Saturday, June 22, 2002

Security, Security, look at all the goddamn security.

It's Saturday. I'm working. It's cool, it gives me time to work on my paper that is due Monday. I took a trek at about ten am to drop a letter off at the imitation post office inside Bank of America's giant granite cock. Inside is a nice non-secular mural and all the security guards in the world. Where did all these hillbillies and recovering drug addicts work before September 11th, 2001? This fake war on terrorism has been a boon to those people who spend their life standing in doorways with their hands folded in front of their crotches. Given the women with acne scars a new lease on their self esteem. Given old retired storekeepers a reason to get up in the morning. And, most importantly, it's placed these most useful of Americans inside huge towers where they will be safe instead of having to stand outside convenience stores breathing Charlotte's bad air and getting emphysema. All this security may be a nuisance but it has allowed the fat guy with the Rollie Fingers moustache to buy a new truck.

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