Askari Rey


So Long Society

The Petty Lawsuit Retirement Plan

Lawsuit Document, petty lawsuits

A lawn care specialist is showering a patch of dandelions with liquid weed control when he hears a woman shriek out on the street. Startled, he rushes toward the front yard. Rounding the corner, he sees that a smooth arch of transparent liquid is being sprayed onto the left lane of the street from one of his trunk’s material tanks. A hose has broken. Liquid fertilizer is sprinkling the asphalt.

A woman is in hysterics, standing next to the growing puddle.

“I’ve been poisoned!” she’s yelling, holding up her left forearm. “My arm is covered in poison!”

Somehow, this poor woman hadn’t noticed that the service truck was spraying an eight foot high arch of liquid fertilizer onto the pavement like a rainbow of translucent tinkle from a giant cherub statue. So, she cruised through the ongoing accident with her arm hanging out the driver’s side window like an over-the-road trucker, dousing her forearm in liquid fertilizer.

“Oh god!” she wailed. “I’m covered in poison!”

The specialist apologized and calmly explained that there was no need to worry, as the product is ninety five percent water.

“I get this stuff on my skin on the time,” he implored. “I have a clean rag in the truck.Let me get you washed off.”

“No!” she protested.

The woman refused to have her arm cleaned of the “poison” because the police needed to see the “evidence”. However, when police arrived on seen, they basically told the woman to calm down and wash her arm with soap and water. She was making a big deal out of a minor accident, they said. Boy, was she angry.

This happened last week and it looks as if nothing will come of it. It’s too bad liquid fertilizer isn’t corrosive to the skin. If it was, this woman could have had a huge lawsuit payout. It looks like she’s going to have to work for a living. Or, more accurately, continue collecting an unemployment check. Poor thing. She almost got us.


So Long Society, Hello Socialism

The Soviet Hammer and Sickle

Forty seven percent of Americans say they would vote for a socialist president. Well, yeah. As more and more people become dependent on everything from government housing and health care to government groceries and glue sticks socialism will increasingly sound appealing. Hand outs breed bigger hand outs. I don’t think anyone thinks that gifting a sixteen year old a BWM for his birthday teaches him the value of hard work and smart investments. It probably teaches him to pout for a Porsche when he turns eighteen.

As America drifts toward r-selection, more and more politicians will be like Bernie Sanders, that is, openly admit to being a socialist.

Who Has Time To Be A Hero?

I work as a door-to-door salesman in rough Chicago neighborhoods. Part of my job is interacting with people I consider to be abusive and degenerate. I usually don’t express my negative opinions. Scolding people for their lack of character is generally pointless, because confrontations rarely inspire evildoers to stop hurting people.

Rodell gives me a guided tour of his dog cages and fighting pit. I simply nod and say “that’s interesting”. I do not tell him that people who force pit bulls to fight to the death give me the creeps. That would be worse than pointless. Rodell would waste my time telling me why I’m wrong. My condemnation might spoil our rapport, blowing the sale out of the water. I don’t tell Dashanique that it bothers me when she calls her four-year-old son a little nigga. I pretend I don’t hear her.

Nothing sort of stomach-turning moral revulsion will make me turn my back on a paying customer. I’m talking about the kind of situation where I leave for fear that if I don’t, I may not be able to control myself, lashing out in violence. This happened twice.

I was in University Park (I know that’s not the city) putting the finishing touches on a sale when my customer asked me if I wanted to have sex with her daughter, Tracy. Tracy was a teenage-looking, black albino girl with a severe speech impediment. I felt shocked. It took a while for my brain to register what I was hearing. Tracy’s mother was going on and on about how Tracy “couldn’t get no dick” because she was a freak. Tracy’s three small brothers, along with her father, were mocking her. They said, “Goddamn, Tracy. Don’t nobody want yo ass! Not even the door-to-door guy will fuck you! Hahaha!” I felt sick. Tracy’s mother must have asked me three times if I would care to take her daughters virginity. When I said no, no and no, Tracy snuck over and whispered in my ear, “Why don’t you like me?” I returned the credit card and left without speaking.

I walked out  on  another sale when a woman in South Holland (I know that’s not the city either) began punching her down syndrome afflicted son in the face over and over again because he wasn’t cleaning the coffee table well enough.

I hope everything turns out okay for these kids. That’s about all that I do, though. I don’t have time to be a hero. I’m just a salesman.

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