Pressing the Happy Button

They are considired the scum of society. Ignored or treated with disdain. Beaten down. Humbled by pressures that us normal folks deem excesive at best; intolerable.

They are the squeegee men; crack heads, general vagabounds. They clean the poop out of our yards; mow our lawns when we've fallin' out with our land scapers; fix our tires. The doers of meneal jobs, keepers of sorn, the smell in the empty un-airconditioned train cars.

But heros?

I dare say yes.
The essense of human existence, said with niether the desire nor ability to quantify is... satisfaction. Feeling good. Comfort.

This disire, urge, obsession, has lifted us from the cave to the sky skraper; from hunter gatherers to the order outers of fast food; from regular tv to digital cable. And these men have short cuircuted our built in aversion to the filthy and attained it. Beit with a pipe to lips (no homo), a needle to the vain, paint thinner to the nostrel; these astronauts of human awareness have leep frogged the mountains and landed in the farthest reaches of the milky way of human existence.

They tickle the happy button. Over and over again.

And no "get a job buddy", no "whats that smell?" stops them.

They have killed self conciousness with the sword of quenched desire.
They tickle the happy button.

As should you all

Enjoy...