I jumped out of bed this morning in my rent-controlled apartment, and was just slicing some government cheese to toast for breakfast when my girlfriend called me on her county-subsidized smart phone to ask if I was coming over this weekend.
"Why wait for the weekend?" says I. "With the senior discount and the short-car discount I get on the ferry, I can afford to make two trips."
"Better be careful, Dave," cautions the ever-prudent Catboxette, "We're both running kind of low on food stamps, y'know."
"Never fear, my tender blossom," says I, "The eagle shits again in 12 short days. So I'll be there tomorrow, but right now I have to get ready to go to my Medicare-paid psychologist for grief counseling, since as you know, my goldfish died."
And so forth. Such is the busy life of former American workers. I truly love my dirt-caked, indolent existence, and wouldn't trade it for the splendors of Byzantium, not unless I could arrange to get my dear fish, Fluffy, returned to the land of the living in the bargain.
©∆7ßøX3®, proud member of the 47%.
2 comments:
You are bad.
Cool, Dave!
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