Posted in diary, surveillance | 34 Comments »
It seems that on 31 July 1982 (during the Reagan years, for those of you who can remember), I signed some little piece of paper issued by some group of fucktwits calling themselves the “Department of Health and Human [sic] Services”.
In the course of the intervening years, numerous people asked to see this silly little piece of paper, and I showed it to them. Perhaps I did so out of pride, simply for having a little piece of paper of my own. Perhaps I did so out of fetishistic glee at feeling “a part of something”. Perhaps I did so because, otherwise, I couldn’t obtain a lawful salary.
Hell, I don’t even remember.
It had a number on it: 595-12-5274.
Here, and now, I provide this number for the simple joy of numbers themselves… so that you, too, may feel silly… so that you, too, may enjoy the pride of being 595-12-5274, and so that you, too, might enjoy my former, fetishistic glee at being a “part”.
A part “of”.
A part of, “something”.
A part of “something”… numerical.
A part of a something that will chew out your decayed, barren, poisoned soul, and then ask you if you’re satisfied — for customer assurance purposes, of course.
Steal this number. Please — steal this fucking number.
Inspired, in part, by Billy Beck, by a liter of Smädný Mních (Vybrobené z prírodných slovenských surovín!), and by Robert Anton Wilson (may he rest without consciousness).