Last update
2023-04-01 23:29:20

    Wild to think that they had a been in a queer core punk band before. Leather jackets, shredded t-shirts, Doc Martens, dyed hair, nose rings: absolute rebels in every way. Loud, brash, fiercely independent.

    Of course, their neighbor was a different sort of man: older, more traditional. And he wanted the men in his neighborhood to be traditional too. He was a retired parapsychologist, a former employee of the state department who worked on one of those secret programs to brainwash people. He had kept quite a bit of his research.

    And so, when he hid the radio emitter in the backyard of the punk boys’ house, they never noticed how their brain waves were being subtly reprogrammed into a much more old fashioned way of thinking. Soon, the tattered clothing and denim vests covered in patches were gone. The boys started wearing nice high waisted slacks that came up to their ribs. Every day they buttoned up a dress shirt so sheer, you could see the white a-shirt through it. And of course, this was accompanied by a well tied bow tie. At first the men were confused by this desire, but soon they gave in as their reprogramming went deeper. Now they thought nothing of spending the afternoon ironing their white briefs for the week.

    Their neighbor delighted in the change. As he peered out his window, he saw the boys return from a trip to the barbershop. Gone we’re the dyed mullets, replaced by naturally colored quiffs slicked with so much pomade, you could see the reflection of the sky in them. They truly looked as old fashioned as possible.

    Soon, they began acting as old fashioned as possible. Their brash rebelliousness nature melted away as they became polite, timid, and meek. They couldn’t even look their neighbor in the eye as they shuffled past him on the street, saying “excuse me sir.” They called him “sir!” Can you believe it? These former rebels now intimidated by their elders!

    And while the men had once been loud and proud about their sexuality, it now retreated as they adopted a more traditional attitude towards it. They were practically in the closet, and too chaste to do anything about their desires anyway.

    No longer did they attend concerts; instead they attended church. No longer did they listen to punk rock; instead they listened to polka. No longer did they shred on a guitar; now they played accordions at the VFW to entertain the veterans.

    The neighbor was impressed at the transformation. He delighted in seeing his neighbors live every day like obedient nerds from the 1950s. Everything had been a success and made some excellent data. The man grinned, knowing he could increase the amplitude on his next design, and soon, every man in town would be living as traditionally as his neighbors.


    Brad whimpered pathetically as the tie was tightened around his neck, further clicking his programming into place. The do-nothing lay-about had nearly escaped his captivity, a feat impressive of the man considering that before his sentence to Sir Brogues’ School for Refinement, all he had achieved was breaking into skateparks to practice his juveline dreams of becoming a professional skater. The man-child had been introduced to the school for repeated trespass, and he had considered the punishment as getting off lightly… at first.

    Then he saw the way his classmates turned from late-twenties free-spirits into poshly dressed boys of repute, the sort that were put on boarding school brochures if they were allowed to be pushing thirty. It was ridiculous to hear the full-grown respond to everything the instructors said with “yes, sir” or “yes, teacher,” with narry a “yeah” to be observed. Not to mention, the way the clean-shaven and boyish men were spanked bare-bottomed across desks for simple transgressions.

    Despite himself though, Brad found himself slipping into the same patterns, donning loafers instead of skate shoes and slicking his hair with pomade. Realizing he was somehow being programmed like the rest of them, he attempted to escape with a shoe-polish delivery truck, a stunt that the instructors were almost impressed at for his displayed motivation. Realizing how much drive Brad could have when he was properly motivated, and after a night’s worth of spanking and “training,” he was hypnotically pressed into the school’s polo team.


    So I’ve been interviewing candidates for a position at my company and it’s been a bit of a annoyance because no one seems to come in dressed like they give a damn about winning this 6 figure salaried position.

    What I wouldn’t give for a young man to walk into my office dressed like this. Looking like a fcking adult who got dressed with the lights on sober. Fck!

    I tell young people constantly, your appearance at a job interview speaks volumes. Look sloppy and I’ll assume you’ll produce sloppy work. You’ll miss deadlines. You can’t pay attention to details. You can’t be trusted to work without supervision. Etc. Etc. Etc. On the other hand if you dress like you give a shit that tells me you understand situations. You pay attention to details. You believe in preparedness. You don’t take things for granted. You have tact. You’re ready to compete with everything within your arsenal. You’re a seller. Does this mean you’ll get the job? No but in the race to get it, you’re already ahead of other candidates by simply looking the part.

    HR people and I talk about this often. It’s not hard folks. Just dress like you actually fcking give a damn. That’s it. That still counts.

    Rant over.


    ‘Nuff said!