Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

Yeah, I’m sure picking strawberries sucks. And I don’t deserve to eat any more than the pickers do, or the kid at the phone factory does. But it’s a moot point. Once two lines cross each other on a graph at Consolidated Strawberry International, it’ll be a machine picking those suckers. Anything that grows on a tree they already shake off with a machine. They’ll make one that works on a bush. Stoop labor will be in the same boat as the rest of us. Useless. If you don’t work you are useless. It is useless to just be a human being.

Work will go to the third world, then to the machines. Then get one of them STEM degrees, why don’t ya? Tell the robots what to do!

That’ll last you for a bit. Then the robots will be told what to do in India. Then the robots will tell themselves what to do. The Prime Directive will be to get a hold of whatever anyone else has left and funnel it to the Walton family.

There is not enough work now and there never will be again. They will figure out how to ship everything to the Third World. Once they get uppity, everything that can be automated will be. Governments might resist. But corporations don’t give a fuck about governments anymore. They are global. They will take their money wherever they can fuck people the most. Plenty of hungry holes on this planet. Apple is an Irish company now. So is facebook. No taxes in Ireland apparently. Fiddle dee fuckin dee. Every cruise ship ad says “ships registered in Liberia.” It’s not because of Liberia’s rich naval history and stringent maritime safety laws.

Companies will go where they can, do what they can, to fuck the most people the hardest. They must. They have an ethical obligation to maximize short-term gain for shareholders. A fiduciary duty to screw their customers and employees as much as they can get away with. Cut costs. Cut services. Cut bloat. You are bloat. Labor costs are a thing they tear their hair out over. Used to be taxes, too. But they bought governments and laws. They made taxes disappear. Soon they will buy robots and make you disappear. You and your simpering demands for food, medicine and leisure. If they pay you, they hate you. They want to make you go away. They will succeed.

Then what.

Unless you inherited something, you own nothing. And you never will. You own debt. The bank owns you. You get a bill every month for what you “own” and you better work to pay it. So much for your assets.

What the fuck happens when nobody does anything anymore? We gotta start figuring this shit out now. You won’t be growing your own food. Every piece of arable land in the country is owned by one corporation. That’s an exaggeration, but just barely. So what will all these people do? What will they be for?

I don’t know– fucking. Singing. Swimming in the creek. Playing board games. Jerking off between rounds of robot built Playstation 15. This idea of the nobility of work– “the pride of having a job”– kill it. It’s a relic of the witch-burning 1600’s freaks who poisoned this country from the get go. The puritans believed toil was sacred. They also believed in the death penalty for masturbation. Fuck those Thanksgiving decoration-looking prigs and everything they stood for.

What will I do for work? Forget that. How about this instead– hey rich man: give me free money. Hey government: use your force monopoly to take the Waltons’ dough and guarantee everyone a living for doing nothing. Kill the welfare bureaucracy and replace it with a straight check. 25 grand a year tax free for every human being over 18. If you want more you can work. Good luck with that. I’ll be jerking off.

It’ll never happen. Capitalism will burn to its natural end. Five families will own the Earth. Rest of us will be fucked. You won’t get a job cleaning their toilet. You won’t even be able to sell them your daughter. There will be robots for that.

We’ll be useless. Worthless. Or, we’ll be worth the value of our organs to the Waltons and Mark fucking Zuckerberg the 5th. Christ wept.

Fuck man, I better get more booze.

The coffee shop. It’s hot today. There was a fire. Big brown clouds out of Glendorra that make the light look like the apocalypse. It’s not going to rain, we are told. Ever again. The pine trees in the park are cracked and brown and the city’s going to come and raze them all. Their bark has been ravaged by the pine beetle. It preys on vulnerable pines in times of dearth.

What’s more this jerkoff’s gigantic head is blocking my view of the one hot Asian chick in the cafe. Do not sit between a man and a hot young piece of ass, if your skull is the size and shape of a wall mounted air conditioning unit. There is another girl across from me. Ruddy faced Irish broad but she’s wearing a low cut V neck dress and about an inch and a half of tit is showing. I’ll have to make do.

She is texting intently, one thumbed. Her eyebrows tell me that the text is really interesting. No girls text me like that anymore. Nikol has a boyfriend and Emily has a job. OKCupid is a god damn wasteland. This is the year Tinder broke it. For a brief shining moment you could get laid by typing interesting words on a keyboard. Now no one reads. There used to be blogs. Now there’s Buzzfeed. The dating profile of the future will be a column of GIF’s.

I should have settled down when I could have. But then I’d just be with some old twat. I want to be with some new twat. OKCupid, I pine for your golden age like a mother for her lost child. How is it that I can’t get a date now when I write for another guy on there and he’s killing it. He has a cool job. What if I need a “cool” job again. What a nightmare. What if to get women you have to be the only thing you hate.

Relax. Look at the titties. Like when you’re on acid at a concert and the trip starts going haywire: just focus on the band. Thank you for showing me your titties, miss. You don’t know the joy you’ve brought.

After this I’ll go sit in the park. School will have gotten out and I will leer at underage Mexicans. There was a purpose to my life besides this once. But no more. I will age and decline and be forgotten and die.

Here’s another girl. Big tits in a sheer white shirt and turquoise bra. Thank you for this clothing choice. Her face looks a little like Steve Buscemi had a baby with the Old Man in the Mountain, from the New Hampshire license plate. But big tits. I’ll take it. Floppy little ass. Maybe 35. Too old but she still has something. She’s fucked a lot of men in bands. She’s done slip and dips at hole in the wall art gallery openings with her belly full of Two Buck Chuck and cheese cubes. She has herpes, she’s had syphilis. She doesn’t give a fuck. Her hair is tastefully colored. She walks back, pulls her eyes far to the right to avoid making eye contact with me. Keeps her Buscemi perma-sneer on. To avoid looking at me she risks walking into a picnic table and taking the sharp corner right in the pussy. Worth it to her. I look like a serial killer. When a girl makes eye contact and smiles I feel like a romance novel cover. When she does what this chick is doing I feel like a slug on her sidewalk after the rain. An invertebrate. Not even. They pity the slug. I am beneath pity. Get a hold of yourself man. Look at the Irish girl’s tits.

She knows now. She is locking her knees. Awkwardly putting her elbow in front of the tits. To do so she has to fix her arm like a broken chicken wing. She knows. She would rather mate with a slug. Fine then. Fuck off, you Brian Cox faced cunt.

My thirst is so deep it’s permanently mutated my DNA. I can’t even conceive of speaking to a woman. Here’s another one, fat little blonde in a short short skirt sits down with her back to me. I just look at her flaxen hair. That Maurice Ravel song plays as I twist up a fistful of it and plunge into her fat white ass from the back. Looks to be in college. Her hair, her hair. Her jiggling white thighs. Please, Lord, just castrate me.