiously consume three large coffees in six hours. One customer tipped me $1 for serving a $1.75 cup of coffee. I smiled and thanked him, but spat at the ground where he stood, as soon as he exited, scoffing at his condescending gesture. Surely he was one of “they who must not be named”….the 1%.
…I just named them
After work, I journeyed yonder across town, weathering the elements on my two mile drive….
I can’t lie. I’m writing this from work. I’m bored. There are no customers, except one creepy pregnant chick sitting in the corner, eating a McFlurry and staring at me, and some old dude who keeps talking about how he sleeps in the nude. I worked here in high school. A few years later here I am again, with a college degree on my wall, a certificate of divorce in my desk, and nearly three years of seriously professional work experience, with salaries, commissions, paid vacation, and health insurance to validate it. At least I have this blog…right?…RIGHT? Shoot me.
Just as I was writing this the pregnant chick came up to me and showed me a text of her daughter-to-be’s name. Then she told me about her G.E.D. test and her problems with her cheating boyfriend, who says he loves her, even though he’s broken up with her four times since she got pregnant. She makes me sad. Like a three-legged puppy or a pageant baby. I want to adopt her.
Now I’m going to go mop the floor, wipe the counters, and run into a knife.
Thanks for reading.
The girl who despite harsh sarcasm, actually supports the Occupy Movement