Peenie Wallie: Fetid Houseslaves

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November 16, 2005

Fetid Houseslaves

And we're all starting to get used to the shock-collar that HR fitted around my neck. In our project meetings, I'm sweating like a whore in sunday school, listening to the impressively naive banter of the enlightened femi-nazis. But I don't speak up as much. No one ever really wanted to hear what I said anyway. I don't dance around the truth well enough for most people.

Bill is a delicate flower. He's a politician and gets his point across by asking questions and leading others to his ideas, so that in the end, they think that his ideas were really their own and everyone is holding hands like a tent revival in the Deep South.

But I just tend to tell people what I think. Just blurt it out. Which usually goes over like a fart in church so that, even if people agree with what I'm saying, they wouldn't admit it under any method of torture less severe than that employed at the zenith of the Spanish Inquisition.

But the shock collar has changed all of that, and, in a way, I think we're all better off for it. I've learned that if I don't say anything at all, then I don't get shocked. So the miscreants sit there. Aged post-menopausal enzyme hens, clucking and cackling like Crepe Myrtle Grackles.

"Why not pay people in scrip?"

"Why not hold everyone's paycheck for two weeks and see what happens?"

"Why not split one paygroup into forty?"

Collectively, the dusty, fetid houseslaves in pin-curlers generate a seemingly endless stream of the most implausible and daft ideas. And I'm sitting there thinking that if a woman ever makes it into the White House then our country will degenerate into a convivial social club of oxidized gossiping hags.

So, even though these insipid, brainless, myrmidons are headed down a path to self-destruction, I just keep my mouth shut and the project lurches forward, albeit in a haphazard and reckless sort of way. The project is basically adrift, but it's no concern of mine really. I just grit my teeth and tolerate their ignorant bleating, like a listening to a homeless bag lady learning to play the violin on acid. They're pernicious, deeply stupid spivs, but it's not really any concern of mine, and in this I find my salvation.

Every day at noon, the shock collar injects something into my bloodstream...I'm not exactly clear what it is, but it leaves a metallic taste in my mouth like that time I was in the hospital to have my tonsils out.

And every day just before noon, I know that the medicine is about to be injected into my carotid artery from the collar and I'm sitting there at my desk, waiting for the medicine to take effect. I get that nauseating feeling like when the dogs are getting birdy, and they're flipping this way and that, nose to the ground, tail bobbing fiercely, and they're headed my way and now he's only three feet away I just know one of those infernal pheasants is going to explode from the shallow grass in an acoustic earthquake of feathers drumming the gelid air.

And I'm sitting there at my desk, squinting hard. Tears streaming out of the corners of my eyes. Hands balled into fists with my fingernails cutting into the pallid skin of my palms. And I'm gnawing the inside of my lips and cupcake is standing there going "What is wrong with you?"

And then the collar pumps the drugs into my system and suddenly I don't care about the project any more. I don't care that I'm under the employ of a confederacy of dunces or that I have a cooler full of certified mail from the IRS under my dining room table. All I want is to do what I'm told and I look at cupcake and tell her I'm fine. Just fine. All I need is some fresh air and I leave her and steal outside to watch the trees surrender their variegated leaves to the snows of November.

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