Why shouldn't I work for the NSA? That's a tough one.
But I'll take a shot. Say I'm working at the NSA, and
somebody puts a code on my desk, somethin' no one else
can break. Maybe I take a shot at it and maybe I break
it. And I'm real happy with myself, cus' I did my job
well. But maybe that code was the location of some
rebel army in
North Africa or the Middle East and once they have
that location, they bomb the village where the rebels are
hiding... Fifteen hundred people that I never met, never
had no problem with get killed. Now the politicians are
sayin', "Oh, Send in the marines to secure the area" cus'
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, cus' they were off pullin' a tour in the National
Guard. It'll be some kid from Southie over there takin'
shrapnel in the ass. He comes back 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, cus' he'll work for fifteen cents a day
and no bathroom breaks. Meanwhile he realizes the only
reason he was over there in the first place was so that
we could install a government that would sell us oil at a
good price. And of course the oil companies used the
little skirmish over there to scare up domestic oil prices.
A cute little ancillary benefit for them but it ain't
helping my buddy at two-fifty a gallon. They're takin'
their sweet time bringin' the oil back, of course, maybe
even took the liberty of hiring an alcoholic skipper who
likes to drink martinis and fuckin' play slalom with the
icebergs, it ain't too long 'til he hits one, spills the oil
and kills all the sea life in the North Atlantic. So now
my buddy's out of work. He can't afford to drive, so
he's walking to the fuckin' job interviews, which sucks
because the shrapnel in his ass is givin' him chronic
hemorrhoids. And meanwhile he's starvin' cus' 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 did I think? I'm holdin' out for
somethin' better. I figure fuck it, while I'm at it why not
just shoot my buddy, take his job, 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? I
could be elected President.
Oh, no, we're not asking you to lose weight. That would be illegal. We just want you to be healthy! So go home, weigh yourself on a scale, write than down. Then subtract 20 from that number. And weigh that. Yeah.
