From watching TV last night, I learned that I should show my style no mercy. So I lined up my socks and had them shot.
Finally a surgeon appeared. "What have you done with him," I said. "It's OK, Mr. Weagel. Your friend is doing much better now." "Where is he?! Goddamn You!" "He's resting," the doctor said, putting a hand to his brow. "There's nothing to be excited about." They'd cut him open like a turtle on the moon, I was sure of it. "What did you do to him? He's a man, dammit, like you or I." "I assure you, he's quite unlike any man you've ever met." "What did you do to him?!" "We've replaced his major organs with replicas made of solid gold. Increased his appetite. Stand him near a microwave next chance you get, he'll predict the future." "You're a butcher!" "Hardly. Now let me see about those forearms." He reached towards me without blinking. Instinctively, I handed him my credit cards and personal...
When the Typing Class realizes that they are the Working Class, and that the current day Rockefellers and Duponts and Carnegies don't give a damn about your concerns, then maybe change will happen. You are on the killing floor - you are just staring at a computer screen instead of a beef carcass or an engine or an assembly line.
Just because you can type doesn't elevate you over a mechanic. Have no sympathy for your ovelords.
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