I Grow Weary of Oppression
by The Man
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
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.
oppressing the index, you skank