The End Is Nigh!

Among the scads of reasons for the collapse of the USSR, the lack of incentive for working stiffs like us was a major one.

You work your ass off all your life for a dingy little apartment in a drab and depressing concrete ant hill.  No matter how much you put into your job, you can't move up till someone at the top dies, and even if you got to move up, you still had to stand in line all day for toilet paper and a spud or two on holidays.  When you were too old to work, you were sent to the collective to twaddle around until you croaked and made room for the next stiff.

The only way to really get something out of life was to become an inner party member, but to do that, you had to be the childhood blood brother of an inner party member, which meant that one in a million or two was going to go that route.

American capitalism, it seems, is not far from the now collapsed socialist system.  The primary difference is that the inner party members carry titles such as CEO, CFO, COO, etc., rather than something more drab and functional.

Suppose you work your tail off and the best you can do is a bland, gray concrete box on the 14th floor of a bland, gray concrete box that looks like dozens of other bland, gray concrete boxes?  Suppose all your labor and effort means that you still can't afford to fill the pantry or your family's bellies, and you still have to stand in line to get your basic necessities?

Now suppose that welfare checks and food stamps offer you as good or even slightly better?  Where's the incentive to work?  If you can never get ahead, never improve your lot, and not working is pretty much the same lifestyle as working, then why roll out of bed in the morning?

Yup, better to just sit and stare at the TeeVee and sign the registry once a month down at the welfare/employment office, than to buy a work wardrobe, pay for transportation, maintain a bank account (all fees included) and pay rent on a drab, gray concrete box that looks exactly like the neighbor's who's getting his for free from Uncle Sugar.

Why have an idea that no one will act on?  Why put up with daily dressing-downs from the boss (whose drab, gray box is slightly larger than yours)?  Why go through the hassle of doing anything more than just breathing when it makes absolutely no difference at all?

 The USSA is riding the coat tails of the USSR.  Folks are giving up.  There's no point to the rat race if no one wins - except the inner party members to whom you are most certainly not related.

America today is little different from the London of the Industrial Revolution.  Work is hardy more than indentured servitude, slaving away 12 hours a day for nothing at the end of a lifetime of drudgery.  It will most certainly hit that point in the near future when all retirement accounts are swept clean to pay off the gambling debts of the inner party members.

True capitalism means that the harder you work, or the better your ideas, the higher you social status and quality of living.

My great uncle Pat was from a family of Welsh coal miners who relocated to Butte, Montana.  By luck and good looks, he got a job as a house servant instead of in the mines, where his brothers worked.  The brothers died of black lung...to a man.  Pat was able to save his two coins of pay per month by eating scraps from the master's table.  Eventually, he got out and was able to build a good life in California, where his family eventually became quite successful.

Chances of that happening at Wal-Mart are slim to none.  So why get up in the morning?  Welfare and food stamps are free, require no effort and the lifestyle is the same.

Besides, what an insult it must be to work in a store full of products you'll never be able to buy...

The Confession

Your heart is heavy as you reach to tug open the door of the Holy Depository. You try to move inconspicuously around the edge of the main chamber and take a number with as few people seeing you as possible. You spot your neighbor. You feel a little better because you know he used his lawnmower over the weekend, so you are not the only one.

At the far end, under an enormous clock and an LED with the number 48 showing on the display, is a line of cubicles. The display changes to show number 49 as a weeping young woman exits one of the cubicles, and a rather rotund middle-aged man walks in. You stare at the woman, just knowing that she used a hairdrier or traded sex for A/C. It makes you feel somewhat better about your own transgressions.

You glance down at your number. 57. You have a few minutes, so you sit quietly in the waiting area to say a prayer to the All-Seeing Eye.

After a short wait, your number comes up. You stand, but keep your eyes firmly fixed on the floor. You want to appear properly sorrowful, and also you don't want to see if anyone is watching you go in.

As you enter the cubicle, a cheerful round face greets you on a monitor.

"Welcome sinner. Please insert your credit or debit card in the slot below before beginning. All charges will be automatically processed for your convenience. In the event that you have insufficient funds, a hold will be placed on future deposits until the amount is paid in full.

"Eye bless you and happy penitence, my slave."

You slide your card into the slot and press your right thumb onto the pad until the little light comes on. Then you take your seat just as a small window slides open and a shadowy figure sits back on the other side of the wall and adjusts his tie.

"Bless me, Banker, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession."

"Yes, my slave, go on."

"Well, last Sunday, I packed up the family and a picnic lunch and we took a totally frivolous drive in the country. The other day, I set the thermostat at 65 just because I was tired of sweating and changing my shirt four times a day. We had this tree that was rubbing on the house every time the wind blew, and the roots were starting to break up the foundation of the house, so I cut it down, and I had the intention of using the wood for fires next winter. Last week, I couldn't make up my mid what I wanted to eat, so I stood with the refrigerator door open for ten minutes. I've been nervous because of reports of robberies in my neighborhood lately, so I've been leaving the porch light on at night. Also, I've been watering my lawn because I am tired of the big brown spots in front of the house.

"I am heartily sorry for having offended my Lord and I beg forgiveness for my sins. Amen."

"My slave, we all wish for those little comforts that we used to enjoy. That's why we have gone to so much trouble to keep the banks cold inside and have nice little gardens in the front, so you can find respite in this time of trouble.

"We are all human, and prone to fail every now and then. Just remember that it is your fault, through the Original Sin of Selfishness that has led us to this point. Whenever you have a moment of weakness and feel like you might sin again, just take your Holy Flog and beat yourself until the feeling passes. It's not easy being holy, you know.

"Do you feel true remorse for your sins?"

"Yes, Banker, I do."

"Good, my slave. I want you to say 10 Green Mantras, buy three carbon credits and plant two new trees to replace the one you cut down.

You are absolved from your sins, in the name of the Franklin, the Grant and the Holy Jackson. Amen.

"Go in peace and sin no more, my slave. Please remember to take your credit card on the way out. Eye bless you!"

The small window slides shut and you sit for a moment, feeling light and almost giddy. You sins has weighed on you for the past couple of weeks, but now you had cleared your conscience and had just paide to plant coastal bermuda grass on seven hectare of sensitive wetlands. How could you feel more joy? And it only cost $70. What a bargain!

You stand and take your card from the slot and pause while you wait for your receipt. As you pull it off, you turn with almost the grace and poise of a ballet dancer, as you float out into the waiting area once again, only this time your head is held high and there's a small grin on your face. You quickly scan the room and see all those still waiting, looking somber and embarassed. How sad, you think. So many sinners.

As you burst into the cool afternoon sun, you almost want to burst into song. Even as you crush yourself into the mass transit train with thousands of other sinners, you feel at peace for having saved a small part of this great planet. You've seen picutres of it from satellite and it looks so beautiful and serene, just haning in space. You almost commit another sin by wishing you could leave your residential camp and see just a little of it. Your dad used to tell you stories about travelling around on airplanes and going to different parts of the world.

You catch yourself just as your are about to sin. Thankfully, you are in a state of grace, having just come from confession. You make a mental note to donate $10 to Greenpeace in thanksgiving for not sinning this time.

The mass transit disgorges you on to a dreary grey platform in a dreary grey residence block, where you walk up 15 flights of stairs to your two room flat. Your wife and only child greet you.

You child looks up at you and examines your eyes.

"Dad, you look different."

"Yes, my child. I went to confession today."

"Oh boy! Now I can tell my playgroup that we don't have to report you to the Conservation Board! I'm so happy, Dad! What was your penence?"

"I had to buy three carbon credits. Oh, and I have to say 10 Green Mantras."

"Great, Dad! We can do that after dinner. As a family!"

You look at your wife. She is beaming with pride and you shoot her a quick smile.

"We saved the bathwater allotment for you dear," she winks. "It's still pretty clean. Why don't you freshen up before dinner?"

"What's on the menu tonight, dear?"

You wife can hardly contain herself, "Are you ready for this? I got use some protein paste and algae cakes!"

"What?! How in the world...?"

"I was on my way home from my third job," she gushes, "When I saw that the weekly quota was being delivered. I got in there and beat the crowds!"

You can hardly control yourself. You grab her and plant a big, sloppy kiss on her forehead. "I am so lucky to have been assigned to breed with you!"

"Dad..."

You look over to see your child standing with the dreaded Sin Log and pen ready.

"Do I have to write you up for Public Display of Affection?"

You cut a quick glance at your wife and then everyone begins to chuckle.

"Oh, you know it's Affection Night. What a kidder!"

The whole family embraces in a fastive mood.

"Eye bless us, every one," your genetically perfect child says.