Man in a Purple Dress

Dude, the Man sucks, regardless of his wardrobe.

Then again, it would really suck to be the Man, so I guess we should show him compassion. He doesn't get enough of it.

Being compassionate doesn't mean blowing smoke up his, uh, nose, though.

We study the collapse of every empire we cover in my history class. Almost all of them have lost the ability to make wise decisions when the people the rulers are closest with start saying whatever the ruler wants to hear. Feeding egos is a bad plan, as it turns out.

There's this constant fight within me -- part of me wants to stick it to the Man, unequivocally and without remorse. The other part of me realizes the Man is victimized as often as the rest of us are, and wants to convert the Man. He doesn't deserve it. It's not his fault he isn't wise enough to opt out of that horrible, violent culture at the top. He probably started out wanting to do some good, figured he'd pick up the pieces of his still-fragmented life as he went -- no sense in wasting time, right?

It's like half of me aspires to be Tom Bombadil or go be a monk who lives in a tree, and the other half of me wants to pick up an electric guitar or a lightsaber and put an end to MTV or the Death Star, whichever symbol of sleaze, power, and narcotization you prefer.

(For the sake of accuracy, those should actually each be reduced to two-fifths of me. The other fifth just wants to sit in a hammock, drink apple cider, and play with Legos.)

Either way, the Man totally sucks and our rug still ties the room together.