Wednesday, December 8, 2010
"It reads right here how to be good enough and smart enough so, gosh darn it, patrons like you."
"Then why do you still wear that mask, Gene."
"We all wear them, hired gun."
"That's not the mask I mean, Gene."
'tis amazing just how much the language of capital pervades virtually every sector of society & though I don't foresee an outcome as comically disturbing as this bit lifted out of a bad screenplay, there's only so much salesmanship & selling/growing the brand jargon one can take -- I do still work in a library, yes? -- before my corporate gobbledygook-addled brain drifts off to the land of Wikileaked bunga-bunga soirees.
Bros before hos.
Hold a gun to management's temple & they'll admit their preference for Colgate smile incompetence over mumbly grumbly quality because that's what we've all been conditioned to accept as the interactive default, the miraculous salve for feelings hurt from some uncomfortable truth. Of course, such pain only matters to the institution as concerns the public facade of said institution. Don't even get me started on the 'folded arms offend Shiny Happy People & promotes an unhealthy reliance on stark, clear language' bit. George Carlin is rolling over in his grave, vomiting profusely so his corpse doesn't choke & die a second death.
If I'm wrong or fuck up, I want to be called out on it. It really is okay to be wrong &/or fuck up & be called out on it, amply demonstrating that we're not a copy of the Cheneybot.
Speaking of things that make me mumbly & grumbly because I fucked up & am calling myself out on it, look, I get that the Cadavaliers reside in the lower reaches of the buxom East, but after their 52nd consecutive double double-digit loss, I hardly think it's coincidence that our arguably most effective player is nicknamed Boobie.