January 21, 2006
Un-coordinator
Fat ugly slob-cum-well-dressed, xtreeme braggart claims are outspoken, but yet unrealized.
For where, it seems, pudgy fingers fore-telling clumsiness begin, bossy, SUB-continent, uncertificated, blue-collar rhetoric, spelled:
T-E-C-H-N-I-C-A-L
I-N-C-O-M-P-E-T-E-N-C-E
finally, after all the pseudo-intellectual, undergraduate-poseur filth that flows from the source, ends. It is silenced by the truth of a laughably purple-faced clockwise wrench twist meant to crack the NORMAL RH-threaded B-nut, if you can even imagine it; silenced by the thunderous yet thankfully not disastrous effect of an experimentally dislodged safety pin. And the subcontinent's fatted-up royal son's very degreededness is lifted up for public perusal on an overloaded, pedestal with its left hand in the air, but standing on one foot, t'other hand grasping at the Ayurvedic ankle region of a right-upturned Ayurvedic region of the foot - a fine balance, indeed.
Yet hark! We approach now, unapproachables, and wander, tentatively, through the undiscovered, touching this and that, but what, really, daintily, shyly, braving our way finally into the realm of the, as yet untouched, where machines, systems, sub-systems, assemblies, and sub-assemblies actually do exist Dorothy. Here, we encounter inevitably those that simply KNOW more technical things than we, having not lied their way in, and are 300 million times less bloody arrogant than we and less good at one thing only - constant boss-arse caressing.
There is a prison in Arkansasas in which inmates are stripped of their privilege of privacy. The warden's men see all, unskewed and unfiltered information about the daily lives and habits is given them through glass walled cells. When the inmates take a shit, the warden's men see. When the inmates take a piss the warden's men see. When the inmates sleep and when they wake the warden's men see. When the inmates eat soap and feighn stomach trouble for a free trip to the infirmary, the warden's men see. The inmates can't get away with a lie. The truth of their very being is revealed through transparent plexi.
Oh, would that tiny cameras be installed in the 30-something orfices miscelaneous, in every potentially crooked nook and cranny to catch the lying, fat, sub-continent, slob/cowboy in his lie, to catch the worker/royalty-cum-manager-cum-coordinator-cum-man-about-the-campus in his man-fridaying. "the ONE" for him and "the HIM" for ONE, as it were. The sub-contitnent cowboy, in the midst of his own, as it were. The sub-contitnent cowboy in the realm of the as yet untouched. Would that the tiny cameras be installed to capture the numerous moments of incompetence forever, the shirkers in their shirk o' work, to catch the nose picker in his pick; the arse-scratcher in his scratch. Etc.
Would that all the tiny mics shoved strategically into fabrics of orfice curtains and blinds miscelaneous, under desks and unswept for, pick up all any latent cowardice-speak. Things too terrifying to speak out to the face of subject someone, for fear of instant ass-kickerage reprisal and the possible instant deaths of junior politicians. Transparancy we seek. Transparency we get. Transparancy. There's a certain powerfully focussing and calming effect in knowing what is the exact content, context and reaction to the content of the hilariously ridicoulous yet damaging fib the other guy just told to the boss about ya, just to make his boots look more shiny, isn't it.
What's that you say? They've been already installed, my friend and you de only suckah that don't realize the extent of the 7.1 Dolby surround, home theater effect, prying eye and ear combo that already exists? Pass it off, toss it off to paranoia, to fancy dreams of a momentous longing for a different sort o' madness, less predatory, any sort thereof, actually, would do, in a pinch.
And yet, mic or no, tiny cam or no, Fat Albert's fattiness speaks for itself. And Fat Albert's pudgy sub-contient poseur-clumsiness & subsequent incompetent fingering, touching of things yet untouched, that is, actual technical things, speaks/reveals volumes of the sort of thick, subcontinent broodingly-hungering-for-post-colonial-legitimacy, fog, that this fatty-man operates within. A very pushy, up-the-bosses arse, sub-continent cowbody, that's what, brinking everybody with his overbearing manageer-play, as we might be tempted to describe his dyed-in-the-wool sub-continent, wolfish-yet-sheepish-yet-ferret(ish) methods if we didn't know better how to fetter the typecast.
And on and on it goes. Where it stops, it blows up in your face so just don't let it stop. OK?
Happy happy joy joy
And BY SO THIS, "Rhohintin" Maniac LIVES ON, in this particular not so veiled sentiment.
For where, it seems, pudgy fingers fore-telling clumsiness begin, bossy, SUB-continent, uncertificated, blue-collar rhetoric, spelled:
T-E-C-H-N-I-C-A-L
I-N-C-O-M-P-E-T-E-N-C-E
finally, after all the pseudo-intellectual, undergraduate-poseur filth that flows from the source, ends. It is silenced by the truth of a laughably purple-faced clockwise wrench twist meant to crack the NORMAL RH-threaded B-nut, if you can even imagine it; silenced by the thunderous yet thankfully not disastrous effect of an experimentally dislodged safety pin. And the subcontinent's fatted-up royal son's very degreededness is lifted up for public perusal on an overloaded, pedestal with its left hand in the air, but standing on one foot, t'other hand grasping at the Ayurvedic ankle region of a right-upturned Ayurvedic region of the foot - a fine balance, indeed.
Yet hark! We approach now, unapproachables, and wander, tentatively, through the undiscovered, touching this and that, but what, really, daintily, shyly, braving our way finally into the realm of the, as yet untouched, where machines, systems, sub-systems, assemblies, and sub-assemblies actually do exist Dorothy. Here, we encounter inevitably those that simply KNOW more technical things than we, having not lied their way in, and are 300 million times less bloody arrogant than we and less good at one thing only - constant boss-arse caressing.
There is a prison in Arkansasas in which inmates are stripped of their privilege of privacy. The warden's men see all, unskewed and unfiltered information about the daily lives and habits is given them through glass walled cells. When the inmates take a shit, the warden's men see. When the inmates take a piss the warden's men see. When the inmates sleep and when they wake the warden's men see. When the inmates eat soap and feighn stomach trouble for a free trip to the infirmary, the warden's men see. The inmates can't get away with a lie. The truth of their very being is revealed through transparent plexi.
Oh, would that tiny cameras be installed in the 30-something orfices miscelaneous, in every potentially crooked nook and cranny to catch the lying, fat, sub-continent, slob/cowboy in his lie, to catch the worker/royalty-cum-manager-cum-coordinator-cum-man-about-the-campus in his man-fridaying. "the ONE" for him and "the HIM" for ONE, as it were. The sub-contitnent cowboy, in the midst of his own, as it were. The sub-contitnent cowboy in the realm of the as yet untouched. Would that the tiny cameras be installed to capture the numerous moments of incompetence forever, the shirkers in their shirk o' work, to catch the nose picker in his pick; the arse-scratcher in his scratch. Etc.
Would that all the tiny mics shoved strategically into fabrics of orfice curtains and blinds miscelaneous, under desks and unswept for, pick up all any latent cowardice-speak. Things too terrifying to speak out to the face of subject someone, for fear of instant ass-kickerage reprisal and the possible instant deaths of junior politicians. Transparancy we seek. Transparency we get. Transparancy. There's a certain powerfully focussing and calming effect in knowing what is the exact content, context and reaction to the content of the hilariously ridicoulous yet damaging fib the other guy just told to the boss about ya, just to make his boots look more shiny, isn't it.
What's that you say? They've been already installed, my friend and you de only suckah that don't realize the extent of the 7.1 Dolby surround, home theater effect, prying eye and ear combo that already exists? Pass it off, toss it off to paranoia, to fancy dreams of a momentous longing for a different sort o' madness, less predatory, any sort thereof, actually, would do, in a pinch.
And yet, mic or no, tiny cam or no, Fat Albert's fattiness speaks for itself. And Fat Albert's pudgy sub-contient poseur-clumsiness & subsequent incompetent fingering, touching of things yet untouched, that is, actual technical things, speaks/reveals volumes of the sort of thick, subcontinent broodingly-hungering-for-post-colonial-legitimacy, fog, that this fatty-man operates within. A very pushy, up-the-bosses arse, sub-continent cowbody, that's what, brinking everybody with his overbearing manageer-play, as we might be tempted to describe his dyed-in-the-wool sub-continent, wolfish-yet-sheepish-yet-ferret(ish) methods if we didn't know better how to fetter the typecast.
And on and on it goes. Where it stops, it blows up in your face so just don't let it stop. OK?
Happy happy joy joy
And BY SO THIS, "Rhohintin" Maniac LIVES ON, in this particular not so veiled sentiment.
