I Never Promised You a Rose Garden

I find myself shocked and disappointed with all of the commune staff. No—more disappointed than shocked, with a hint of disgust. So much so I can't even address them, you, in person. I'm hoping to express myself and my disillusionment adequately in my usual space for ranting against outsiders. Oh! Disillusionment! I forgot I was disillusioned in addition to the disappointment, shock, and mild disgust I feel.

You would think my good, if somewhat comical, name would be enough after all these years of employing you ilk of questionable backgrounds. I stood by you when you needed me most. Everyone called many of you unhirable, and I proved them wrong. Though, true, they ultimately had the last laugh. When editors and website employers were treating you like something they scraped off their shoe, and not in a good way, I took you in and allowed you to spread your wings and soar. Except for Omar Bricks, who took the metaphor quite literally with that batsuit. But you know what I mean.

It's true, when we negotiated the contract to prevent you striking back in July, I made quite a few promises. It's also true I cannot keep all those promises now—for good reason. It's a matter of public record since I accidentally published a private diary page my brother Gay is in a legal fight to take over the commune. Fighting these allegations has cost a lot of money, money I don't have or don't want to personally spend. I have had to dip into the commune secret fund to prevent this hostile (and smelly, to boot) takeover. Therefore, obviously, I lack the funding I had previously counted on when negotiating contracts.

To see myself abandoned like this! It leaves me… well, see the first paragraph. Again threatening a walkout just because I have failed to follow through with a few of those promises. I thought we were a family. Apparently we are, like my deceitful no-good brother is family. But I thought we were a better family.

It's true, I can't afford those fancy ergonomic chairs for the office as I pledged to buy in December 2001 and again promised to deliver this year. If you ask me, your posture is good enough. Ergonomic chairs at this point would be tampering with God's plan to form your backs to his will—or Buddha. If you believe in Buddha. I can't make good on the chairs right now, or the staple removers to finally get those mis-stapled papers apart, but you know me. I'm Red Bagel! Sooner or later I'll make that promise again, and I'll keep it. I promise.

We are a low-traffic website with honorable intentions and lofty goals, but not much more. This was never a get-rich-quick scheme, and I never promised you folks a rose garden. Or actually I may have; if I promised a rose garden, I'll get you a rose garden, but I can't do it before this legal nonsense is settled. Until then, I can bring in a fresh bouquet of daisies daily until we get the rose garden up and running. This I promise to you. And it's not a lame never-kept promise like staple removers and the ergonomic chairs.

What about the promises I did keep? Did you ever think about that? Ramrod Hurley has yet to be put in charge of anyone else again, and has yet to find where we stashed his desk. You all got the piggyback rides. What do you want—blood? I can give you blood by the barrelful, if I thought it would help. It will just take me a few days to get in touch with my blood guys.

I'm full of self-pity over all this feuding. Self-pity for you. You have allowed personal greed and horrible spinal curvature to come between this family. Gay Bagel? Fuck Gay Bagel. He's no Bagel in my book. You guys are the real Bagels, as far as I'm concerned.

If you call the planned walkout off, I'll even put that in writing. Legal name changes for everyone!

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