Cochroaches and the zombieland they created–One man’s viewpoint.





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Sunday,February 16,   2014
Zombieland: A View Of Amerika From I-35 North

[Editor’s   Note: The following post is by TDV legal correspondent, Jim   Karger]

“Ain’t you ‘fraid livin’ down there?”

This was the inquiry of the good old boy wearing a Homeland Security   uniform as we passed through the 26-mile border security checkpoint outside   Laredo, Texas, an outpost inhabited by more like him, dogs, and cameras —   lots of cameras.

He was clearly suspicious of two gringos driving a Mexican-plated car and   that question was the best he could do – a mildly-retarded version of   cross-examination.

“No, not afraid,” I replied stiffly, but wanting to add,   “but you, on the other hand, scare the shit out of me.” To do so, I   knew from past experience, would land me in Line 2 where Bubba’s boss   waits to deal with traitors (pronounced like “taters”), meaning   anyone who, like me, dares live outside “dis great (pronounced   ‘grit’) country (pronounced ‘cunt-tree’).

“Then you all go on,” Bubba ordered, whatever that meant. I   drove away slowly so as not to get him upset and give him a reason to kill   someone today which I know is all he really wanted to do.

Since then I have been driving north on Interstate 35 through San Antonio   and Austin, Texas on my way to Dallas and I am pondering a single question as   I write, drive, and sip a Rock Star:

What do Americans do these days, other than eat out, shop, drive and fuck?   More specifically, how do they earn enough money to eat out, drive, shop, and   support the collateral damage of all that relentless fucking evidenced by the   plethora of strollers found at every restaurant, shopping center, and gas   station?

With a keen eye, an open mind, and enough caffeine running through my   veins to awaken a Celebration of hibernating polar bears, I have triangulated   the answer and it is this:

The vast majority of America’s general public are reasonably pleasant,   if inauthentic, zombies, who work in various service industries, standing   behind counters and tables and bars with plastic smiles and no interest in   serving anyone and who make little effort to hide their unmitigated despise   of what they do for $8- or $9- or $10-an-hour. To that conclusion, I just   left my second Exxon gas station where the attendant, in this case, Missy,   could not figure out how to turn on the gas pump.

Most in the “do you want fries with that” sector of the economy   are uneducated like Missy, poor and stupid, but not in that order. Some went   to public schools where they emerged functionally more ignorant than the day   they entered. Others, went further into the Ponzi-scheme called “higher   education” only to find themselves in the same pathetic place.

I met a waitress (“server” in the modern lexicon) in a fine   Seattle bar the last time I took the risk of crossing into the Leviathan. She   was in her mid-30s, well-spoken, blonde, hard looking but pretty, and a year   away from a law degree. When I asked why she was “slinging   whiskey,” she broke down and sobbed.

“I couldn’t get a decent job with a Bachelor’s degree,”   she cried, “so I borrowed even more money and got an MBA which led to   even more rejections. The only way I could delay having to pay back my   student loans was go to law school. If I don’t get a job when I graduate,   I am fucked!”

I nodded and told her that I was a lawyer.

“I make so much money,” I said matter-of-factly, “that even   my own accountant is embarrassed to discuss the numbers with me.”

She smiled looking cautiously hopeful.

“Do you think I can do the same if I work real hard?”   she asked.

“Not a chance,” I replied, no hesitation. “I get resumes   from Harvard law grads wanting to clerk for $12-an-hour. Yours was a good   idea, but horrible timing.”

“No hope?” she asked, begging to be thrown something to hold on   to.

I was silent.

“Nothing I can do to make some real money?” she   implored.

“Do you have a vibrator and a webcam?” I asked.

“What? What did you say?” she snapped.

“Nothing, just thinking out loud. No matter. Your entire generation   and those generations coming after are, how can I say this,   ‘doomed.'”

Her face was a mask of terror.

I paused and stared deep into her sad, blue eyes and whispered: “I   mean you are totally fucked.”

Her sobbing became louder. Raw anger and misplaced rage replaced feigned   kindness.

“You are all the same,” she snapped. “Just like my   boyfriend. He won’t work but tells me he is looking for a job. I   don’t think he gives a damned about me, just like my last two deadbeat   roomies. He just wants to screw me and take my tips every night after I have   done this shit for 10 hours a day,” she motioned across the bar   derisively.

Then she paused. Her breathing had become irregular and I interjected.

“You’re right. He doesn’t love you. He wants someone to   support him and fuck him. It’s a good deal if a guy can get it.”

“God damned it!” she screamed, pounding her fist on the cocktail   table. “I knew it!”

She stomped off behind the bar weeping uncontrollably and I felt good that   I had helped her see the light which in her case is an 18-wheeler about to   splatter her pretty face all over modernity’s vocational pavement.

As I reflected on that experience and passed the 411th Subway shop in less   than 200 miles, It became clear to me that the vast majority of Americans   find themselves mired in this service hell with no excuse for anything, and   no hope, none whatsoever.

As far as I can see from driving through America’s broad middle, the   rest of the working herd drive trucks hauling cheap Chinese shit to   Wal-Marts, sprinkled liberally with government workers who would serve lattes   at Starbucks if they had any ambition whatsoever and didn’t despise all   mankind for shit that happened to them back in high school.

There is also an increasing number of motivational speakers telling others   how to be successful even though they have never been successful at   anything.

Most of the rest are zombies who disappear into tall glass buildings   everyday to steal and count money for crony-capitalists who are too few to   mention by name but hold an outsize slice of the world’s wealth and   intend to keep it.

Oh, and a few are building the roads, or at least need to.


Jim Karger is a lawyer, and frequent contributor to The Dollar Vigilante, who has   represented American businesses against incursions by government and labor   unions for 30 years. In 2001, he left Dallas and moved to San Miguel de   Allende in the high desert of central Mexico where he sought and found a   freer and simpler life for him and his wife, Kelly, and their 10 dogs. He is   TDV’s San Miguel de Allende concierge and his website is found at


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