HERE's a link to the Paper Machete podcast, wherein I read my fast food essay. Which is quite good.
Entries in paper machete (4)
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.
Audio is up at WBEZ site, HERE.
If you don't know Paper Machete, it may be found HERE.
Dateline: Brazil. From The Daily Telegrach UK
Which I will quote in its entirety. It appears under the following headline:
“Actor dies after accidentally hanging himself as Judas during The Passion of Christ”
“Tiago Klimeck, 27, had been in a coma since the accident on Good Friday earlier this month in Itarare. Klimeck was enacting the suicide of Judas during the performance. He was hanging for four minutes before fellow actors realised something was wrong, believing he was playing his role. When he was taken down, Klimeck was unconscious. Scans found that the incident had caused cerebral anoxia due to the complete lack of oxygen to the brain. His life support machine was switched off on Sunday. An autopsy was due to take place yesterday.
Police are examining the security apparatus that was meant to support Klimeck during the scene.
It is unclear if any charges will be filed.
The Passion of Christ is performed every year in Brazil across the country. The biggest show is in Pernambuco, where thousands of visitors watch more than 500 actors on nine separate stages.”
I will set aside the fact that the copy editors wished to leave you with a bit of cultural context regarding the show. Because I realize that, like me, you read an item like this, you cock your head and go “Not to discount the fella that hung himself onstage, but I sure would like to know a scosh more about significance of the Passion of Christ in the local culture.”
Here’s your real takeaway from this story, and here is the legacy of the late Mr. Klimeck:
Commit to the Bit.
Because, come on – on the Stanislavsky Scale, Mr. Klimeck makes Nicholas Cage seem pretty bush league, am I right? I mean that Taylor Lautner? David Arquette? Billy Zane? Our various Afflecks, and lesser Baldwins? Our best and brightest? Tiago Klimeck SMOKED ‘em all, man.
But if he was just some lone genius – in that riveting way of like a Chris Klein or a Justin Long – then, OK, THEN I would not feel like the U.S. supremacy in the realm of ultra-dazzling mastery of craft was threatened.
But it isn’t just him, though. Think about it: the guy is hanging himself in full view of his cast mates, and they are all STAYING IN THE SCENE. A whole STAGE filled with Brazilians, you guys – BRAZILIANS! – and they see a colleague twisting and kicking, seconds away from death, and they just keep delivering their lines.
Because the show must go on. Or, as the locals would say:
Porque o espectáculo tem de continuar
Brazil, you guys. Brazil - famous for nothing but nuts and waxes. Brazil nuts: the ones that everyone despises and leaves in the can. And, sure, everybody admires the Brazilian wax from afar, until they get a closer view of the scalded bologna surrounding that Hitler’s mustache of pubes.
Are we gonna let BRAZIL beat us at Committing to the Bit?!? I know that Brazil has an emerging economy that’s one of the globe’s great success stories, but that’s petroleum and bananas and coffee, you guys, not SHOW BUSINESS. They should be DECADES away from challenging U.S. dominance of show business – DECADES. The Brazilian Dane Cook or Ryan Reynolds shouldn’t even be BORN yet, so how is it that these Amazonian yokels are making a play for the U.S. of A. here?
I tell ya what we gotta do – we gotta shut ‘em down. We gotta take decisive action now, and we gotta take the fight to them. What I propose is bold, ladies and gentlemen, what I propose will demand sacrifice. What I propose is this:
We airlift a crack thespian squad of our most battle-tested hunks and starlets and drop them into Rio for this Passion of the Christ festival to do their own goddamn production that’ll be so brutal, those Brazilians are all gonna scuttle back to the coffee plantation. I say we stage a Passion of the Christ where EVERY member of the cast winds up dead. We get the Army Corps of Engineers to design a stage that’ll unfold in midair so our stars can parachute down onto it and show these savages how it’s done.
Getting the actors is gonna be simple – we load ‘em in limos, we hustle ‘em out to Edwards Air Force Base. From the limo, we leave a trail of gift bags up the cargo bay of a waiting C-130. We stuff ‘em in their costumes, we fly ‘em to Brazil, we equip ‘em with period weapons – swords and axes and shit, and they improvise a production of the Passion of the Christ that’ll make the Hunger Games look like a game of Pictionary.
We’re calling this Operation Avenging Apostle.
Here’s our cast:
- James Franco is Judas. One of history’s most reviled figures, portrayed by the actor People Magazine called The Man We’d Most Like to Throttle.
- Pontius Pilate will be that James Pattison from the Twilight franchise – for is not the tyrant with nothing going on behind his eyes all the more terrifying?
- Mary Magdalene, in an audacious and if I may say so inspired bit of casting, will played by Orlando Bloom.
- The apostle Matthew, obviously, has gotta be Matthew McConaughey, who was the top vote-getter in the recent Us Magazine poll “Jesus God, Do I Wanna Beat This Guy With a Pipe Wrench.”
- Salome will be played by Jessica Alba and Megan Fox and Katie Holmes and January Jones and Keira Knightley and Blake Lively and Scarlett Johansen.
- Jesus? Keanu.
You get the idea. It’s gonna be amazing. It’s gonna add a whole new level to this – these Brazilian amateurs went the whole “naturalistic death scene of a single cast member” route. Not so Operation Avenging Apostle: this will be the most stilted and unconvincing bloodbath the world has ever known. Each and every member of our all-star cast will not only be splayed lifeless at the end of the show, but the audience will file out going “ I don’t know. I didn’t really buy it.”
Then later, they will learn that each one of these trite and unnatural-looking deaths was 100% real. When those Brazilians have seen actual nails driven through the hands of Keanu-Jesus, and his reaction remains totally unconvincing, even though he is an international star, they’ll think twice before they come gunnin’ for us, my friends.
Now you may be asking: “Why does this matter?” I’ll tell you. In the waning days of our empire, when we no longer make anything, and where the average U.S. citizen is an obese man-child that finds science “confusing and scary” – all we HAVE is the dream factory churning out the world’s entertainment. It’s our only remaining claim to superpower status. And if the only basis for we have for clinging to the vestiges of world leadership is as Content Provider to the World, then I am by God willing to sacrifice a few pretty boys we can easily replace, and I think you should be, too. Tell Congress: support Operation Avenging Apostle. Now. Before it’s too late.
Like most of us, when confronted by the blandly complacent face of James Franco, I say “Man. I just wanna kick that guy in his neck till he’s fucking dead.” I know. You feel it, too.
Whether it’s Franco on General Hospital, or Franco hosting the Oscars, or Franco’s collection of stories, cause he’s a fucking writer all of sudden, or Franco teaching a class at the NYU called “Editing James Franco with James Franco”, or Franco cutting a record with Danger Mouse, or Franco opening a gallery show of his watercolors, or Franco taking over for Vin Scully up in the broadcast booth for a couple-few innings of the Dodgers-Pirates, or Franco’s feud with wait-what?-are-you-shitting-me? Bruce Vilanch? The “joke writer” who each year makes the Oscar ceremony feel like it’s a grueling test of human endurance.
If I encounter the misapplication of the phrase “renaissance man” slathered on this vacant-eyed shitwad by some slack-jawed copy editor one more time, I won’t ever quit puking. I am not even exaggerating, here – if I leave this stage and you speak the phrase “James Franco, renaissance man” within earshot of me, I will puke out my fucking rectum right on your table. My whole intestinal tract will come rocketing out of me, coiling on your table in a puddle of bile and ropey gut snot.
And then I’ll have to stuff it all back down my throat so I can scream at you.
There are literally thousands of reasons to hate that squinty-eyed shit hammer, but when I learned of Franco’s participation in the Museum of Non-Visible Art, that’s when I clicked my laptop shut and burned my own house to the ground.
The Museum of Non-Visible Art is a “project” by a husband and wife team who go by the name of Praxis, because, apparently, they feared that their real names Brainard and Delia lacked sufficient capacity to annoy.
At the Museum of Non-Visible Art – which is a website – you can BUY for real currency, nothing so shabby as an object or experience, but the privilege of receiving the DESCRIPTION of an art project that will never get made. This is pretty mind-blowing if you’re eight, or really high, or living a hundred years ago. Hey: Praxis - Google “Marcel Duchamp”, you exasperating secondhand squirrel turds.
Here is an excerpt from the Praxis Manifesto, which goes on for I-shit-you-not three pages:
“The only surface worth painting is the mind of the viewer.”
What a bunch of beat-offs. Now, if this was mouldering in the cyberspace, ignored as it ought to be, I wouldn’t have shit to say about it. But, these douche cannons had the epic temerity to ask for money to support this “project”. And they FUCKING GOT IT. They enlist Franco, and some star-fucker simpleton pays TEN THOUSAND FUCKING DOLLARS to get this dickhead to describe a shitty idea. TEN FUCKING THOUSAND FUCKING DOLLARS.
So, obviously, like any rational person, when I heard this, I felt like executing every shitheel dickface moron who shares genetic material with the fucktard who dropped TEN GRAND on this. It’s like the guy went: “How do I skull-fuck the poor WHILE doing the dumbest fucking thing anybody ever heard of.”
And it’s not just the money – it’s the fact that I could pitch a shot glass into this crowd, and fucking anybody I hit is gonna rattle off a dozen ideas better than anything Franco has ever conceived of. And describe that idea more vividly than that cipher whose inexpressive face and empty head exist solely as transport for that pile of fucking hair of his.
If there was any justice in this life, we’d never have heard of this idiot piece of shit, and James fucking Franco would be wearing a jester hat and juggling devil sticks at fucking Burning Man, instead of being granted a global platform for this derivative wad of self-congratulatory monkey shit.
I fully believed that I could not work myself into a more complete fucking froth of paralyzing rage. I was convinced that it was literally impossible for me coax anything more out my already overtaxed Jesus-Fucking-Christ-O-Meter – I thought I was red-lining to the fullest extent possible.
Then I learned that Gwyneth Paltrow had a fucking website. Where she doles out lifestyle advice. So. Treat yourself. If you are after a more vapid distillation of Oprah-fied self-indulgence, I defy you to find a better candidate than Paltrow’s GOOP-dot-fucking-com. Gwyneth, when not a film and recording star, is dutiful wife to the frontman for Coldplay, which the data shows is the shittiest band of this or any other century, had this to say about the launch of GOOP:
“When you go to Paris and your concierge sends you to some… restaurant because they get a kickback, it’s like, No. Where should I really be? Where is the great bar with organic wine? Where do I get a bikini wax in Paris? People know that I know that…”
Now. I am baffled. An anorexic millionaire can make such a statement publicly, and we somehow fail to be engulfed in class warfare. In another age, this kind of blithe and towering self-regard would have earned Ms. Paltrow the chance to deposit that well-tended head of hers into the basket at the base of a guillotine.
So. The time has come to act. Here is what I propose: we must beat James Franco to death with Gwyneth Paltrow. Now you may be saying: “Can’t be done. Gwyneth Paltrow weighs like forty-six pounds and has hollow bird bones. There’s just not enough mass there to beat anybody to death.”
I hear you. I do. But I THINK if we crush her into a blonde little nugget, and drive railroad spikes through Franco’s shoulders so he’ll stay still, and we really put our backs into it, I think we can do it, you guys. We may have to work in shifts, pummeling around the clock. And even if we can’t – even if the physics of using a bird-boned waif as a weapon preclude us from clubbing every last breath out of this smug and galling heap of chickenshit – even if it proves totally impossible, I think it’s really, really important that we try.