Undercover Subversive Corporate Slave Dog.

First published in The Bird Street Press November ’13.

I wear a shirt. I work in a building. I’ve spent years sitting at a computer, looking at it, typing, talking, and generally making money at a higher margin than I am paid, which funnels into some ones profit and loss report, which files into a bigger report, which eventually becomes a new set of caps on some rich guys stupid teeth.

And don’t think I don’t I see you cool guys on the train snickering over your… art portfolios and cowboy hats. I get it, “hey suit-dick, why waste your life farting into a chair?” Why? Cause I’m no frickin’ good at anything.

I can’t draw, I’m a mediocre musician, I’m only funny when I’m mad and the one time I attempted stand-up comedy was probably one of the most bleak stretches of introspection the Townsville Comedy Club had ever experienced.

But I’ve got a plan.

You see I’m working them from the inside. My life is the ultimate sacrifice to art; I’m a parody of a man, a slipshod, makeshift marionette of corporate culture, jerkily dancing to the tune of the free market, laughing at terrible jokes from middle-management, looking serious and taking notes when people say stuff to me.

I’m not even listening when I take those notes. I’m often just writing words down rhythmically, that I look at later and think to myself… what… uplift? Extension… overlap?

Ok… I hear you say… “nice plan Goudie… but it doesn’t really make sense… that doesn’t sound much like a plan… more like a blend of schizophrenia and ADD”..
But you see I’ve taken subversive irony to the ultimate logical conclusion.

I’m ironically wearing a suit, I’ll ironically buy a house in the suburbs, get an ironic short back and sides haircut and sit on my ironic lawn chair drinking ironically light beer and raise an ironic toast to the ultimate act of countercultural subversion.

The boy born on a hippy commune, raised by a flutist, shredding guitar licks, vomiting blood and getting banned from venues will die respected by his pastor, with fat happy grandkids sobbing over my moderately priced coffin, and my tombstone will read.. “get it?” (on the bottom, facing lava).

So next time you sneer at some drone in a suit and tie, remember they may have dedicated their life to a parody of conformity, and they are actually so punk rock you can’t even tell.

Probably not though.