Why does everyone feel sorry for the downtrodden and oppressed?  Why doesn't anyone care about me?  I'm The Man, and as the days go by I grow weary of oppression.

Do you think that I do this for kicks?  This is my job, and believe me, it's not all gambling, cocaine and call girls.  It's also a lot of work, and I do mean work.  This one's a lifer, and it's not the type of job where I can say, "Oh, I feel sick today, I think I'll spend the day in bed and order in."  I'm on duty 24/7, and there's no time to rest or relax.  My blood pressure's through the roof, and I'm getting these terrible-looking callouses on my hands from all the brutal beatings I do day in and day out.  It doesn't help that you motherfuckers are breeding like rabbits.  The defenseless, starving masses have gotten twice as large as they were but a couple generations ago.  Over three billion more people to oppress, and there's still only one The Man.  You guys are wearing me out.

Do you remember the book 1984?  Sure you do, I forced allof you to read that book in high school, along with Silas Marner and The Brothers Karamazov.  For those of you who slept through English, thus foiling my nefarious schemes, the concept of oppression was succinctly stated in this line:  "Imagine a boot stomping on a human face forever."  Unfortunately, many of you misinterpreted this line as a plea for compassion towards that tender human face that will be stomped on until the end of time.  You guys totally missed the point.  Totally.  Didn't you for one second think about the boot?  Didn't you think about the impact damage all that stomping through time is doing to The Man's joints?  I'm taking gradual damage to the cartailage and developing arthritis.  What about the gradual wear and tear on the boot that lowers its resale value, not to mention the grooves cut into it from tooth and bone that chip off the treads on the sole?  Did you know that when the wear and tear on a boot continues over a span of infinite years the boot inevitably wears off, and then I'm left stomping on a human face in my bare feet?  Now that's when it really starts to hurt.

And I'm not even mentioning the social embarassment I get when I go to a dinner party and someone asks, "Why is there a tooth jammed into the edge of your boot?"  I have to say, "Oh, that?  I've been stomping again.  Sorry to track blood in on your carpet."  How awkward!

Whether I'm working to prevent the poor from getting a better education, urging the police to use lethal force, or soaring high above your  heads for a slam dunk, you can count on the fact that I am both exhausted and probably running on only a couple hours of sleep.  Next time you're being reamed by the IRS or tortured in prison, ask yourself, "How is The Man feeling today?"  I'll tell you:  pretty damned crappy.

Now, in all fairness, I shouldn't be all Mr. Rainclouds.  This business of oppression is dirty work with long hours, but at least the pay is good.  It's not that the job doesn't have its perks, like the warm glowing feeling I get when another idiot spends her entire life savings on my lottery tickets and doesn't win on a single scratch-off.  Or that time in South Africa when...  oh, but I'm rambling again.  The point is, I get plenty of perks.  But I don't get nearly enough love.  Everyone's so goddamned self-centered these days, so in their obsession about their own problems they don't bother finding out about mine.  That's why I grow weary of oppression:  no respect.

So next time your being oppressed by The Me, don't just cry like a baby and bleed all over the place.  Take some time out to put yourself in my shoes.  Er, boots.  Thank you for your time.

Oh yeah, and don't do drugs.  I can't effectively regulate them, and it's really hurting my self-esteem.