no worky!

Abol­ish work…fight for rev­el­ry. Fac­toid to chew on: “hunters and gath­er­ers work less than we do; and, rather than a con­tin­u­ous tra­vail, the food quest is intem­mit­tent, leisure abun­dant, and there is a greater amount of sleep in the day­time per capi­ta per year than in any oth­er con­di­tion of society.”

5 thoughts on “no worky!”

  1. Bob­by requires an awful lot of work from his readers.

    The tire­some debater’s prob­lem of free­dom vs. neces­si­ty, with its the­o­log­i­cal over­tones, resolves itself prac­ti­cal­ly once the pro­duc­tion of use-val­ues is co-exten­sive with the con­sump­tion of delight­ful play activity.”

    Ok, what did I get from that .… tire­some, the­o­log­i­cal over­tones, … delightful.

    […] we have to take what use­ful work remains and trans­form it into a pleas­ing vari­ety of game-like and craft-like pas­times, indis­tin­guish­able from oth­er plea­sur­able pas­times except that they hap­pen to yield use­ful end-products.”

    Sud­den­ly I under­stand what Mary Pop­pins was try­ing to say all along. You know, I look a lit­tle like Dick Van Dyke. Actu­al­ly it’s like a com­bi­na­tion of Dick Van Dyke and Jesus. I’m pret­ty proud of that, for some rea­son. I had a dream once where I was Jesus, and I could shoot lasers from my eyes. But I was­n’t con­fi­dent in my abil­i­ties, and there was this huge zom­bie-mon­ster-thing try­ing to escape from a bar­rel — as indi­cat­ed in the dream by sequences of intense vibra­tions of the bar­rel. And then I remem­ber run­ning around the rafters of this huge barn, and the zom­bies were becom­ing so numer­ous and aggres­sive that they lit­er­al­ly made the barn explode. Then for some rea­son I could see the barn in the dis­tance from the out­side, and it turned out to be a real­ly small barn.

    So I guess the moral of the sto­ry is that if you’re going to be so extreme­ly ambi­tious as to try keep­ing all the world’s zom­bies in a sin­gle barn, it had damn well bet­ter be one big moth­er­fuck­er of a barn.

    And then I woke up.

  2. Actu­al­ly I kind of agree with him now; my father was killed in an acci­den­tal bee-ril­ing while “jam­ming-out” to the “work­ing over­time” part of that “Tak­ing Care of Busi­ness” song.

    Here’s the kick­er: THEY WERE WORKER BEES.

    I’ll get you, you striped hap­loid sons of bitch­es! *fist, orig­i­nal­ly sched­uled to be angri­ly shak­en, remains dis­ap­point­ing­ly motion­less due to spon­ta­neous onset of “Ulti­mate Laziness”*

  3. (from above)
    {“Expect to be changed a lot, when you mess around with Per­sons,” warn researchrs Goff­man and Kennedy. “Each one is unique—an utter­ly alien island of con­scious­ness. They’re around us all the time now, and the only thing they want to do is get inside your body.”}

    Look Goff­man and Kennedy. You don’t under­stand Per­sons. Nobody does. Except me. They’re real­ly very sen­si­tive, and they care about me. I love Per­sons and they love me, ok?! You’re just going to have to get used to that! You’re not even my real dads!

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