Professionalism, Corporate Whores and the Death March

Professionalism, Corporate Whores and the Death March

Author: Stephen DeVoy

Ah, the professional, corporate soldier of America, wearing a false smile and wrapping his empty shell in a suit, is the symbol of American "success."  America truly is the land where the suit makes the man, for the average American man, after a lifetime of corporate programming, is little more than the suit he wears.  More and more, the education we give him is just as thin, just enough to coat his intellectual emptiness with a whitewash of style.  We train him to bend over for the corporation and take it up the ass like the worthless whore he is.  We encourage him to feel that he is best when he is on his knees, sucking the boss' cock with an occasional "at a boy" on the back and a nice car stacked with debt in the driveway.  He sees himself as something important because his suit says so, because the TV commercials say so, and because his boss says so, but if you put this "man" onto the streets of the third world a stiff wind would be enough to blow him away.  America is the land of pussies, the land of wusses, the land of empty platitudes, and the land of "yes master, let me lick your boots," accompanied by a gleam of disdain for the homeless man or woman or the un-bathed child wandering the streets in search of scraps of food.  He puffs his chest with self pride for the empty shell he is, for at least he has cash in his billfold, though a close accounting will reveal that in true dollars, when you count in his debt, he has less than the bum on the street.

His knowledge of the world is less than thin - more like antimatter or a surreal twist of nonsense that makes thinking impossible.  He is more controlled than the stupidest German under Hitler, for at least the stupidest German under Hitler had no television.  Somewhere in Germany, during the Second World War, someone must have looked around and thought, "what the fuck is going on," but here in America those who even notice that something is wrong are even fewer.  We are a lost civilization voluntarily jumping on the hand basket to hell and the few of us who dare speak up are like the sounds of crickets during a midnight mad bash, impossible to hear and impossible to understand for the twisted minds of the partygoers no longer posses the ability to process logic.

And I wait here, watching it all, interacting with the scum in suits as their fake smiles continue to gleam and I wonder just what they will look like when the time comes and all hell breaks lose.  Will they blow away like empty suits or will they simply stand there and melt into dust leaving little trace of the nothing they once were? America is at the end of her rope and the rope is around her head and the slightest breeze will send her swinging, back and fourth, back and fourth, like the rancid corpse on a rope she had become.  Stay here, if you will, in a death embrace and travel to hell with the rest of them on the hand basket or step back from the precipice, look around, and ask yourself, "what eternal bond forces you to share in this collective suicide?"  You don't have to go down with the ship, you can man the lifeboats and secede, for the captain is a madman and only fools follow madmen to the abyss.