This society's existence is predicated on anesthetizing the masses, so they will stick to the routine of toil to shop, shop 'til you drop. We are programmed to overdose on salt, sugar, smoke and sex so we can stay narcotized and pacified. Every day deprived of sleep, we roll out of bed to embark on our sojourn of slavery. "Same shit, different day," we say, but really that shit ain't true. In reality you weather a siege of new shit day after day steering you closer and closer to a stress related stroke. You try to shake off the stress with each new day, ignoring it's surreptitious, stealthy, staggering assault on your heart.

By about ten o'clock you take your first break. You stagger to the snack machine to get your first salty, sugary snack. Sometimes you even drink a shot from the flask you have in your suit pocket. You ain't really hungry and lunch soon come, so you only score a Snickers for this fix. Consumption time approximately thirty seconds, a thousand calories and no nutrition. Shit I still got 13 minutes. I guess I'll have a smoke. You stand outside the building near the solarium to smoke your square so you can get a look at the sexy sisters from sales. "Damn that bitch fine," you say to the other square smoking' sucker standing next to you. "Yeah, I thank her name Sheila," he says. Breaks over so you saunter back to your section to sustain your slave.

Lunch time finally comes so you move quickly for the first time today, so you can stand in a shorter line at the sandwich shop. As you pass by the salads you see the slimmy who caught your eye before, so you buy your sundries and try to saunter over to a spot where she might sit beside you. She sits with her back to you so you have to devise a sly stratagem to spit some game at her. "Excuse me can you pass me a straw?" "Sure, I can....she says and eventually you sneak in with... "It's a pleasure to meet you my name is Stan."...Saturday night? "Sure is Sambuca ok?" So there you have it you got some skins scheduled for Saturday.

"Yeah girl, solo, no mo' I'm gone get this nigga...Is he fine??? Girl please. How long we been talkin'? Since Monday, but shit I already know....His status???? I don't know he work in my building' I guess he make allright.....HIV status, girl what the fuck is you talkin' about, that nigga clean. I will girl....allright I'll talk to you tomorrow, or I'll jus' call you Monday cus tonight I know what it's gonna be and tomorrow I gotta get up and go to Sunday School...."

"Stan!, Stan!, I know you hear me, pick up, this Sheila, my girl Shirley say you got that shit!!!!" Seems like what they say is true, what's good to you ain't always good for you and it seems we've lost the ability to see the difference. Apparently Sheila sucked on Stan's sick sex slinger and now she's stuck. Stan's still slappin' skins wit' any skeezer he sees, spreadin' that shit. Still shrivelin' his heart smoking them squares, suckin' down sugary soda, stuffin his stomach with salty snacks, slavin' for some mothersuckin' supremacist with no plans to save his own ass or his people. Stan the man with the good job making the scene at every spot, every Saturday night. Settin' it off on the left and right, drinking shot after shot, eating salty wing after wing, smoking' square after square.

The Last Poets once said When the Revolution Comes we'd be somewhere with "fried chicken hanging from our tasteless mouths." Well now we don't eat fried chicken, we eat shrimp scampi and the lunch counter isn't segregated, but believe me you it will still be the same ol' Shit! This message brought to you by salt, sugar, soulless sex, smokes, shots and stress. Consume all you can, you've earned it.