If there's one thing I hate more than anything else in the whole world, it's work. Okay, I don't hate it quite as much as terrorism or distributing free bestiality porn to every fifth customer at Disneyland. Or getting killed. But I hate it a lot, more than just about anything else, including pictures of Larry King in a Speedo. Just writing this paragraph was work, and I hated it.
When I was a kid, my dad always bugged me to mow the lawn and trim the hedge and all sorts of other tiring, strenuous chores. Why the hell would I want to do those things when I could be lying around the livingroom under the air-conditioner, watching TV? It was stupid and thoughtless to expect me to do anything else. Phrases like "earning my keep" and "pulling my weight" popped up now and then, but I blithely ignored them. This line of reasoning was, of course, ridiculous. I "earned my keep" simply by existing--by being me, wonderful me.
"What--you think the world OWES you a living?" I've often heard. Well, yes. This may not apply to others, and in fact I don't really think it does. Other people SHOULD work, because if they didn't, I would be deprived of most, if not all, of the essential goods and services that are required to amuse me and occupy my leisure time in fun and interesting ways. Somebody has to drive the truck that delivers the TV and other entertainment items which provide me with hours of viewing enjoyment. Someone has to labor in the fields and factories to produce the tasty food and beverages that I consume. And since the world owes me these and so many other things, which I so generously repay with my very presence, a considerable amount of work must be performed by others in order to provide them. This is a system that has operated successfully for decades, and I see no reason to risk changing it now.
Some have questioned my apparent lack of what they quaintly refer to as a "work ethic." I usually don't hear them, thank goodness, but occasionally I put the porn DVD on "pause" so I can go into the kitchen to get a delicious snack of some kind, and snippets of their dull bleating about work filter through. "Work ethic?" I repeat quizzically, considering the implications of such a concept with ill-disguised disgust as I deftly create a delicious baloney and cheese sandwich with mustard and pickles on toasted wheat bread. "Why in the tin-plated, coal-burning hell would I want to have one of those?"
They blather something about how doing a hard day's work makes one "feel good." Well, that's just poppycock. Work doesn't make me feel good--goofing off and being a total slacker makes me feel good. Great, in fact. Nothing gives me that glorious "top o' the world" feeling more than reaching the end of a long day, looking back, and realizing that I have done absolutely nothing productive whatsoever. Sure, maintaining this level of inactivity can be rather tiring at times. But it's a "good tired."
Well, I've written five whole paragraphs so far and I think I've earned a well-deserved rest. But I do want to say one additional thing before I head for the recliner, grab the remote, and do what I do so well, which is nothing. I often think about all the people who are even now working away to provide me with sustenance and entertainment, making it possible for me to indulge in a totally sedentary and non-productive lifestyle, and it behooves me to point out that a word of "thanks" is in order. But really, there's no need for you to thank me. My reward is simply knowing that my wonderful presence provides so many people with the inspiration to "keep up the good work!"
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