Doubts

Original:

WILL …
Say I’m working at N.S.A. Somebody
puts a code on my desk, something nobody
else can break. So I take a shot at
it and maybe I break it. And I’m real
happy with myself, ’cause I did my job
well. But maybe that code was the
location of some rebel army in North
Africa or the Middle East. Once they
have that location, they bomb the
village where the rebels were hiding
and fifteen hundred people I never had
a problem with get killed.
(rapid fire)
Now the politicians are sayin’ “send
in the Marines to secure the area”
’cause they don’t give a shit. It
won’t be their kid over there, gettin’
shot. Just like it wasn’t them when
their number got called, ’cause they
were pullin’ a tour in the National
Guard. It’ll be some guy from Southie
takin’ shrapnel in the ass. And he
comes home to find that the plant he
used to work at got exported to the
country he just got back from.
And the guy who put the shrapnel in
his ass got his old job, ’cause he’ll
work for fifteen cents a day and no
bathroom breaks.
Meanwhile my buddy from Southie realizes
the only reason he was over there was
so we could install a government that
would sell us oil at a good price.
And of course the oil companies used
the skirmish to scare up oil prices so
they could turn a quick buck. A cute,
little ancillary benefit for them but
it ain’t helping my buddy at two-fifty
a gallon. And naturally they’re takin’
their sweet time bringin’ the oil back
and maybe even took the liberty of
hiring an alcoholic skipper who likes
to drink seven and sevens and play
slalom with the icebergs and it ain’t
too long ’til he hits one, spills the
oil, and kills all the sea-life in the
North Atlantic. So my buddy’s out of
work and he can’t afford to drive so
he’s got to walk to the job interviews
which sucks ’cause the shrapnel in his
ass is givin’ him chronic hemorrhoids.
And meanwhile he’s starvin’ ’cause every
time he tries to get a bite to eat the
only blue-plate special they’re servin’
is North Atlantic scrod with Quaker State.

A beat.

So what’d I think? I’m holdin’ out
for somethin’ better. I figure I’ll
eliminate the middle man. Why not
just shoot my buddy, take his job and
give it to his sworn enemy, hike up
gas prices, bomb a village, club a
baby seal, hit the hash pipe and join
the National Guard? Christ, I could
be elected President.


ME 1 …

Say I’m working at N.S.A. Somebody
puts a code on my desk, something nobody
else can break. So I take a shot at
it and maybe I break it. And I’m real
happy with myself, ’cause I did my job
well …

ME 2 …

Say I’m working at N.A.S.A. and my team
comes up with a way to add strength to
the outer hull of the rover.  The military
picks it up and war breaks out.  Now
the military planes, tanks, ships, and subs
all are much more robust and I’m
still real happy with myself, ’cause I did my
job well … at the price of several nations

ME 3 …

Say I’m using an A.M.A. grant to cure
cancer and we develop this new machine
that delivers medication through touch.
So someone else fills it up with an
instant, longer lasting effect that would
make Cosby look tame.  And I’m real
happy with myself, ’cause I did my job
well …

ME 4 …

Say I’m driving around town or shopping
at a department store or eating dinner at
a restaurant or going to class in the
presence of honking, impatience, and
noise.  I take it and ignore it and don’t
complain and just keep on driving or
whatever.  And I’m really, really
happy with myself, ’cause I ignored
the temptation to get too angry and think
to myself that spiritually I did my job well …


So what’d I think? I’m holdin’ out
to see if humans are worth helping.
I need to believe no one will use my
ideas for spying, for military action,
for sexual assault, nor for being
bloody obnoxious.


Current Story:
I really hate people.  And I am sure it has everything to do with moving to California.  I feel like being underemployed is subconciously(?) some sort of protest.  I’m probably just hurting my chances of retiring at a “young” age.