Dave thinks the FBI is having him under surveillance. It’s kind of hard to say where this comes from, but Dave is as paranoid as only a genuine Yank can be. We observe his tense gaze at the monitor every morning when the same message appears on his screen; “Send to Bluetooth”. “I don’t send to no phone”, he mumbles to himself. He looks around, trying to figure out where the hidden cameras might be, his eyes wander as he sips coffee and I see his lips are still trying to mumble shit that don’t make sense.
What you need to know about Dave is that he no longer live in his native land. He has emigrated, left the premises, gone AWOL and found a new haven in a Norwegian cave. And Dave sits by his desk thinking the FBI is surveying him like a stray sheep in the wilderness. The Great Force of The Bureau, monitoring every Average Joe trying to blend in with the locales. Yeah, I’d like to believe that, but it sounds more like a bad Will Smith movie than a bite out of reality. But when Dave digs his teeth into reality, chews it a couple of times and spits the awful mess out beside his keyboard, it resembles nothing you have ever seen. It’s like a Picasso SLASH Dali version of the world seen through surrealism goggles, like a world without smell. This little monster of an idea lives inside his skull, manipulating the brainwaves and sending false signals throughout the paths between the parts of his brain. What the signals say? “Send to Bluetooth”.
Suddenly David says something out loud, to himself, and I sit there wondering; What? The message pops up on his screen and teases him like a virtual devil. I try to engage myself in a conversation with my friend, still smoking hot from the trip to the Bayern Sodom, not so much Gomorrah, but his eyes are fixed on the screen. I try to roll my chair over to him but there is snow on the cold shoulder, the breeze of paranoia makes me wanna find the closest sauna and bolt the door shut. I don’t want to sit in this post-Bush infested area. I wanna, like, be in the sun and shit, but what can I do?
The IT guy comes by and Dave shouts his name, making him come over to our little fortress of office walls.
- He needs a new PC, ‘cause it sounds like a lawnmower.
- Send a message to help desk, the IT guy says.
- I’m fine, I start saying before Dave cuts me of.
- No, you’re not. That thing is so annoying.
Our level of fatalism has never been that high, but we do believe it is the Yanks faith to walk blindly into the sun, like any immigrant in this country. We sit here, on office chairs from IKEA, ignorance as our aura and far away from any real danger, and with the impression of the world as a pretty far out place. To the great Dave the world is a place claimed by Team America of USA, aka all the evil bastards from Nixon to Bush, the League of demons, morons and assholes. Everybody else try to fight back, but the axis of evil are as black and white as any Sith-Lords system of belief. Like Patrick Swayze laid it out for us in Roadhouse: It’s our way or the highway. That is probably why Dave is using the paper shredder right now and sweating like a German pig before Oktoberfest.
My God, he is funny, that guy. I’m so glad he is locked in here with me. It would be a pretty boring place without him. My jacket might have beltbuckles on them, but he is freakin’ plugged into the system like a matrix clone and highjacked by the FBI paranoia. “Send to Bluetooth”. Some fuckers way or the Highway. Average Joe is on the loose. I? I am sitting on my IKEA chair and scribbling nonsense like it was news for the CNN. I probably got deeper problems than the immigrant beside me.
What you need to know about Dave is that he no longer live in his native land. He has emigrated, left the premises, gone AWOL and found a new haven in a Norwegian cave. And Dave sits by his desk thinking the FBI is surveying him like a stray sheep in the wilderness. The Great Force of The Bureau, monitoring every Average Joe trying to blend in with the locales. Yeah, I’d like to believe that, but it sounds more like a bad Will Smith movie than a bite out of reality. But when Dave digs his teeth into reality, chews it a couple of times and spits the awful mess out beside his keyboard, it resembles nothing you have ever seen. It’s like a Picasso SLASH Dali version of the world seen through surrealism goggles, like a world without smell. This little monster of an idea lives inside his skull, manipulating the brainwaves and sending false signals throughout the paths between the parts of his brain. What the signals say? “Send to Bluetooth”.
Suddenly David says something out loud, to himself, and I sit there wondering; What? The message pops up on his screen and teases him like a virtual devil. I try to engage myself in a conversation with my friend, still smoking hot from the trip to the Bayern Sodom, not so much Gomorrah, but his eyes are fixed on the screen. I try to roll my chair over to him but there is snow on the cold shoulder, the breeze of paranoia makes me wanna find the closest sauna and bolt the door shut. I don’t want to sit in this post-Bush infested area. I wanna, like, be in the sun and shit, but what can I do?
The IT guy comes by and Dave shouts his name, making him come over to our little fortress of office walls.
- He needs a new PC, ‘cause it sounds like a lawnmower.
- Send a message to help desk, the IT guy says.
- I’m fine, I start saying before Dave cuts me of.
- No, you’re not. That thing is so annoying.
Our level of fatalism has never been that high, but we do believe it is the Yanks faith to walk blindly into the sun, like any immigrant in this country. We sit here, on office chairs from IKEA, ignorance as our aura and far away from any real danger, and with the impression of the world as a pretty far out place. To the great Dave the world is a place claimed by Team America of USA, aka all the evil bastards from Nixon to Bush, the League of demons, morons and assholes. Everybody else try to fight back, but the axis of evil are as black and white as any Sith-Lords system of belief. Like Patrick Swayze laid it out for us in Roadhouse: It’s our way or the highway. That is probably why Dave is using the paper shredder right now and sweating like a German pig before Oktoberfest.
My God, he is funny, that guy. I’m so glad he is locked in here with me. It would be a pretty boring place without him. My jacket might have beltbuckles on them, but he is freakin’ plugged into the system like a matrix clone and highjacked by the FBI paranoia. “Send to Bluetooth”. Some fuckers way or the Highway. Average Joe is on the loose. I? I am sitting on my IKEA chair and scribbling nonsense like it was news for the CNN. I probably got deeper problems than the immigrant beside me.
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