166 lines
9.5 KiB
Plaintext
166 lines
9.5 KiB
Plaintext
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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I Could Not Make Him Understand...
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I was at the DMV the other day. It's not something I like to do on a
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regular basis, but... it is slightly preferable to spending the night in
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jail because you don't have all your paperwork in order.
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I walked in and ... nothing... nothing at all... not a single solitary
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goddamned thing. I waited in a long line, for a long time. Waiting,
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waiting to be called on by some overpaid un-needed civil servant. Yes,
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the phrase is civil servant.
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The question I have is this: Why is the hell do they call themselves
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civil servants when their job duties are demanding service _from_ me, by
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force of law? The only *service* they provide is to accept the needless
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paperwork which they demand of me. Hardly my idea of a service. I
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wasn't exactly considering leaving a tip.
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So there I was, waiting. Doing nothing. Wasting my time. Giving to
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the government more of the short amount of lifespan I have been granted
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on this earth. Recently, I switched jobs. I am now an overpaid hourly
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contractor. Every minute I spent standing in that needless line waiting
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to fill out that needless paperwork cost me money. Every dollar I
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didn't make meant a dollar that the government could not tax. I lost
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revenue. The government lost revenue. And what was the purpose for all
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of this waiting? To get a new little plastic card to replace my old
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little plastic card.
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Eventually, my turn was up. The little man behind the counter stared at
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me as I slid my old little plastic card across the counter. The little
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man stared at his little terminal for a long time as if it were the
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Oracle at Delphi. The little man proceeded to explain to me that the
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little green letters glowing on his screen meant that I would not be
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able to get a new little plastic card to replace my old little plastic
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card.
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I am, according to most people who know me, a computer genius. The
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little man was most definitely not. I calmly explained to him that the
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little green growing letters were simply not telling him the truth and
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that a simple phone call to an actual human would straighten everything
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out and allow me to go on about my business.
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I could not make him understand. The little man worshipped his little
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terminal with the little green glowing letters. To the little man, his
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terminal represented the entirety of the American system. His terminal
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was how the government chose to comunicate to him. The government that
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fed him, clothed him, sheltered him, gave his life meaning -- this
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terminal was his link with that government.
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I, on the other hand, was just a filthy human. I was the source of all
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of the little mans problems. The benevolent goverment paid him to come
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to this place and talk with this terminal and all day long filthy humans
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would come in and bother him. I was one of those filthy humans. I
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wanted something from him. I was being a burden upon him. And the
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little green glowing letters on the terminal said that I was not to have
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what I came for..
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Eventually, I left. I returned some time later with a little white
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piece of paper. The little white piece of paper was not as magic as the
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little green glowing letters on the little terminal, but it would do. It
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would do because it was (ostensibly) a little white piece of paper from
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another branch of the little mans benevolent government. What the little
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white piece of paper said was that I, the filthy human, was telling the
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truth. Little matter that the little piece of paper was printed on a
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cheap dot matrix printer and could have been forged with less effort
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than it would take to fake a simple cash register receipt.
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The little man took my old little plastic card and had me fill out some
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more needless paperwork. Then he told me to go sit and wait some more.
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After that a big woman told me to stand in front of an expensive camera.
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The expensive camera displayed my picture on a computer screen. The big
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woman then told me to sign my name on an expensive electronic pad and
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press my right thumb against another expensive electronic pad. Then,
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unsuprisingly at this point, she told me to go wait some more.
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After quite a long time and quite a bit of lost revenue for both myself
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and the IRS, the big woman called my name. I walked over and she handed
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me a new little plastic card to replace my old little plastic card. I
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still don't understand what was so wrong with my old little plastic
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card.
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During this whole ordeal, I was more than a bit angry. I do not like
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wasting my time, whether or not it is billable time. Even if I am not
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billing for my time, I have quite an impressive list of other projects
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that I would much rather do than whiling away the hours at the local
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Department of Motor Vehicles.
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The little man... his reality is his little terminal with the little
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green glowing letters. The big woman, her reality is her expensive
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camera. Neither of them could understand why on earth I might be angry
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with them. To their way of thinking, they were doing me a favor. They
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were giving me one of these very important and valuable little plastic
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cards. I should be grateful for the service they were rendering.
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Except, they weren't rendering a service. They were merely acting as
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tools of a police state. Left to my own resources, I would have no need
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for a little plastic card. The government has mandated that *I* must
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have a current little plastic card, under threat of imprisonment. How
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then can I look upon the employees of the Department of Motor Vehicle
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employees as civil servants? Instead, it appears that I am a civilian
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servant of my governmental masters.
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To my way of thinking, the little man was a representative of an
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oppressive totalitarian regime. To his way of thinking, he was just
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reading little green glowing letters off of his little terminal and
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doing what he was told.
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I would have loved to explain how I felt to the little man, but I just
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could not make him understand.
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Epilogue:
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Herein lies a truth about a great trouble looming over our country today.
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The nation is polarizing, dividing into two disparate groups of
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individuals. Individuals who are so far apart they are unable to
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understand the positions of those on the other side of the great fixed
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gulf. Over 100 years ago, Abraham Lincoln stated that "No nation divided
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against itself can long endure." Today, we are seeing the beginnings of
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a nation dividing against itself. Unlike our nations earlier conflict,
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this one does not divide us geographically. The opposing parties are
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neighbors. Our children attend the same schools. We buy groceries at the
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same stores. We cheer for the same football teams. And yet... we do not
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communicate. We talk, but the vast philosophical space separating our
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disparate positions prevents us from truly communicating.
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
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= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
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= Internet : jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
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= gote land +27.31.441115 =
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= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
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= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
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= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
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= Damnation 212.861.0580 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
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= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 PheedbacK ----down---- =
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= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
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= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images 407.834.4576 =
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= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
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= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
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= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
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= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
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= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
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= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
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= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
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= The Keg 914.234.9674 =
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
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= Files through Anon FTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
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= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
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= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
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= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
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= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
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= FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM - /users/rage/zines/fuck =
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= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
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= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
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= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author =
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