With the possible exception of the homosexual class, what I despise the most in our human endeavor is stupidity and convention shielded by collectivism. It is a great deal to say I've bottled so much of my malevolent contempt, in relation to this, with a cork because of brotherly kinship for the absent libertarian Tony Stiles, but there is a grain of truth in it, because I must have been a Roman henchman in another life for a prominent family, and if I really let my hair down, I mean really, I'd blow more than one server on Blogger and really pose a problem for my local precinct.
Lest you think my hatred is merely aimed at the disposal of disadvantaged human wasted space, for which American 202 public housing was designed, let's take Michael Pera. He is either Italian or Polish, as in "stupid Pollack," an affable custodian, but also one of the dumbest morons I have ever encountered. When I bellowed out loud and clear you can go fuck yourself to Trudy on Friday, pulling my phone out of pocket, Mike looked like a frightened bug eyed beagle. It is 6 against 1 here at Riverside, no more than a gang of 4 or 5 at any one time, and they are scared to death of a cripple with 1/3 normal mobility; I was perfectly civil to the patrol officer they summoned to my unit, and have no idea what the young man told them, as this is sort of aggrandized domestic violence, but they all the sudden folded. Michael Pera makes my dead ex seem clever, and he makes Trudy Richardson's managerial conniving seem nearly prosaic.
What am I not hearing in Trudy's and my sister's and my family's argument? That going through another 25 to 50 paraprofessionals would assist my grooming and cleanliness and ease my housekeeping stress and at least get me food when this Jazzy goes down for good? I have already been through nine years of this; the afternoon in 07 I accidentally flipped, I had an aide scheduled who never showed, and Trudy launched her first attack, assigning blame, to me, because the system has such huge craters that I had to wait nearly a year for a fucking power chair because I earned an unexpected insurance payout, and the fucking assessment team asked me if I was suicidal, in public, after being molested by an Unlimited Staffer. It is all of you who are deaf, and whatever my belligerence, these fraternal government partnerships breed ineptitude. I am going to see to it that at least one minority's career in gerontology impoverishment comes to an end. Watch me roar.
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