Fire My Ass

we don't like working.

Rather, we don't like working for other people.

We are the repressed do-gooders. The ones that show up to work on time, everyday; we stay when we're asked, we do as we're told, and when we clock out we give the bosses the loudes middle finger and fuck you ever heard by a dog.

I hate my job.

That is the most spoken collection of words spoken across America, and I have been pushing its existence longer than anyone. I hate my job, you hate your job. Unless you can wake up in the middle of the afternoon, callinga hamburger combo breakfast, and a margarita at two in the morning dinner, you're not happy with what you are doing. You are merely comfortable. You are used to the routine and satisfied that your paycheck clears every time. You have people that love you and don't understand how miserable you are when they are not around, and you are surrounded by the uptight pen pushers and data clickers that you see more than them.

I am single. I have no children. All I have to look forward to is the completion of my education, and the wonderful day that I can tell my current employers to shove their insurance and benefits up their ass. I'm drinking a six pack, watching "Home Movie" dvd's, and calling it research.

Being single and alone, all I have to keep me happy is my work. That's kind of hard to do when a guy like me has to dress for work the night before, knowing that if I wait until the morning, I'm just not going to bother dressing or working. Fire my ass would be the recording on my answering machine.

I don't like things right now, and I don't like you.

You need to fire me. I need... "the fear."