Big Leaguers

The fear of death is killing you. It flies under no radar and the number game has collapsed. Airplanes are the safest in history, yet they are cracking down on the “intoxicated” passengers for the “safety for the plane”. Freedom verses safety, you pick. Safety hangs low on the branches of the society tree, and us smooth brained plebians gobble it up. We are suffocating under the flag of safety, which has completely eclipsed the freedom banner. The middle class is dying; old ma and pa can no longer survive the red tape strewn liberally by big business. HR is hired to mitigate bullshit, and waste permits are purchased to dispose of non-toxic chemicals. The OSHA doctrine and the county natural land crusaders. Welcome to the middle class beat down. Yeah, safety is swell, but at the cost of bread on the table?

Big policy got its hands on one hell of a pry bar, and it is peeling up these blossoming little companies like the nails in the coffin of small business. Even these nails hold some power, power to be consumed by bigger fish, the pointy little fucks. With a cantilever of this magnitude, you can start pulling the teeth of anyone you damn please. If there is any resistance, you just smack them over the head and watch them drown in a pool of their own blood. Chevron is building a gas station, but there are few houses in the way. What if, per se, the house’s property was “potentially toxic”? In the big money game, these homeowners are no mater for the giga leaver that is about to rip through. Pry it does. “Oh no!” these tiny little pricks say, “My government must defend me!” Big Oil gives one last yank, warning the little pricks to let go before leverage is turned into blunt force. But no, the stubborn little pricks won’t leave, so they are clobbered over the head. Your land is no longer safe, and only at the price of $80,000 cash can you prove Big Oil wrong. Or $500,000. Or whatever fucking price will smash the little pricks into the wood of the death casket, splintering the outskirts of the middle class. You can image how big these beating sticks can get. They never loose.

For us small fries, blind compliance is we have. Buy the safest car, with all the features. Of course you need a backup camera, how else can you safely exit your parking spot without squishing little children? Taxes gobble up your paycheck, and now you can never afford to buy your own house. But that is okay, because Black Rock will, and they will rent it back to you. “Employee housing” is just the beginning. Your triple BOA, MIPS radial protection safety helmet had a bump, and now your warranty is voided and the helmet is incinerated. But don’t sweat, it will only cost a leg, a fantastic bargain in this economy. We are talking about matters of your life. Your CHILD’S life! We standardize these things, one at a time. Air bags for cars, now skiing. The newest, brightest, and most inclusive public schools (for the neighborhoods that can afford the property taxeS). Electrical and plumbing codes, you must pay a professional. If you can’t afford to, get the fuck out of your house and rent from Big Papa. Big Papa will always fuck you, so turn round and take it like a good boy. Or you will not collect $200, and go straight to jail. Have fun little boy!

Only the cutting edge is moving forward, and the rest are given a loan to tide them over till they work up the courage to blow their brains out. What‘s the use of trying when we are all dying? All this red tape, I can’t make a step. The courageous will have realized this is no normal red tape, but a sticky trap shit directly out of the big spider looming ahead. Is that capitalism? Will anyone survive? You look around at all the other bugs around you, and to your dismay, you are the smallest one. Don’t they see they are next? This spider will keep eating, and trapping, and eating. I thought it was a virus, but I was gravely mistaken. It transgresses all monsters and fear, the fearmonger himself! I scream as if I am wrapped in more regulations. “Go directly to jail, and do not pass go. Do not collect $200.” My screams are nothing to the fat, greedy, captive bugs all around me. Shane Gillis is standing on his head, and they are all laughing at him, forgetting the misery and certain death all around. “Good thing the feast is over there, and not over here where all our meat is” their subconscious reassures them. I exhale and let the moment take me, flesh and all. It is just a game, it can’t hurt me…