spaceship no future

je ne me rendrai jamais, où, travaillez jamais

ah, the general strike Tonight I was going to write the first in a series of historical sketches dispelling the myth of the French penchant for surrender. However — my unwillingness to visit the library or read a book aside — Google wasn’t turning up many promising links on successful episodes in French military history, so my French apologia will have to wait, and you can be forgiven if you insist on clinging to trite notions of French cowardice.

Consider this, though: the French know how to strike, and this is profoundly wonderful. The France of my heart is a gay tricolored land where overturned automobiles burn, barricades dot the streets, the trains don’t run at all, and everyone gives The Boss the bird (or the equivalent rude gesture). Yes, I imagine a land where all the managers, supervisors, and vice-presidents, yours and mine, are perpetually obligated to fuck off and die.

Maybe this appeals to me because I hate my job. Don’t you? Let’s talk about it.

Update: Before any more idiots link to this page, do realize that the bit about French cowardice was a joke, one that I wish I could take back.