“What? What did you just say?”
“Have a nice day!”
“Have a nice day? Have a nice day! Really? You want me to have a nice, fucking day, eh? Is there a more ridiculous request you could make of me? Huh? Look outside, pal, its 87 degrees in
Work! Ha! I work 60 hours a week and most weekends. You think you got it tough behind that register? I've got meetings, emails, reports, more meetings, presentations, deadlines, and more goddamn meetings. I’ve got clients who would just as soon as stick a letter opener through my eye than deign to have lunch with me. But they want more, more, more – faster, faster, faster.
I’ve got a cell phone and a Blackberry and IM and a laptop and Web access. I’ve got more shit on my belt than Batman. I’m working all the time – in taxis, on airplanes, in my kitchen. I’m flipping through emails while I’m taking a shit. I’m always on. They should surgically implant a power chord to my ass like a monkey’s tail. Then I can plug in and recharge all the time. I’ll be a Power Spider Monkey hopping from device to device. I’ll even work for bananas.
And for what? They’re taking away my health insurance. I’m paying like 90 percent of it now and I get to see my doctor on Tuesdays and Thursdays between 1:30 and 1:45 on months that begin with the letter “J.” On my last appointment, my doctor stuck his finger up my rectum and had me piss in a jar. Appointment over! Meanwhile, I’m losing my hair, I’ve got chronic diarrhea (I’m spouting off like a Sperm Whale every damn morning!), and my blood pressure is in code red.
I’ve got no dental insurance, I can’t afford to participate in my 401(K), and I’ve got five lousy sick days a year. I need five sick days a month! I could spend five goddamn sick days filling up my toilet bowl. That’s my life! Have a nice day! Have a nice day!
Don’t give me that look, pal. I know, I know, you think I’m a basket case; that I need a little R&R. But I only get two weeks of vacation a year and I don’t even have time to take that. My last vacation was spent in a semi-coma in a mental health institution in
My wife wants to divorce me. Did I tell you that yet? Who can blame her? Who wants to be married to a failed middle manager with a gut like vanilla pudding and who can’t maintain an erection for more than five minutes? If it wasn’t for internet pornography, I wouldn’t even have a sex life. I’m more intimate with Stephanie the Horny Housewife than with my wife. In fact, I love Stephanie! I adore her for $5.95 a month.
And my kids? They hate me. My 15-year-old daughter thinks I’m a loser. She rolls her eyes so much she may have brain damage. My 13-year-old boy is addicted to PlayStation. I’m not even sure he can speak or walk. All he does is grunt and eat Hot Pockets.
And that’s why I’m here. I’m just here to buy some sausage and pepperoni pizza Hot Pockets. Okay? Is that all right? Can I come in here to buy some fucking food without having a nice, goddamn day? Is that possible?”
“Um, yes, sir.”
“Good. Can I leave now?’
“Yes, sir, and have a nice day.”StumbleUpon | Digg | del.icio.us | Reddit | Technorati | E-mail