WWKD Number One

We all know what Jesus would do in any situation: exactly the opposite of whatever these assholes say he would. And what about Jerry, as in Garcia? Some Connecticutian station-wagon driver recently implored via bumper sticker as to what Jerry-Beary would do in any given situation (whilst also commanding whomever happened to be in the vicinity to “Phil It Up!”). My genius friend said, “I’ll tell you what he’d do. He’d shoot up and then get someone to drive him to McDonald’s.” Fair enough, but what about Kafka? What would Kafka do when confronted with some common dilemmas? This is the stuff of pondering for the next however long I decide it will be.

For example, what would Kafka do if he didn’t like his job?

Well, he didn’t like his job as a matter of fact, in that his job was very unfulfilling and as a lawyery type for an insurance company. So when it wasn’t boring it was filled with tales of gruesome workplace injuries (some of which were probably the inspiration for some of the more lasting images in stories like “In the Penal Colony”). And he didn’t like it at all. Not one bit. He used to write to Milena about it and whine whine whine. The only thing he liked about it was that it required very little effort.

Unlike some people, however (some people being me), he stuck with it and managed to get promoted a bunch of times throughout his tenure at the Prague’s Workers’ Accident Insurance Institute. But eventually he got out of it–with a pension, at age thirty-nine, nonetheles! How’d he do that? By coming down with acute tuberculosis, of course! Sure, it burned his lungs out and brought him below a hundred pounds (he was over six feet tall) and killed him off, but for an inflation-addled year in Berlin, Kafka and his frau-of-the-moment Dora lived on the Institute in awesome, pensioned sin.

So, if you have a job you don’t like but want them to keep paying you for it, just come up with some highly-communicable lung disease and you’ll be all set! Fuck Jesus, man. Kafka’s lessons are for the ages, dude.

Just like Jerry-Beary’s, man.

Who’s got the patchouli? What? You do? Really? Do you also have some of your hard-earned spare change for my stupid puppy on a hemp leash?


Well, what about for my unique and unheard-of adaptation of Kafka’s THE TRIAL? Really? YOU WILL? Oh, my GOD! Yeah, just click on the little “donate” doodad to your right, dude. Jerry will TOTALLY be truckin’ with you in Heaven for this one, man!

3 thoughts on “WWKD Number One

  1. I can’t help but compare Harvey Pekar to Kafka in this respect. The job respect. Both worked excruciatingly tedius jobs with no outputs for their creativity. Both suffered horrible medical ailments. For Kafka it was tuberculosis and for Pekar it was cancer. But their miserable jobs created fodder for their art. So I guess my question is, and I do have a question here, is art better if produced through suffer or is it better when you go off to a writer’s colony in upstate New York with your laptop and French Press?
    What was Kafka’s work like when he received his pension? Did he work at all?


  2. You’re just bitter that we rejected you for the fiftieth year in a row, Captain. All the gifts of French presses in the WORLD won’t make us admit you, so you better not quit your suffery job, fucko!
    Yours poncily,
    Baron Von Mediocriheimer
    Admissions Director


  3. Dear Baron Von Medicriheimer:
    It’s not about me. It’s about the fucking drug laws in this country, man, where people serve life sentences for having just a little bit of pot, man, whereas, y’know, rapists and murderers can get out in eight years. Or something.
    Best regards,
    Captain Underpants


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