Burn, Bridges, Burn

Strangely enough, it seems at least one person who isn't rich has benefited from the election of George W. Bush—that person is me. Make no mistake, politically, I am on the left and voted for Kerry, who is already fading from the memory like the name of that band that did the "Mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm" song. But the election of Bush, as much as I hate to admit it, helped me, because Red Bagel failed to show up at the appeal hearing last week for my "indentured servitude" case, due to his barricading himself away from humankind in his bunker, and the judge actually ruled in favor of yours truly.

What does this mean? I'll cut to the chase: "Free at last, thank God almighty!" That's right, my torturous time at the commune has come to a close.

For the quick summary, I worked here once, left quite happily, then made the mistake of writing a thinly-disguised off-off-Broadway play about my time here. Bagel sued, I lost, and I couldn't pay all the odd "emotional damages" I was sued for, so in one of those creative sentencing deals, I came to work at the commune. Not happily, and not without plans for escape. Friday my escape became reality. I turned in my resignation to Gay Bagel, serving in his A.W.O.L. brother's stead, who said he was sorry to see me go. I called him a fat-headed penny-pincher who is out to turn every good thing, and bad thing, in the universe into an immoral profit.

It's all part of my "let's burn my bridges on the way out" policy. That's right, I'm leaving, this time for good, and wanted to make sure I never come back by finally blowing my stack at this inept bunch of geeks and freaks. Promote Raoul Dunkin, will you? Two can play the name-calling game.

First off, my friend Lil Duncan, of no relation to me. Lil, everyone knows you've had every man in this office—even Stigmata Spent, who is definitely a man—yet I'm apparently too good-looking, too normal, or possess no hideous body parts like Ted Ted's tiny wings, so I'm not good enough for your bed. Or your chair, your desk, the area under your desk, your kitchen, your apartment hallway, Bagel's desk, your parents' bed, my desk, or any of the other numerous places you've danced horizontally. So to hell with you. And everybody knows you stuff your bra more than Stigmata does.

Ramrod—I know just where that rod's rammed. You're a miserable tight-ass and all your business ventures fail because everybody, including the God you don't believe in and your own mother, hates you. I don't fear reprisal from your "evil twin" either because I live too far on the other side of town, and you can't afford the bus fare on what they pay you here.

Ted Ted… you're short. There, I've said it. If you're thinking of jumping me as I leave work tonight, you angry little fairy, I warn you right now I'm packing a flyswatter. Bring it on, I say.

And let's not forget Bludney Pludd… oh, too late. Actually, Bludney, I think you're a decent, if pitiful, member of this staff. I'm leaving some spare personality in my wastebasket when I leave, I don't need it anymore. Feel free to scrape it out.

My friend Shabozz Wertham, I'm going to say something truly devastating to your African-American pride: The Internet was invented by Al Gore, the world's whitest man. I don't care how many documents you provide, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar had nothing to do with it.

Ramon Nootles will stick his dick in anything that moves, and quite a few things that don't, if he hasn't scored in a while. You're the best reporter here, now that I'm leaving, but you still report about as well as I do after a case of beer and five whiskey sours.

Boner Cunningham masturbates, and no one here will admit it. He's doing it right now, pretending to do a chalk drawing of Ivana Folger-Whatever. And she knows exactly what he's doing—I can hardly say anything more incriminating about her than that.

As for her ex-, Mr. Nacutchacokov—Bagel's never going to bring you home. Just accept it.

I realize I'm leaving some of you out, and take that as the final insult—in an office full of pure abnormalities of human existence, you don't stand out well enough to be mentioned. And I save the finale for my lovable father figure and arch-enemy, Red Bagel himself. Red, you are a spectacular douchebag. You haven't ever come anywhere near the truth with any of your theories—if the truth were a fart, you couldn't even sniff it, that's how determined the truth and you are to avoid each other. I would wish death upon you, but it would rob me of the joy of seeing this little two-bit operation fold without my talents.

As for you, commune reader—I've got no beef with you. You've already suffered enough. Good-bye, so long, and see you nevermore.

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