Like a child of poor, alcoholic and abusive parents, Taxi driver man fears the coming holidays.
Ikea is rolling out the consum….ehhh, Christmas Spirit early. Always first on the scene they are. Bah, humbug! Their decorations sting my weary eyes as I drive past with my empty cab, as is the custom these days. Good thing I hoarded my cash when the giving was good. Everyone else seems to have sold themselves down the river… no I kid. I’m as destitute as the lot of ya!
Still a few guilty profiteering swine meted themselves unwarranted bonuses this year. They climb aboard package laden and fat like vanilla ice-cream. They dress up all high and mighty for the Christmas party soirée with their ginormous paychecks still intact. Downsizing is so November. Worries are so for the start of January. Desperation is not part of the fat cat game. Not until your own sector is swallowed whole.
Yet the Christmas buffet scene still throbs, festive as ever, albeit with bitter wastrels drowning aggregate sorrow in drink, not the cash heavy merrymakers of yore gearing up for a gleeful holiday season topped to the brim with culinary delight and Christmas gifts the size of 42“ flat screen TVs. No, this year the gifts come in the form of a pat on the back, and if not a pink slip, merely a wish for you to man up and take it.
In my backseat, parties turn into sob fests. People take their Atlas-like burdens along home to stew in like some rancid marinade of malcontent.
“Somliga går med trasiga skor,” the poet swore , before inquiring “Säg vad beror det på?” A rhetorical question it would seem, as in the following line he indicates that it might simply be god´s will for people to trudge towards their end in the aforementioned “threadbare shoes.” Perhaps he speaks the truth. Maybe Mammon wills it so.