I don’t know how I can get any humbler. Wandering around an industrial park in the cold wind, looking for a KFC. I can’t stand the sight of the poppy on my jacket. They fought World War II, for this? Well, black and white brings a dignified facade. If you think about it, there would be plenty of indignity in the alternate future, with less whorehouses to choose from, to eat at, to work at – wouldn’t there?
I don’t have the stamina for communism, haven’t had since high school. The system is broken, and I’ll buy that for a dollar. I know how I can get humbler: ask for directions. Cause there’s no numbers on the buildings. There’s a secret code that only carburetors can read.
How can they humble me further? Interview me for the “position”, right in the restaurant, within earshot of every customer. Hey. And tell me how many other applicants there are for the job before I leave. They always do that. It must be a bad sign. Well, I regurgitated all the information from my resume the interviewer had right in fucking front of her. My work here is done.