My favorite time of the day has to be just when I roll out of bed in the early evening. The mind is clear enough to see the potential for the day, opportunity awaiting those inclined to pursue it's elusive gains, but is just fuzzy enough to blur the details. Threatening to pull our service contract might just persuade those monkeys in Montreal to interfere with some shipping dates. It'd be a shame if those idiots across the water were late to fulfill that government contract; the government doesn't take well to that.
But then the mind clears, and the sad details fill in. The monkey in Montreal couldn't count above 10 with his socks on, and won't realize that losing five hundred grand tomorrow will offset two hundred and fifty grand a year for the next 5 years. Hell, his parents were probably related by birth. Even if it did, the government would let it slide; it'd be too much work for some useless cube-farm rodent to read his own fucking bylaws to see that the government could be liable for not enforcing their own schedule policies. Hell, they'd probably sue themselves, and pat themselves on the back for a job well done. A bunch of useless bastards, really. Living life with their heads up their asses wondering why they can't see the TV. Some days I get the distinct impression that we need more plagues, or possibly a higher infant mortality rate.
Sometimes I wonder why I even bother getting out of bed.
Refreshingly, the mail contains fewer parasites asking for charity; the planet's biomass could do with those sycophants being set adrift on an iceberg. And what's this? Someone declaring praxis by mass-mail? Now that's a new one. Perhaps he can also tell me how I can make a million dollars overnight selling cat food to my friends, or perhaps extending my penis length with a crystal I stuff up my ass. Another monkey for the Prince-of-the-month club. If I get us a card, maybe we can get a discount at Starbucks. Let's see who's going to going to save us from ourselves this week; that name on the bottom looks...
...
Now there's a name you don't see everyday.
HE's claiming praxis? An actual elder, not some bag of blood with delusions of grandeur? Well it's about fucking time. Maybe we can have some stability in this hole; it's hard to believe things were nicer in Toronto.
Of course, that puts any hopes of a promotion down the shitter. And he's clan, so when he fucks up we'll all look like asses, especially when we all support his actions, no matter how stupid they may be. At least he should be able to make those debutantes with their eyes on the throne go away. Hell, the best time to be a Grit is when the Grits are in power.
I think I may just wake up tomorrow after all.