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Trite policies delivered to you in plain white envelopes you'd find in your letter box. It will be laced with mind controlling pheromones, taking away your ability to think rationally, dumbing you down to the degree of a circus animal forced into performing tricks for treats and abused with whips and by starvation if you're not compliant to their orders, while your master pockets all of the day's earnings.

You sit down at the kitchen table peacefully but with anxious thoughts flowing in and out of your head with the speed of a bullet as you meticulously review your three page long resume filled with pretentious drivel before you scan through the black and whiteness of the classified ads to find a job which caters to your skill set. The sound of "I Wanna Be Your Dog" by The Stooges blasting with heavy bass on your stereo. Because that is what you aspire to be, a chained dog controlled by the leash of society, working for chump change to buy things you don't need, disregarding the ineffectiveness of the existing status quo.

Bark louder, bend over and learn more tricks, you are going to need it. Climb the corporate ladder because wealth will set you free. Work hard for the future of your children, financial security will be a platform for a happy family. Whoever told them we wanted children anyway? I would rather get lost in Vegas, quenching my thirst for debauchery than be thinking about building a life with some girl who would probably leave me for some asshole who has a job which allows her to sit pretty on the upper echelon of the social status pedestal, with her legs spread out like the Whore Of Babylon. Romance is dead and whiskey is my one and only true love; it keeps me warm, it builds me up, it tears me down but it only costs $30 a bottle and I live under a bridge, so it's okay.
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