Say I'm working at N.S.A. Somebody puts a code on my desk, something nobody else can break. So I take a shot at it and maybe I break it. And I'm real happy with myself, 'cause I did my job well. But maybe that code was the location of some rebel army in North Africa or the Middle East. Once they have that location, they bomb the village where the rebels were hiding and fifteen hundred people I never had a problem with get killed.
(rapid fire) Now the politicians are sayin' "send in the Marines to secure the area" 'cause they don't give a shit. It won't be their kid over there, gettin' shot. Just like it wasn't them when their number got called, 'cause they were pullin' a tour in the National Guard. It'll be some guy from Southie takin' shrapnel in the ass. And he comes home to find that the plant he used to work at got exported to the country he just got back from. And the guy who put the shrapnel in his ass got his old job, 'cause he'll work for fifteen cents a day and no bathroom breaks. Meanwhile my buddy from Southie realizes the only reason he was over there was so we could install a government that would sell us oil at a good price. And of course the oil companies used the skirmish to scare up oil prices so they could turn a quick buck. A cute, little ancillary benefit for them but it ain't helping my buddy at two-fifty a gallon. And naturally they're takin' their sweet time bringin' the oil back and maybe even took the liberty of hiring an alcoholic skipper who likes to drink seven and sevens and play slalom with the icebergs and it ain't too long 'til he hits one, spills the oil, and kills all the sea-life in the North Atlantic. So my buddy's out of work and he can't afford to drive so he's got to walk to the job interviews which sucks 'cause the shrapnel in his ass is givin' him chronic hemorrhoids. And meanwhile he's starvin' 'cause every time he tries to get a bite to eat the only blue-plate special they're servin' is North Atlantic scrod with Quaker State.
So what'd I think? I'm holdin' out for somethin' better. I figure I'll eliminate the middle man. Why not just shoot my buddy, take his job and give it to his sworn enemy, hike up gas prices, bomb a village, club a baby seal, hit the hash pipe and join the National Guard? Christ, I could be elected President.
Slashdot Mirror
The NetBSD folks have probably already got the port started.
Sounds like this:
Say I'm working at N.S.A. Somebody
puts a code on my desk, something nobody
else can break. So I take a shot at
it and maybe I break it. And I'm real
happy with myself, 'cause I did my job
well. But maybe that code was the
location of some rebel army in North
Africa or the Middle East. Once they
have that location, they bomb the
village where the rebels were hiding
and fifteen hundred people I never had
a problem with get killed.
(rapid fire)
Now the politicians are sayin' "send
in the Marines to secure the area"
'cause they don't give a shit. It
won't be their kid over there, gettin'
shot. Just like it wasn't them when
their number got called, 'cause they
were pullin' a tour in the National
Guard. It'll be some guy from Southie
takin' shrapnel in the ass. And he
comes home to find that the plant he
used to work at got exported to the
country he just got back from.
And the guy who put the shrapnel in
his ass got his old job, 'cause he'll
work for fifteen cents a day and no
bathroom breaks.
Meanwhile my buddy from Southie realizes
the only reason he was over there was
so we could install a government that
would sell us oil at a good price.
And of course the oil companies used
the skirmish to scare up oil prices so
they could turn a quick buck. A cute,
little ancillary benefit for them but
it ain't helping my buddy at two-fifty
a gallon. And naturally they're takin'
their sweet time bringin' the oil back
and maybe even took the liberty of
hiring an alcoholic skipper who likes
to drink seven and sevens and play
slalom with the icebergs and it ain't
too long 'til he hits one, spills the
oil, and kills all the sea-life in the
North Atlantic. So my buddy's out of
work and he can't afford to drive so
he's got to walk to the job interviews
which sucks 'cause the shrapnel in his
ass is givin' him chronic hemorrhoids.
And meanwhile he's starvin' 'cause every
time he tries to get a bite to eat the
only blue-plate special they're servin'
is North Atlantic scrod with Quaker State.
So what'd I think? I'm holdin' out
for somethin' better. I figure I'll
eliminate the middle man. Why not
just shoot my buddy, take his job and
give it to his sworn enemy, hike up
gas prices, bomb a village, club a
baby seal, hit the hash pipe and join
the National Guard? Christ, I could
be elected President.
a book written by Stephen King about a mean clown.