Robocalls and Concerned Capitalists

Over the years, capitalism has gotten a bad name and all because capitalists cared so much about the future of our nation’s children that they gave them jobs in a diverse range of industries like coal mining and the garment industry and whatever it is you call it when you ask a six-year-old to stick his hand into some broken machinery because a grown-ass adult’s hand won’t fit.

Also, according to History.com, one of the reasons capitalists like child labor is kids do not form unions, a piece of information that conjures up images of six-year-olds conducting a protest march, carrying signs and chanting:

“What do we want?”

“Graham crackers!”

“When do we want them?”

“Right before our naps!”

An imaginary scene which reminds me that when I went to kindergarten we were forced to get out floor mats and take “naps” right after lunch and in the history of kindergarten naps I don’t think even one of us ever fell asleep, because generally speaking at one in the afternoon a classroom full of five-year-olds high on graham cracker carbohydrates has enough energy to power downtown Altoona, PA, so it just now dawned on me that those naps were for the teachers who probably needed a break from riding herd on an adrenaline-packed mob of children they weren’t allowed to hit.

And now back to capitalists and their reputation for being uncaring; a situation I will shortly rectify.

Capitalists have also had their good name besmirched, which makes me wonder if your name can also be “smirched” and it turns out it can, so the “be” in “besmirched” seems completely unnecessary much like the “in” in “inflammable” but now that I look that up it turns out I’m wrong because “flammable” means you can set fire to something and “inflammable” means it can catch fire on its own and the opposite of both words is “non-flammable” so now you can trot out your new flame-based knowledge at Christmas dinner; your recently-murdered tree is “flammable” and your Trump-supporting uncle is “inflammable” especially after three whiskey sours.

Drop that bit of information on your friends and family and you’ll quickly find out just how many of them don’t give a shit and if my personal experience is any indication, it will be all of them with the possible exception of your inebriated uncle.

And now let’s start that penultimate run-on sentence over again because if I’ve lost the thread of what I started to say and I’m pretty sure you have too.

Once more with feeling…and without digressions

Capitalists have had their good name besmirched because they also have a history of doing things like making sure workers don’t get enough hours to qualify for benefits and disciplining someone who has the bad taste to get sick or pregnant and then there’s the whole “Ruining the Earth” thing that has led some people to claim the climate is changing just because polar bears are doing the backstroke just off Palm Beach and penguins are looking into timeshares in Boca Raton.

On the other hand…

Capitalists are so concerned about my well-being that they call me several times a week – yesterday I got four of them – and since I won’t answer my phone when it’s some number I don’t recognize and the call’s originating from some place I’ve never been, they leave me voicemail messages and offer help for a variety of problems I don’t actually have.

Like…

Do I want to sell my house?

Housing prices are through the roof (which means you have yet another house repair to pay for now that your roof is fucked up) so if you don’t think about it too much it would seem now is a good time to sell your house and these days I get plenty of calls and text messages asking if I’d be interested in selling my house and I would be interested except for the fact that if I sold my house, I’d need to buy another one and as I understand it, housing prices are through the roof.

So I could enjoy my house-selling profits for one afternoon, but then I’d have to ask myself (and I’d have to ask myself because nobody would want to hang out with someone so stupid):

“So where am I sleeping tonight?”

A question that could possibly be answered by the real estate agent who convinced me to sell my house because they probably convinced some other moron to sell theirs, so if we’re all just playing a game of Musical Houses why should we sell an expensive house just to buy a different expensive house and the answer could probably be provided by the real estate agent who just got two sales commissions.

BTW: while I was looking for pictures of real estate yard signs to illustrate this section, I couldn’t help but notice how many of those signs have a picture of some smoking hot female real estate agent, so you know they think male home owners are so dumb they’ll sell their house in order to meet a woman and if you’re thinking “Oh, c’mon, no guy is that desperate” medical research has shown 72% of all Chevrolet Corvettes are sold to men trying to get laid.

A fact I just made up, but nevertheless goes a long way in explaining why middle-aged men with back problems buy a car that requires gymnastic training and a hydraulic lift to enter, has no backseat, just enough storage space to hold a box of Kleenex, starts at $58,900, but has a “destination charge” of $1,095 (so apparently you can save some money if you own a Corvette that just sits outside the factory, but if you want it brought to your town that’s extra) and if you want a convertible that costs more too and it turns out they’ll charge you an extra $7,500 to not put a roof on your car.

(And don’t ask how much they charge for a Corvette without wheels, because if you have to ask you can’t afford it.)

But men figure it’s worth it because a Corvette has a 495-horsepower engine and will go 194 MPH and that will definitely come in handy if you rob a bank, which you might have to do to pay for a car that will allow you to outrun the police in a high-speed chase, all of which men think impresses women when what women actually think is:  

“If this moron has that much to spend on a car, I can probably get a new boob job out of him.”

(OK, I probably need to apologize for that stereotypical and misogynistic view of women and their motives, but I’m guessing not one woman reading this thinks I need to apologize for what I said about men and their automotive penis-extenders, because the women know I’m right.)

So what’s the next problem Concerned Capitalists want to help me solve?

Have I had a hernia?

As I understand it – and I’m a few credits shy of my medical degree – you can get a hernia from lifting something heavy and back in March I had some eye surgery and was told not to lift anything over 10 pounds because apparently that can make your eyeball shoot out of your head and splat against the wall like a water balloon and I asked how long I had to avoid any heaving lifting and they said a couple weeks and I made the decision not to share that information with my family so as far as they know I still can’t lift anything over 10 pounds, a misconception that has come in handy and I’d really appreciate it if all of you kept that to yourselves.

Next problem.

Do I need help paying off my college loan?

Concerned Capitalists care so much about me that they’re offering to help pay off my college loan even though I didn’t attend college.

Which makes me think maybe they need to do better research and wonder if randomly calling up numbers and offering to pay off non-existent college loans is the most efficient way to make money, but who am I to question an economic system that has fucked over its workers so badly that many of them are refusing to go back to work and would rather try to support themselves by robbing a string of convenience stores and let’s hope they own a Corvette to make their getaway because if they own a 2011 Piece Of Shit Toyota Matrix – and it says that right on my car registration – they’re definitely going to get caught.

On the other hand, if I’m confident enough to drive around in an under-powered automobile that’s looks like the second-place finisher in a Demolition Derby and has no hubcaps (I lost one when I hit a pothole and getting rid of the other three seemed way more efficient than buying a new one) you know I must be pretty confident of my “South of the Border Situation” and feel no need to enhance my prowess by buying a Corvette.

(Ladies, if you’re looking for a financial contribution to your personal finances, find a guy driving a Ferrari; if you’re looking for a good time, find a guy driving a car without a muffler.)

Moving on.

Have I or a semi-loved one been exposed to paraquat?

The first time I heard this message I thought, “No, I don’t own any marijuana fields” because just in case you forgot, the United States government decided to protect its citizens by getting involved in spraying the herbicide paraquat over marijuana fields in the 1970s and 80s because they thought smoking marijuana was dangerous and it definitely was after they put paraquat on it because exposure to the herbicide can lead to Parkinson’s disease, kidney, liver, lung or heart failure or be immediately fatal if you’re A. Cheech B. Chong or C. consider them role models.

So the movie Reefer Madness was completely accurate even though they forgot to mention the Madness would be supplied by politicians who thought smoking weed was bad and would denounce the practice while working their way through a Three-Martini Lunch.

Now here’s an article on paraquat and marijuana that’s highly informative, assuming you’re not too high to read it:

https://thoughtcatalog.com/jeremy-london/2018/08/paraquat-pot/

But it turns out the robocall about paraquat exposure concerned weed killer sold here in the United States so we could kill the weeds growing up through the cracks in our driveway while simultaneously poisoning the family dog that you were tired of feeding and getting “wormed” (which may be an actual thing or a giant scam perpetuated by the veterinarian industry) and when your kids asked, “Where’s Rusty?” you could say he went to live on a farm with beautiful trees and orchards and clear-running streams even though you lived in trailer park in Bumfuck, Arizona and the closest tree was located two states away.

Turns out, if me or a loved one had been exposed to paraquat we could sue somebody and make some money and then I could replace that 2011 Toyota Matrix with a 2022 ‘Vette (which my manly self-image definitely doesn’t need, it just wants) so clearly, not giving a rat’s ass about the weeds in my driveway was a big mistake and now I can’t sue anybody.

Unless we get a class-action suit going against these goddamn robocallers.