Monthly Archives: August 2006

Dichot’s Manifesto

Dichot’s Manifesto
The Revelation of things revealed, from the wage-monkey to the ivory towers of The Man, and the bindings underneath.
(a treatise on life and the fuckitude of mankind)

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Monkeys! Monkeys! Monkeys everywhere, in suits, in blue collars! Wise up, lend ear, for there is this thing which must be known, for all things must be known sooner or later.

This thing, such as things that cannot be but still are, blinds us to the things we cannot see. And to see is good, for you may run into a wall. So, for the invisible strings that are pulled, I give plain sight, for knowledge of such damnable things is paramount, my brethren. For knowledge sent us out of the garden, and gardens are damnable, for when digging, you may accidentally touch a worm.

Of two things, I shine my light on, for light is good, for to be light would make your diet easier, and diets too are damnable, since no man can eat like a rabbit. So, these two things: the monkeys who break their backs, and the monkeys who drive them, are what I present to you. Seen, sure, these things are seen my friends, but who has seen what I have seen, the strings hidden and the kidneys disappeared? For where have all the kidneys gone, but into kidney beans. There are deeper forces than those apparent, for apparently we are all forced to close our eyes anyway, so why resist when monkeys is all we are?

No! Open, and see, that rich enslaves the poor, and that the poor, being too passionate, are sympathetic for the rich, for the rich are slaves too. For richer, for poorer, til death do we work, and work we shall, for that is what people do when they don’t go to school. School is work, yes, but diplomas do not mean jobs either.

So now, I, Dichot, present my Manifesto, for all to see and sneer, because to sneer would be a boost to your ego, and this boost is good.

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Glory be praised, that some should not have rich-man’s disease, the addiction to the best things in life, that insatiable desire to take two-week vacations to the slopes and suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous mishaps. Tis nobler in my mind to get my ass kicked than to suffer by my own success. For asses kicked are asses bruised. And those who bruise wear them like jewels, in declarations of humility and pride, whereas such things and Lexus and Armani advertise such target-ness for those that inflict bruises.

To be proud is to hurt with reason. Pride doth come before the fall, so watch that first step. Stumble, trip, and land full brunt on your face, and know that you did that yourself, you oafish goon. Thenceforth, proceed to the public places and proclaim your undying affections for the cute girl at the office and announce your bruises were for her, and for her alone. Upon such bold prevarications, in a fortnight, you will “get a piece”. And Piece is good, for we all should give piece a chance.

So, to blue-collar wage monkeys everywhere, take heart. Tho bruised and raped and taken advantage of by The Great Beast, you may hold high your pride and display your bruises and scratches to all your fellow bruise-brethren, so that all may know you too are a wuss among wusses. Upon this, all may know who is to blame, the murderer of the human spirit and the creator of the low-income tax-bracket: The Man.

Take heed, though; you are the people of the world, the glue that holds the gears of this great society together. And together, all you may rise up and fight with pride, and then take it up your hindquarters like men. For men can only receive in the hindquarters.

Such things, such as these, are such frilly things that such frills are. To Lexus, to Rolex and to all things shiny: to hell and the inner rings consign them do I. The devils that burn taunt you, and the slithery Beast, which has large, flapping wings that draft the chills that freeze the wills of men, this Beast that stands itself freezing in the solid slush down below, shall use these things, Lexus, Rolex, to get around on-time. Remember, brethren: for Hades doth have a schedule too.

And schedules are of the devil, and from the devil they do come to us. Madness prevails for those who slave to the schedule. From whence the curse came, from the creator of such damnable things are emanations of laughter and jeers to all who seccumb. Crush them, crush them, those who listen to Dayrunner and Timex Datalink. For to be on time is hellish on your gas mileage. Take the family dog to get it’s testicles disconnected, then run swiftly to pick up the kids, who will indeed starve without their afternoon pizzas and Ovaltines. Afterwards then, on schedule, an hour at the AA meeting, and thus your day is done.

Day of completions this seems: but this is out-and-out lies, for to begin a day brings not the end of another. Such days as such are passed still wear themselves on your back, for nostalgia runs high when times are not as good as once upon a naive time they were. For naive times are of the god of good tidings and Twinkies, and the Great Beast has most certainly kicked his ass.

The Great Beast comes in the night, when you are not looking, and takes away your toys, whenceupon you become a man. And, upon becoming a man, you forget all ideals of toyness and what toys are like. That’s why you give your kids airport souvenirs and ballpark inflatables. Then, after such forgettings, proceed you to the Adults-R-Us Auto Store on the Auto-Mile in your town, for all towns have an Auto-Mile. There, you beg deals with the gods of Lexus and thusforth with the blood of your pinky finger sign your kidney and your firstborn away. You have no arm or leg to sell, for they have been ripped-off in the night by the Great Beast; toys weren’t enough for him that night.

Toyless and parapallegic, you drive away with your new Suit Pride. Upon such things being done, as such things are done, you proceed to the Day Care, where you pick up your firstborn and hide him away in a crackerbarrel, such as was done the day your parents bargained with the gods of Lexus. So, upon your son’s head, you acquire life insurance, and thou shalt be the sole benefactor. Such things, when pondered, bring a laugh to your face, where in your adult pride you revel in the notion that you one-upped those laughable Lexus-gods. Upon such things, as such things have been done, with laughter receeded, you have been granted status of The Man.

Wear your suit, old child. Wear your monkey-suit, for of monkey-suits the Man is made. Flesh and fabric; a symbiosis of bone and fiber. Bone, the puppet; the master: fiber. Lips a permanent smile, for of such things is the fruit of Man; golf, shiny things, and eternal smiles over business meetings and mountain retreats with champagne caviar nights there, as well as in Bermuda and Las Vegas and the other places where Elvis lives. Because, Elvis is loved by The Man, for the Man enjoys music too.

Upon the attaining of your Manhood, stocks and bonds will be earned, but fear, for they are the kind that hold thee to the wheel and grind your nose to a fine point, where if you should perchance run into a wall, you would get stuck! Such things, as such things are, are your fruits and chains.

With them, in your Man ways, trusts will be funded, and with them, you will bequeeth oodles of cash to universities whenceupon they will build incredibly obsolete computer writing-labs and plaster your name upon them. Then, all shall know that such wonderful gifts, as such wonderful gifts are, are because of you, you cheap bastard. At least get them Pentiums, for God’s sake.

Of all these things, the Man is. As the Man is, such is as the Man does. For in promoting wage-slavery, he himself is a slave. Armani owns him; and upon the occurence of such horrors, the Man dies, leaving a smiling husk with fine tweed wrap and silk tie…and silk is good, for it is made by worms.

So, fair ye, children. Avoid such things, for of such things is the unhappiness of the world and the complete loss of any clue whatsoever. Wage-monkeys of the world, untie! For, such tyings are laced up, like so much shoestring on the feet of The Man. Should the Man go barefoot, the curse shall be broken, and all will be saved, at least until the gods of Nike and Reebok sponsor him in a golf tournament. Then, all shall surely be fucked, for of getting fucked is the heart of sponsorship.

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So it is. Be ye forewarned then, brethren. The Bruise and the Suit; two things of which we want not, but of either one our destiny is made. We all must choose, well, except for those guys who live down near the tracks. Decide, decide dear monkey, because the Great Beast may come tonight. Maybe he’ll come tomorrow night. Who is to know when the Great Beast will come, I mean, he DOES have a Dayrunner.

Fair thee well.

01/14/1997 03:38:26pm

Belly In My Beast

I feel you.
I stretch and reach, push forward
And straight for the gut you punch, pinch, jab.
I completely feel you.

Once, we were in harmony.
Now, you complain of my years of abuse.
Feed back the pain I fed to you.
Harmony went dissonant.

The moment I think of our unsteady peace,
You strike out at me.
Relief comes in waves; hope, in unsteady moments
Punctuated by twists, pangs.

What can I do to make things right?
What can I take?
I bow down, double over, hug you in some kind of embrace.
Will you accept my apologies?

Crashing Halt. Numbing Pain.

I noticed that my journal has been really quiet this year. So far, 9 entries total since January. Nothing in the past month and a half. And you’ve most likely noticed too; I apologize.

You see, I’ve had a bad month. Really bad. July started with a wimper, went out with a sigh. The 4th of July wasn’t kind to me; it was raining pleasantly, but I stayed inside instead of watching the fireworks downtown. Had coffee, got a migraine, went home early. The rest of that week, I started hurting in my lower abdomen; thought it was gas pain, so I lived on a diet of simethicone and wheat bread. No luck. That friday, I started hurting worse at work. I went home after work and stayed home instead of going to the usual friday night gathering I do. Tried laying down, sitting down, standing up, walking around, nothing I did could alleviate the pain in my lower-right abdomen. It was then that it struck me: that’s where my appendix is. I knew I needed to go to the ER, so I cleaned up, prepped some things in case I needed to be hospitalized, and my roomate took me there.

A urine test, blood test, CT scan (complete with having to drink a half liter of barium sulfate on a nauseous stomach), a prostate check, and two shots of morphine later (because of the worst pain I’ve ever experienced), the doctor sent me home with a prescription of Ciprofloxacin (an antibiotic) and a treatment plan for…prostatitis. I had a prostate infection. How? I don’t know. But it hurt.

My fever came and went that weekend, and the infection started going away. In my followup appointment with my regular doctor, he cut my four-week prescription regimen down to three, stating that the extra week is really just overkill. So, after experiencing the bad side effects for a few days, I didn’t argue the point.

Well, the side effects are thus: stomach pain, depression, fatigue, susceptibility to tendonitis and tendon damage, and in some extreme cases, paranoia. Basically, I sat like a lump from the time I got home from work until I went to bed, where I laid like a lump and had fitful sleep broken up by extreme dreams, another side effect.

I knew I had stuff I could do. I knew I could have been writing about it, getting it all off my chest, putting out the painful personal truths that I was seeing in my lowered state. But I lost my motivation, lost my drive. Nothing mattered, nothing meant anything. I just sat there at my desk and watched TV. Tuned in, dropped out. For a month. I knew the depression was due to the Cipro, but at times I could not be sure.

Well, my last dose was the last friday of the month, almost a week ago. I felt fine and was glad to have finished the regimen. Except I felt a tenderness in my middle back, near my kidneys. A secondary infection? I dunno, but by monday I was fine. Until this morning when I started feeling more pangs in my lower abdomen again. So, I’ve been taking it easy, pushing the fluids, taking the cranberry pills, loosening my belt. I put myself back on the Cipro tonight; already feeling the twisting of my stomach. If nothing is better by monday, then I’ll see the doc again.

Seems every time I make a journal entry, it’s bad health news. Maybe I’m turning the corner at the old age of 34. It’s all downhill from here. I dunno, it’s just that I have things to say, but no will to post them for the world to see when really they’re kinda personal thoughts. I have some further issues to deal with there, and now that I’m back on the Cipro, it won’t get any easier.