Saturday, 8 June 2013
A Quarter Pounder With Cheese
I got some digging work for a bit of de summer, at the very least the next three weeks or so. Nothing "hey there fancypants" or anything, just something to do get the hands on some drinking/whey protein money, nothing be too flashy here like. Basically, this old broad with a larger than life afro wants the place dug up cause the husband is planning on planting the whole place with tomato seeds, but has the back thrown out as of now. Real sun splitting the stones weather, where yours truly is out there with nothing more than a shovel and a shitload of land.
There's something appealing about this kind of stuff. Sure, this is going to sound like John B Whatshisface Bull Dis IS MY LAND STHYYLE, it be hard en aw this kind of thing, but it is strangely satisfying, deep down. I'm holding nothing back here, I'm on my way tofinishing up a degree in a field which is, for the time being, still quite lucrative. The goal is financial independence, pure plain and simple. Those kind of jobs are probably not fun. The men with the cheap poorly fitting suits and the excessive abdomen fat, the lassie makeupless, bald faced (this is how empowered women are taken seriously ken) , sticky hair, running her hands down her waist, olfactory perception picking up that dead, dusty damp smell of smoke which shields the estrogen of the lass. It's funny. People contribute aging so much to age (probably the dumbest sounding sentence on this blog), but to expiate the process, people are banging back jagerbombs left right and centre, going full fucking John Rambo on the liver and they wonder, and they ponder, and they point, and they decry the lad who lifts weights four or five times a week, why the bloody fuck they look like a wrinkly patch of goat snatch? This lassie be like "come home for TEEEE" and it's like being in a fucken Burroughs novel where the old grey mare ain't what she used tae be. Digression aside, I've no interest outside of that. Once I have enough, you'll never hear from me again. Just rumours, myths. The guy who throws mega cool parties in Brazil...fuck yeah, I know that guy...
The work is satisfying. Put the shovel in, push along the ground, toss the dirt to the side, repeat repeat repeat. Certainly beats being felt up by a gay man called Harry in the back of a club. Always the gaybos. Anyways, so I'm digging away at this thing, and feeling genuinely satisfied that hey, I'm doing something practical and that feels good. That's what work does right? I mean, take Ireland as a whole right. The economy is taking a fucking battering ram to the balls and youth unemployment is extremely high, approximately 40 or so percent. I'm back here, in more humble surroundings and the lads that be my age, are let's be fucken honest, fucking manchildren of North Dubbo's shire.
Now, don't mistake the Franco for a fucken "man up and marry wrinkly goatch snatch" or anything like that motherfucker, but this shit is just that little bit depressing ken. These lads have no discipine, no aim in the greater scheme of things. They are wanderers, trapped on their own islands of corn and porn. They speak in newsbites, Americian colloquialisms and incessant quoting of Two and a Half Men, they coss and dross, they wank and spank, they splurge out on cans and cans of the finest liquid piss masquerading as beer, two years without a meet out there, they are in the horrors one minutes spanking it in San Diego and the next, coming on to the sorriest excuse of a lassie seen since Molly Bloom, a cascade of dissonant squalls, hamster going like a perpetual motion machine, she's into yous man, oh no, but yes, arse on her, bit big, bit uhh, rotund, nah man she'd be a right old fucken jolly one up the shitter, sure all of the fat cunts are jolly. Not to necessarily blame these guys, but there's a system, an economic system, a set of rules, that ensures that a generation of men, a generation of old chums, mates, lads, friends of friends yes, and even fucken tinker's sons don't face the unemployment guillotine. And us cunts are taking a sledgehammer to the whole process.
First is discipline. Whether it is passing some initiation ritual or getting your arse into the army or anything along those lines, men need a line, a structure to stop them descending into a vertiginous descent. Work is but a good one too, but then you sees what kind of work is out there. May be an insult to a cunt out there walking the roads, but fast food jobs are for, or at least they should be, for teenagers to get a bit of drinking money into the pockets and get their first taste of discipline and working life. There is something oddly depressing about asking for a quarter pounder with cheese from a man old enough to be yer uncle. The women too. Always have hair short, with that bit of dye in the dye of hair, the voice of death, "have a nice day." dey says to yous as you enter the slipstream for the umpteenth time. Fucken lolbags.
Second is sport. What used tae be a real team building scenario has metamorphosed into a watching the game having a bud kind of experience where every cunt and cuntess is living vicariously through the big lad on the T.V, gina tingles for the lassie and the dream of giving gina tingles to anyone that isn't your pudgy, doughy partner for the laddo. Playing sport adds a sort of building yourself up/the breakdown of the ego/desepline hu ha hung dung kind of thing, but with every cunt indulging in his game of world of warcraft, things certainly get a bit sticky, a big dodge when they really shouldn't.
Finally, there's the education system. It might break the heart of the tart teaching Sartre to teenagers who could not give a flying fuck, but being stuck in what is basically a form of babysitting dressed up under the insidious guise of "education", leads to a sort of mental stagnation. This suits men to a much lesser extent, as men mature slower than women do, even if they mature longer. Perhaps the system has it's own benefit of training people for a life of tolerating and able to pass through boredom, but that be just a puff of Franco in the wind.
Discipline, team building exercises, work and education. All of these are being eroded so that we are left with a lumpy sort of mess of a thing, something amorphous even. Going back to the digging ken. There's fucking blisters all over the hands, but that's ok. I'm actually sort of in a bits of a dilemma right now en aw. Recently, I've been hitting it out of the park in terms of fitness, reading and whathaveyeson. Fuck, I've even done a couple of approaches, which for me is pretty fucken ok. But, the people I have in contact from de school, if I get back in contact with them, it's fucking going the way of de Bev and Butthead, I knows it. Fucken listening to really fucking shit bands like The National or Bon Iver while playing Call of Duty. That's the last man with diarrhea ken. That's not Sexy Franco in any shape or form, that's Dark Franco shit. Leave that silliness behind en aw. Tis complicated. That'll do pig, that'll do.