If I were a working man in the 1950s I would have called in, like, three bomb threats a week to my office. From payphones, maybe with a Soviet accent. There were no surveillance cameras yet; it would have worked. And the nerds back then sure as shit didn’t have the capacity to triangulate your calls. God knew I would have been good at the 1950s, so he stuck me here.
Dawn rolls over the Korean peninsula and I rise yet again to fulfill my career obligations. I have to go do things that I do not enjoy for eight hours so I can make this invisible thing called money, so I can continue to survive and then not get paid to do things that I do enjoy. I’m glad God didn’t create us for a peaceful lifetime doing fulfilling things. This is much, much better. Hard day’s work, virtuous existence, etc.
But I survive. I have a workplace hack. I take the podium two minutes after the bell and always end class a minute early because the students have been “good.” Which is always a lie. Multiply that three minutes of extra leisure out over my entire teaching tenure and I’ve now been paid for 105 hours of work I did not do. Two and a half workweeks of salary for nothing. What a goddamn thrill. Take that shit to the bank. And thus I hold onto my sanity for another day.
This is exactly the kind of scheme a slave in 2045 will conjure up in a wistful dream one afternoon. While the tracking chip in his wrist shocks him because he’s a half-second slow in cooking Prince George’s egg white omelet. He would have been really good at 2015 so God stuck him there.