[This is a dialog between MONTY, a hard-hearted individualist; and CHET, his neighbor. MONTY earns his living in a scattered way: pimping, murder-for-hire, trick-roping, singing in honky-tonks, and running a halfway house for nude dancers. CHET works for the state government as a third assistant to the supervisor in the Department of Culverts, Abutments, and Rights-of-Way; he is the foreman of his union local.]
Scene: CHET anxiously rings MONTY's doorbell. He barely glances at the IF YOU'RE SELLING SOMETHING, PISS OFF sign near the door.
Monty: Well, Chet. It's been, what? Forever? What brings you over to the dark side? Did you come to pick up all the crap your dog left on my lawn?
Chet: Monty! Monty...I...my boss Paulie sent me over. You know Paulie?
Monty: That fat turd who took forever to process my "Monty's Home for Wayward Pole-Dancers" permit? That guy? 'Cause if it is, fuck that guy, and fuck you for reminding me of him.
Chet: No. I mean, yes, that's the guy, but...well, Paulie wanted me to go to everyone in the neighborhood. To explain the...the situation.
Chet: Yeah. Apparently...well, the state is broke. The recession, you know? And, well, you know I'm due to retire this year, and--
Monty: Retire? You're what, 50? Who retires at fifty fucking years old?
Chet: Hey, I got my thirty! My dad got me the job in the culvert inspection department right out of high school! Anyway, there's kind of a...a problem. With the, uh, the pension fund. The state promised some fat increases back in the day, but it looks like the required payment to the pension fund this year will require over 100% of expected revenues.
Monty: So that pothole in the street will only get bigger and deeper? The kids already call it Lake Watchoolookinatwillis. I think a croc lives in it. Or an alligator. Whatever the fuck we got in the northern hemisphere.
Chet: Uh...yeah, I guess. I been meaning to have the road crew look at it, but union rules prohibit them from working on any day that ends in a "y", you know. Anyway, what I really wanted to say is that Paulie -- that's my boss -- wants me to go around and explain why your property tax assessment is going up. If we don't cover the pension shortfall, it could mean that I have to work another five years. And that's just not fair!
Monty: Fair? How about this: fuck yourself. And you can carry a cordial "fuck you" over to that fat fuck Paulie too. My property taxes have gone up every year I've lived here -- property values sink, the roads suck, snowplows don't run in the winter. What the fuck am I paying you people for?
Chet: Hey, now! The State pays us!
Monty: Ever wonder where that money comes from, O Zimba the Wise? From tax receipts. Which means you do work for me, directly. And as your boss, let me repeat: fuck you.
Chet: So you don't care if hard-working people lose their retirements? What am I supposed to tell my family?
Monty: Tell them you got robbed. Tell them that someone lied to your gullible ass every day for the past thirty years, made you totally unrealistic promises they had no intention of keeping, and that you were too stupid to make contingency plans. Tell them that you traded your honor and integrity for job security so many years ago that you've forgotten what it's like to do an honest day's work. In short, my poor clueless busted-luck friend: tell your family that you fucked up and that you're sorry. Tell them that you intend to immediately begin saving every spare dime, that you plan to work two jobs, that you'll beg, barter, or sell anything of value you have to keep a roof over your family's head. Or you can just dispense with the niceties and pull a gun on me -- if you're going to rob me, just be up front about it.
Chet: I don't know where the hate is coming from. Aren't we neighbors? Fellow citizens?
Monty: A neighbor and fellow citizen wouldn't be trying to rob me.
Chet: It's not robbery! We just want what we're owed!
Monty: You're owed what you earned. And from where I'm standing, chum, you haven't earned Jack Shit. You're acting on behalf of liars and thieves, and you're trying to extort payment out of me because you ended up believing all that bullshit you've been slinging over the years. Well, you're shit out of luck as far as this peon is concerned: I ain't giving you the stink off of my shit. You want your money? Go get it from the fuckers who lied to you.
Chet: You know, we can make you pay your taxes. It's the law!
Monty: You can't make me do fuck-all. Oh, you and people like you can punish me if I don't obey, but you can't make me do anything I don't want to do. And you know what? A government that's too chicken-shit to call "theft" by its proper name is probably too chicken-shit to come and arrest me either. Fuck them and fuck you too, pal. Live on your salary like everyone else.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Moron Dinner Theater
From the comment section over at Ace of Spades.