Crashbox

So, for 1 week I am painting shoes at Nike's World Headquarters. Painting shoes that are the wrong colors for business meetings and the like. It's a very odd job, but I don't mind it too much. I sit quietly in my corner and paint, listening to music or Fulton Sheen lectures. Once one of the ladies there asked what I was listening to, and I replied:
'O, Folk, Bluegrass.'
She looked very hard at me for a long time.
'How old are you?' She demanded.
'22'
'...Well that's just...hmmm...wow.'

I didn't see what the big deal was, but what can I say? Oregonians are weirder than Californians. It's too bad this is a temp job in a way, but on the other hand, I have developed an extreme dislike for corporate America. It SUCKS. All these wimpy, pudgy, pathetic people who know nothing in this world beyond their little button-pushing universe, running around pretending to be hipper and smarter than the helpless, overgrown teen-agers they really are. There. I'm done with my jab, but DAMN! Give me a shovel or a wrench, and at least I'll feel like a man!