Sticking it to the Man

Today I must have a bad case of Stickittothemanitis.  My throat is killing me, I'm tired, I'm losing my voice, which could actually be a joyous occasion for some, and I'm just plain exhausted.  For those who still exist within the "normal" realms of society, whatever those may still be these days, you might ask, "Well, if you feel so crappy, why didn't you call in sick?"  Yet I sit here, perched upon my ripped circa 1970s office chair that probably Nixon wet farted in, and type this upon my Norwegian Denmarkian Apple that's so freakin slow, a 103-year-old could probably poop faster than it boots.  My sole responsibility of the day is typing press releases — because I knew when I grew up, all I ever wanted to do to feel like a contributor to society and to be the ultimate journalist, was to sit here wasting my time typing up press releases — a job a high school kid could do and so no one will read them anyway.  This is the dream baby!  Such a worthless effort, yet you may wonder, "Why didn't she just stay home then?" or "Why doesn't she just go home now?"  My answer is simple: The Man.  You see, if I were to call in sick or say I needed to go home early, it would be the MAN who would condemn my actions and make sure I never ever forgot the consequences of not giving it my all for one day in my life. It's The Man who says during that call-in phone call, "Well do what you need to do!" and hangs up so abruptly you swear you could feel his spit in your eyes and the metaphorical dagger he just plunged into your back.  It's The Man, who when you come back to work, has to ask you 50 questions about your illness and inspects your entire body with multiple vertical scans of his beady little eyes.  She doesn't look sick to me!  And it's also the man who will make you talk to 50 people for five stories you need to get done in 4 hours when your throat still feels like a cat is trying to crawl up to the roof of your mouth.  It's also THE MAN who will stone and harass you because god forbid you couldn't have been that sick, you just played hookie — went off and had fun in some imaginary place.  So we need to harass you, find any little analosity that would give excuse to yells, screams, belittling and embarrassment among co-workers.  That is your punishment for being sick.  It's all about the head games.  And yet, if I were to sever my right arm just above the elbow and plop it upon your waste-filled paper bin, you'd but shrug and reply, "Yeah, what is this?  So where's your left?"  My point is my friends, we give and give and give, yet The Man thy take it away.  Nothing is ever good enough for the man.  No sacrifice is ever recognized by the man unless it is in that lucky instance you just so happen to make him look good.  Then you are quickly vanished from memory — forgotten!  Like a dream, you never truly existed.  So why do we let this come of us?  Why do we let The Man place fear upon us and the anxious desire to make him happy under any and all circumstances?  What has the Man done for us, but take away our soul, our dignity, our self-respect, our ability to stand up for ourselves — what's right or wrong — our ability to ask even ourselves, "If I feel this shitty what the &$@#* am I doing here?"  All for what? I'll leave you with that question.  So today, whether you're feeling shitty with me or not, I say STAND UP TO THE MAN!  Go home!  Go smoke, drink, fool around — ANYTHING YOU WANT — in a unified effort to Stick it to the Man.  Let The Man know he will no longer instill fear in us from this day forward and that we will no longer question ourselves or our worthiness!  And whether we are sick or not, we still have the right to live dammit!  Screw you guys, I'm goin' home. Today, I hate being sick and I hate THE MAN!