Working Class Gyro

One of my fans considers me to be a "smarty pants." By this, he/she/transgender seems to really mean that my pants are not, in fact, smart. This is a literary device known as "irony." The ironic thing is that my pants are, in fact, of average intelligence for pants. Granted, they are not smart relative to, say, a prescient being. But for pants, hey what do you expect? They stay on until I take them off and then they stay off until I put them on. Nice try though.

I do not belong to the working class. Instead, I belong to the class that goes "to work" but who then dicks around instead of working. Perhaps we should be termed the "dicking class." Judging by the blogs I've seen, the dicking class seems to be a large and growing segment of the world.


According to a definition I heard on the radio from a guy who was authoritative enough to be on the radio, "working class" is defined as a person who works where, when, and for how long the boss directs. To me, that doesn't seem right. My employees never seem to work where, when, or for how long I tell them to. I, on the other hand, always seem to be working. Maybe I do belong to the working class. But yet, don't forget about the dicking around.

Much of the working and dicking around that I do is uncompensated. For example, every year, I volunteer at the Toys for Tots program to hand out toys to parents of "underprivileged" children. Because my pants are not smart enough to object, I always get stuck standing outside in the cold to help people load the bags of toys into their vehicles. The deal is that parents somehow qualify to get free toys which are donated by the rest of us. There is a large convention center which is chock full of every toy imaginable. They are divided by age category and sex category and there is some type of rationing system that allows a parent to get, say, 1 large toy, 5 medium toys and 10 stocking stuffers per child (don't quote me on the numbers. I don't really know because, as I said, I'm standing outside in the cold). Whatever the rationing, the end result is that each parent seems to end up with at least one if not two or three 40 gallon bags full of stuff. These are what I get to cram into their vehicles.

Sometimes the folks are very grateful, and, as I load a bag into their 1976 Corolla, I figure I'm probably helping some kids enjoy a nice holiday. Other times, when I'm trying to negotiate around the giant speaker system in the back of a $60,000 Escalade but I dare not ask the owner to help for fear of breaking her unconscionably long, freshly manicured nails, I wonder whether I shouldn't belong to that class. I rationalize my assistance by assuming that this idiot's children won't get any decent toys but for the program despite the fact that, obviously, there would be better expenditures of her money. Yet I still have to wonder, am I really serving society best by enabling the continued gross consumption.

No, I better serve by dicking around. Witness the religion to synthesize all other religions and thereby render them unneccesary and end all need for warfare. Them are some smart pants.