They’re After Me Now

I got a phone call a few weeks back.

Strange enough considering my age, that’s an unusual occurrence for me. When the phone rings it’s either some political pollster asking my opinion or a telemarketer trying to make a few bucks cold calling with offers for a warranty on my newly leased Lincoln MKS.

Please.

I’m not going to give you my opinion just so you can use it to brainwash me into having different ones. It was bad enough when I found out Google has a bigger file on me than my ex-wife’s private detective. It was even worse when I took one of those things and it turned out to be that Pat Toomey guy running for Senate trying to get me to tell him how to run his campaign. The nerve.

I’m also good on the warranty front, thank you very much. You don’t lease a Lincoln without getting the warranty. Do you think Matthew McConaughey is driving around saying spooky shit without a warranty? Leasing a Lincoln is a lifestyle and you pay to protect it.

I digress, I got a phone call from someone else today. Someone who didn’t want to sell me anything or brainwash my opinions into other opinions. No. This was much more sinister. They called to threaten me.

A mister Steven Parker left a voicemail for me as I took my daily 11AM food-nap after getting to McDonalds just as the lunch menu items are available.

Trade secret folks: the first batch of fries in the morning makes the stuff you get at a normal lunch hour taste like salty cardboard. I don’t know about you, but for me, society doesn’t dictate what I get to eat and when I get to eat it.

I’ve gone to great lengths to maintain this philosophy. In 2007 I maxed out all 12 of my credit cards to attend an intensive cooking course deep in the Punjab region of India so that I could have a goddamn lamb saag at 7:30 in the morning if I feel like it.

After my nap, I awoke to see the little red number on the corner of the phone icon on my name-brand Apple Iphone 6S Plus read two. Fucking two??? That means someone called and left a voicemail.

Panic struck my heart, which, despite my sedentary lifestyle and poor dietary choices, is healthier than that of a teenager who runs cross country. My mom always told me I had a good heart, I just never knew what she meant.

I tapped the phone icon. My heartbeat drowned out any coherent thought and filled my head with nothing but an impending sense of dread. Real dread. The kind of dread that doesn’t just make you afraid that you might die. The kind of dread that makes you realize that if the entire Earth was snuffed out in the next instant, it wouldn’t even matter.

One missed call. One voicemail. One voicemail from a Mr. Steven Parker. As I cannot bear to hear the voice of a stranger attempting to address me directly, I read the automated transcript that my name-brand Iphone 6S Plus provides me for very voicemail.

Hello sir. This is Mr. Steven Parker with IRS collections. It is urgent that you call us back immediately or we will seize your assets. Please call 1–888–754–7226 immediately or we will send agents.

Now, I’ve always been suspicious by nature. I’ve made every effort to dodge the pinkerton agents that the major brands I’ve offended with my guerilla un-marketing campaigns I run on twitter. I’ve made an even larger effort to dodge the G-men.

I’ve always been of the mind that it doesn’t matter who is President. No matter which party wins they are immediately given secret mind control drugs that cause them to get more grey hairs and obey the orders of the people in charge.

I’m not claiming I’ve uncovered all the evidence. I don’t have anything on the identities of the people in charge. All I know is, they are nebulous and nefarious forces seeking to destroy everything we as a country stand for.

So when I get a call from some fucking G-MAN about taxes I’m sure as shit I don’t owe because I’m unemployed and my wife wins the bread around these parts, you can bet your bottom overtaxed dollar that I’m suspicious.

My suspicions were confirmed several days later. Those government bastards used the bank account and routing numbers, I gave them just to show them how clean I really am, to drain the account my wife fills each week. The snakes even used my social security number and mom’s maiden name that I gave them to identify myself to steal my identity and ruin my credit.

All of this happened because I spoke out. I had the guts to say to the world through my twitter account that I was going to vote for Trump and then changed my mind when that pussy-grabbing tape came out and the wife threatened to divorce me if I didn’t vote for Hillary.

I don’t know what they’re going to try to take from me next. All I can do is document the fucked up shit they’re doing to try to take everything I’ve earned away. I have a projector and a recliner with cupholders in my basement. It’s like being at a comfier version of Heinz Field down there. I’m not giving that up without a fight.

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