Taking a page from the Bush Administration Primer – on proper manners, that is – with nary a formal peep of apology from PayPal about their poor handling of this potential client’s recent attempts to use their money wire-transfer service, the Lords of PayPal deigned to acquiesce and, finally, returned my meager $300 to my bank account on Thursday. Woot!
While I am happy to have MY money back, I ponder the cosmos’ enigmatic glee at forcing me to endure over two weeks of frustration within their rapacious clutches. It seems my time could have been better utilized with acts of random kindness, Diddling a la Poe and the further contemplation of my navel, rather than wielding the jawbone of an ass and going head-to-head with the avarice of temple moneychangers who, in their moral superiority or inefficient behemothness, felt the need to smilingly take my tiny tithe and then – instead of passing it on to the truly needy (my artist) – stand there with that dumb smug look on their face like the cat who swallowed the canary.
The feathers floating out of your mouth are from my bird, bitch.
So, I felt forced to do a jujutsu Jesus number on the fat-cats and kick those PayPal pussies from my temple. I am Kat, hear me roar. Fucking Philistines.
“But, Kat, that’s not nice and so un-Christian-like,” admonishes the Pope, high and mighty in his ivory tower within Vatican City, reclining in exceeding comfort as the majority of the world’s peasants who pray to his disease crawl upon bloody knees to give their hard-earned gold to a deaf and dumb god so that more idolatrous statues can be affixed to cathedral walls just down the street from their sinful hovels and slums. “You should remember to turn the other cheek, for the meek shall inherit the Earth.”
I ain’t no Christian, ya mook. And, as for meek, I don’t want this god-forsaken place, anyway, I just wanted my money back. I’m praying for the day when the majority of the world’s masses get off their asses, say no to their willing slavery and take back their temples, one by one. Hey, I’ve got an idea: Stop giving the church your gold and fix up your own neighborhood.
In my good book, turning the other cheek only gives the pikemen a chance to ram it home, again. Besides, I was polite, remember? I played PayPal’s game by their rules until it was obvious that their game and rules were only meant to separate me from my money, holding us hostage, while they rotate on their thumbs, count the day’s take and ring up interest at my expense. That doesn’t interest me. I find no separation between church and state and Wall Street: they all chastise, condescend, instill fear and reap or rape the rewards of your blind obedience to whatever shit they’re selling, this week, this century or this millennium.
I will be nice, at first, until I’m given reason to snarl. Then, don’t get between me and the slow-witted bewildebeest. He’s goin’ down. The only law I pay attention to is the one of the jungle.
The next phase of this stupid tale is that PayPal won’t allow me to close out my account, now, though it is as empty as George W’s head. Why, you query, with all the naiveté of a right-wing religious zealot who would blindly follow a retarded lemming over the Iraqi cliff because he can’t fathom releasing his lips from the Big Oil tit? Because, they want me to still fill out the necessary forms – which I have, three times – and fax it to them, again, proving that I am who I am and that’s all that I am, and have reason to be within the sanctity of their domain.
This intellect and technology is what’s leading our economy, our country and our souls straight to hell.
These are the same morons that say, “Take that hill, soldier!”
“Uh, sir, that’s our hill. Our guys are up there.”
“Call in an air strike, grunt – some B-52’s or cruise missiles – and never backtalk me, again, or I’ll have your bars.”
“I’m a Sergeant, sir, we wear stripes.”
“Which is why you’ll kiss my silver eagle, sonny. Now, hump that hill, clear out them ragheads and establish my CP, pronto!”
“Pardon me, sir, but you’re not an officer. You’re a politician. In fact, you haven’t even served in uniform, have you?”
“Arrest this man! Court martial him. Send him to Gitmo.”
If I fill out your paperwork, submit everything you request – including my nuts in a wringer – and you say, “Great, you’re in!” and then you do an about-face once I’m wearing your uniform and trying to accomplish my mission or start barking absurd orders that simply make no sense, I am going to question your authority, your veracity and your sanity, or my not-so-wise decision to join your team.
When Americans realize that the buck starts and stops with them, not Washington, Wall Street or Rome; when they learn to vote with their feet, the pump and their wallet, instead of at the horribly compromised pews, polls and bully pulpits; and when they stand in unison and take their country back, then I’ll believe in America, again. Otherwise, the land of the free . . . isn’t, and the home of the brave is just a me-first, self-righteous, fat-ass, spoiled, snot-nosed bully, as nations go.
“Well, if’n youse don’t like it hyere, den why don’tcha just leave?”
Maybe this rooster should move and let the foxes rule the coop. Nah, I think I’ll stick around awhile longer and see if I can crow a little more loudly and help awaken more chickens. Or the farmer; he has a shotgun. I’m confident that if he knew what was going on in his chicken house, he’d set it aright. Hmm, unless he’s getting a government subsidy from the foxes to not raise chickens. Seems like if the farmer and the foxes are in cahoots, the chickens need to stick together, Brer Rabbit, and raise a little hell.
I got my money back. Now, I’m working on the country. Who’s with me?
The Kat
Comments on this entry are closed.