Wednesday, December 01, 2004

professionalism - epilogue

in addition to our work as neo-revolutionaries, intellectual terrorists, and righteous defenders of the american way, the doktor and i do indeed have semi-legitimate jobs. from time to time, these jobs thrust us into the weird realities of human existence. the following is submitted for your approval…

management had called a meeting on a foul and uneventful november evening. the doktor was scheduled to be in attendance. when i stopped by his office on the way to the conference room however, i found his door locked. i picked it [the lock, i mean] and discovered he was hard at work with a mortar and pestle. surprised by my completely expected appearance, he hurled a stapler, a tape dispenser, and a wastebasket in my general vicinity.

“none of this is for you!” he stood motionless above his desk for a moment, refusing to break eye contact, then sat back down to grind, all the while training his callous animal eyes on me.

warily i approached, eyeing a half-full bottle of mini-thins and a few crushed cans of some wretched energy drink.

“there is a meeting you know…”

“of course i fucking know! what do you think i’m doing? huh? do you think i would walk into that beartrap unprepared? yes? like some doe-eyed eighteen-year old on his way to normandy? well? answer me you bastard!”

he cut out an extra-value size line of that filthy white powder and reminded me not to ask...that he had just enough to get him through the meeting and to the parking garage afterwards.

“well…let’s go.”

i try my best to avoid the doktor during any work-related functions, especially these meetings. his behavior is hostile and erratic, and while the other employees seem to write-off his behavior as some kind of inbred eccentricity that accompanies intelligence, i know that he is simply crude and bizarre.

he took his normal position across from bruce, an effeminate male co-worker...not that there's anything wrong with that. bruce is meticulous with his work area, and brings the same kind of pseudo-professionalism to the board room. he arrived early, laying out various materials and calendars, electronic devices, pens, paper. the doktor pounds both fists down on the table before dumping out a satchel of supplies. he lays out a map of the u.s., stained with a myriad of substances, dumps out a box of tacks, and places a large can of mace pointed ominously in bruce’s direction. he takes the pins, stabbing them into the map and yelling “swine!”

“bruce…location!” the doktor yells at the top of his lungs.

“wha…”

answer me you filthy pigfucker!

the chairman arrived and the doktor stabbed another tack into the map, looking squarely at bruce. the meeting was called to order and the doktor excused himself and crawled out onto the fire escape and down to the street below.

5 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

this is dedicated to ms. rosa parks, who on this day in 1959, decided to say 'fuck you' to the man.

keep on fuckin' y'all


~ johnny luther the king

6:53 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

In this late hour, these lines of communication are even now being closed to me. The risk is becoming too great. Black vans. Helicopters. Men checking the meter. With ear monitors. Radios. And what the fuck is a pizza delivery van doing outside my "home" for 13.273 days? And when the fuck do ignorent pizza delivery boys who are supporting their habit drive vans? No. The coincendience is too fucking great. The rotton fuckers are on to at least me. I swear to God that they have mechanical birds looking in my windows looking for pulled goalies. They'll lock me up for sure. And eat the fucking key, daring me to wade through the shit that came from a pile of its own. No. I'll be incommunicado for a time. Rest assured that the laundry is in the dryer. And it is set for 35 min on high. Leave the stuff (read: explosives, drugs, and that Mark-19 automatic grenade launcher I let you borrow for your family reunion) in the sewer outside. Damnit. Sweet fucking Monesh, I'll be needing a lot more than just that... Can't tell you where I'm going. Only that NY is out. I'll be in touch. At the appropriate time, a Hari Christna, (can't spell, too many greenies. but you know. those wierd fuckers giving away stinky ass flowers that make me fucking sneeze and my eyes turn from a heavy shade of pink to blood red.) I swear that the whole fucking cosmos is against me. I mean, what could be better than twisting those wierd fuckers with the toilet-paper top knots, jumping up and down singing. But I can't get fucking near those awful jack-asses with out going completely sideways. but I digress. gotta go digress somewhere else. eeep. There's a knock at the door... and a pile in my pants.

9:21 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

hmmmm....

incommunicado = parole violation

this scumfuck won't stay quiet for long.


~ johnny rotten

11:30 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

ON WITH THE FUCKING REVIEW ASSHOLE!

Oh wait, wrong page. Anyway. GET THE FUCK ON WITH IT!

8:01 PM  
Blogger dynastyfilms said...

OK first of all i found this site when i googled citizen cope. I agree wit most of what is said about the music that you hve to write about. However, what the fuck is this shit? have you decided that the death of hunter thompson has given you the right to completely rip off his style of writting. not to mention using "the doktor". I understand that HST has had a massive influence on cult culture writting, but i must say i doubt very much that he has re-encarnated as you.

7:20 PM  

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