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the fact that they are cocksuckers and not crummy two-bit temps. Anyone with half a brain might realize that at least the crummy two-bit temp can look himself in the eye in the mirror. And although they will both die without retirement pension, crummy two-bit temps can foster the hope that their children love them and will take care of them if the worst should happen. But the cocksucker is not only undeserving of his children’s respect, but he can’t even nurse the hope that they recognize the guy who sometimes showed up at home on weekends and public holidays (but not all of them).
    It’s hard to explain how so many nice, or good guys and even some relatively worthy individuals, end up weighed down by the curse of being a cocksucker for years and years. Some allow themselves to be blinded by greed or by a meaningless title on a business card. There is always someone who thinks that being a coordinator or earning eighty grand a year places another person who is a mere deputy-coordinator or earns only seventy-nine grand a year a level below them in the food chain. These numbskulls constitute a significant proportion of the population of cocksuckers swarming around the world, and the worrying thing about the world we live in is that there is such an enormous stock of numbskulls that, if necessary, it could more than fill the demand for cocksuckers.
    However, a portion of those cocksuckers don’t love money (or having thicker business cards than other’s) above all else. Those are the cocksuckers whose cocksucking career choice is most surprising, and who are perhaps the most to blame for and the most deserving of their wretched luck, because if they had only decided to get themselves a pair of balls, they could have spared themselves from being so insignificant. However surprising it may seem, these guys are where they are out of vanity. They leapt into the lions’ den without considering their actions, or they did so reluctantly, or thinking that they would never want or allow themselves to be swept along by the filthy mainstream. Then they were led into temptation: let’s see if you’re capable of this and that. They knew they were capable of this and that, and they did it to prove it so that nobody would question their ability ever again. Then one thing led to another, and after that something else, and they were also able to do that too and they proved it once more … And so on and so on.
    When they finally stopped and looked back, they realized they had done a whole heap of things of which they were capable and none of which, however difficult they were, were worth a toss. On the contrary, there was another heap of things that were worth a bit more than a couple of tosses, and which they would have been capable of doing then as well, but after wasting so much time with things that weren’t worth a toss, they had become incapable of doing anything else. And the most shameful thing is that instead of taking their car and driving peacefully off a cliff, most of them find consolation by forgetting all about it and continuing to apply themselves diligently to things that aren’t worth a toss. They even laugh when they receive pats on the back, desperate for approval, like a poodle being rewarded with a stale biscuit for performing a cute trick.
    And this is where the aforementioned pair of balls I was talking about earlier is greatly missed. We’re all vain, and everyone likes to be praised for every little thing we do. But it takes a pair of balls to say to the lion tamer asking you to jump through a ring of fire that his fucking mother can do the jumping and he’d better start cracking his whip. The first time you leap through a burning ring of fire you leave your balls hanging there and you can never get them back. For anyone who doesn’t already know it, balls are highly flammable.
    There was a time when I resisted becoming a cocksucker. I never worshipped money, nor business cards, and I refused to base my