"Let There Be Programming. . . . ."
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Matter. . . . . crud. . . . . . tree limbs. . . . . . big cats waving their tails before driven back by the buck-skinner with the knife n' whip. Flashback to some random moment in the summer of 1987, a six year-old hooligan kicking his legs out before an Apple IIe computer with yet a deeper densely-nestled layer of avoidance, like "Frosted Flakes" even as the teacher, instructor or whatever tried to sell us on the idea of "Computers-- They're GRRRREEEAAAT!!!!!!!".
All I saw before me was this green, mysterious screen that bid you to type in block-lettered commands like a Grape accordian Kool-aid snozzled knock-off afternoon at NORAD, a laborious hunt-and-peck splorchy process with a language you didn't know, much less understand-- and with the right combination of an extremely tricky hassle-- get to perform "tricks" for momentary entertainment. For instance, you could get the computer to do hack/slash math. . . . . . but that was no fun. You could move "a turtle" around with BASIC code and create "art" with the keystrokes of eternity like pillars of a nervous little erection. . . . . . but alas, you had to turn the computer off and erase your work except for saving your stale, uninspiring remnants "on a disk".
What was perhaps most fun of all was typing in some portion "of code" that would make the computer "go crazy" and vomit up an endless stream of numbers until the teacher got angry, came over and rebooted "the contraption", telling us not to do it again.
Lil' primate mischief, like "Bonzo" in overalls with a flap hanging over the ass as he swung around day camp, "Lord of his jungle". Why would he ever need to be anything different. . . . . like asking American students "to switch to the METRIC system" with dim, cheeky echoes of Jimmy Carter chased out by the Reaganaut silverbacks with a flurry of trunk-tossed grunts and spray of ape shit?
There was the ability to delegate, to say-- "Fuck it" with a wave of your hand "and go riding".
But unfortunately, I've seen teacher's assistants in the world of academia convinced that only here, they would find "their dream job" as fools "in love with THE IDEA of ideas" but instead ended up with the dead, hateful eyes "of the crack-whore" when they were faced with the unpleasant nature of student economy-- i.e. grading papers n' slave work-- which kept the machine of hypocrisy running, an architecture of human sorrow with flames shooting wickedly from ivory industrial towers, burned on the blood of young idealism with the crud of post-Marxist literary statements collecting alongside the sheer rusted walls of irrelevance.
"Publish or perish". . . . . and add to the whole sprawling complex like a self-justifying bureaucratic cancer "with the law of diminishing returns". Until man figures out that he can use these tools "to rise", and "serve the life force" as his own "vector" of nature that does not answer to the mind nor exigencies of (-- pettier) men whom shall be dashed down through the flames of hell for mastery.
It is not a matter of "evil white men", or "a corrupt establishment" when the revolution that sweeps in finds itself more corrupt "and eats its own children", when the capacity for domination and exploitation exists within us all. . . . . when revolutions don't happen because various strata merely crush down on those beneath them, and in turn, lower and lower with nature's racial threshing floor where MIGHT decides things, and a flower will get you "a punch in the face".
(No, you didn't just see THAT!)
-- "Ahhh. . . . . much better!"
(Now, that's what I call "programming"!)
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"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'
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(Rheeee of Crickets)
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("I heard that, Missy!")
© 2010 by Insufferable Industries
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