OH HOLY MOTHER OF NUMBERS

OH HOLY MOTHER OF NUMBERS

I’m gonna print this off for my dad (he drives taxis) to put in his car.

I’m sure we all have a healthy disdain for advertising in general these days, so why not take the piss and find something oblique, passive-aggressive, alarmist and somewhat offensive that’s had enough time to steep in the juices of irony?

Ever since I saw my first bitch-poster (I like calling them that) as a child, I thought, “Holy shit, written words have never SCREAMED at me before.” And for a kid who was forced to recite certain bible verses, I was pretty comfortable with some terrible passages. But then:

ARBEIT MACHT FREI

I (immaturely) compare it to this kinda memory… say, when you and your brother / whoever are getting way too far into Tekken Tag Tournament to stop, then you hear the vacuum cleaner and some well-placed groans and sighs (I love you, Ma. Really, I do)… and you just know something’s gonna kick the fuck off if you aren’t gonna get up and help. Something serious. Even though Yoshimitsu gets flattened whenever you leave the room (he has a saber. Nobody with a saber should be taking that shit) mysteriously even though you swore you paused everything and are listening out for combo shots from over the way.

But this is why I’m lucky: I’ll step back from the surface I’m dealing to, and Ma says, “You’re not having as much fun as you’re pretending to. [nods at other room] I know you were winning that stuff over there. I was listening. So thanks for this, ya little shit. You go now.”

Arbeit Macht Frei.

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