Fast food workers have staged one-day walkouts in seven U.S. cities, demanding a “living wage” of fifteen dollars per hour, up from the current minimum wage of $7.25.
From New York to Detroit; Milwaukee to St. Louis, fat-asses are baffled as to where they might go to stuff their faces with the well-salted gristle they have come to depend on for their five to seven daily… well “meals” is probably not the right word. But I don’t know that there is a single word to convey the activity of shame-dunking your face into another round of sad greasy meat paste.
Maybe there’s a German word for this. I don’t know.
In an appalling demonstration of the insensitivity to the nation’s lard-assed community, workers at fast food outlets walked the picket lines instead of slinging the dispiriting slop we have come to depend on as the only means of quieting for a moment the self-loathing that plagues us. For if we are not permitted the unrestricted opportunity to shovel sodium nuggets and despair patties into our gullets till gravy runs through our veins, then what is freedom even FOR?
These fast food workers, who are attempting to uncouple the lard-hose from our face-nozzle underestimate the power of riled-up fatties to oppose gastro-tyranny in all its forms. Because make no mistake – that’s precisely what this is: tyranny, plain and simple. Asking us to rouse ourselves from our gluttony-pods to reflect on your struggles as you drive this obesity train, asks TOO MUCH OF US – leave us in peace to consume our thrice-daily bucket of diabetes dippin’ sticks.
Your unrealistic demands to make what you glibly call a “living wage” would mean an increase the price of a Big Mac up to SIXTY-EIGHT CENTS. Which, I don’t have to tell you, would the DEATH OF FREE MARKETS AT THE HANDS OF UNION THUGS.
Listen: my first job was actually at a McDonald’s – Route 9 in Hadley, Massachusetts. Did I like it? Hell, no, I didn’t like it. Nobody did. The only guy that DID like it was this developmentally disabled kid named Donny.
But even though it was tough, thankless, underpaid work, I DID learn many valuable lessons during my frankly disgusting tenure there that have served me well to this day.
I learned that work is hot, stressful, greasy, dangerous, boring, gross, smelly, depressing, and pointless. I learned that the workplace – no matter how low the stakes – is a nest of vipers more interested in sowing intrigue and in futile, stupid power struggles than in actually getting anything done.
I learned that every job affords a level of fulfillment and satisfaction comparable to dry humping a pile of pinecones for nine hours at a stretch. While people complain about your technique. And you take orders from a pathetic little despot you’d still struggle to respect if you discovered him stepping out of a time machine dragging Hitler’s corpse.
According to Nelson Lichtenstein, director at the Center for the Study of Work, Labor and Democracy at the University of California, Santa Barbara, there are a number factors governing the corporate rationale for opposing a wage hike, most of which center on the time-honored principle of American business, namely the principle of I Got Mine, Jack – So Do Us Both a Favor and Go Fuck Yourself.
Owners of fast food outlets actually benefit from high worker turnover, so they obviously have a stake in keeping their people pissed off.
“From the company’s point of view, if they know their employees are going to be there for three years, then there’s also this informal pressure on the managers to accommodate the workers,” he says, citing the possibility of wage creep and further increased labor costs for employers. “Managers then can’t just move people around all the time. Firing gets more difficult. So they don’t want a permanent workforce.”
Let’s take a sec to define our terms.
“Wage creep” is what used to be called “upward mobility,” or, more quaintly, “the American dream.”
For you young people, this was a fiction whereby working people were encouraged to cling to the delusion that through hard work, they could attain prosperity. History has of course demonstrated that this is not only not possible, for the rich, it is not desirable.
The cunning of this delusion is that working people – whom reality has trapped for all time in a permanent underclass. An underclass that care for the nation’s obese and ill-tempered children, that keep the nation’s food trough brimming with oily, pre-cancerous slop, that serve as cannon fodder overseas, and that are the baristas that reverse the nation’s sluggishness. According to this fiction, workers cling to the false hope that the only thing separating them from the rich is just catching a break or two. They are not poor people whose tenuous hold on stability is crushed at every turn by a system rigged against them – they are people whose riches are just over the next rise, people whose wealth is merely in its dormant stage. We’re not POOR, goes the fiction, we’re just PRE-RICH.
By perpetuating this delusion, the 1% have a bottomless barrel of cheap labor that remains docile and that consistently votes against its own interests. The fiction has succeeded in shifting worker allegiance to their overlords, and away from their fellow wage slaves next to them on the assembly line, or at the fry station, or at the Genius Bar. And they keep clocking in, and they keep voting to ensure they live and work in a lake of unregulated poison, their dumb, fat kids go to shitty schools, and their aging and demented parents will die in shabby and squalid nursing homes.
For the public to support fast food workers would entail the abandonment of several generations worth of destructive and self-defeating beliefs. Because the idiotic delusion has for us come to resemble economic hope.
So listen up, you fast food workers. Be clear on what you are: you are the wranglers on the nation’s industrial feedlot. You are to fatten us on a slurry of bone meal and hormones, herd us up the ramp onto the killing floor, and push from your mind the role you have played in turning us into deli meats for the rich.