No Love for the Working Man

Can you believe those cheap ass pants-handlers at the commune? I just found out they're paying us the same this year, despite the double-barreled workload increase that comes with the switch to the weekly schedule. That is the Double Western Bacon Cheeseburger of bullshit. If I'm going to be doing twice the work this year, I demand at least an increase in the number of surplus novelty calendars we get to take home every month. Like the saying goes, "Time is calendars," and you know I deserve to be compensated for mine.

And then to add insoles to injury, I accidentally emailed that last paragraph to Randy "Machoman" Savage yesterday, while writing one my weekly emails about how he sold out when he stopped doing Shakespeare and joined the WWF (sue me, panda-fuckers). Goddamned Windows is all I can say about that. If you're gonna put the "send email" button right next to the "kill" button on Minesweeper, shit like this is just going to keep on happening to good people. And I was pissed about that times two, since not only did I send Machoman the beginning of my new column, which was likely going to sell for hundreds on eBay within the hour, that also blew a golden opportunity to break my Minesweeper record for blowing that little guy's ass up in under a second.

Weirdest thing of all, though, was that Machoman actually wrote me back. For the first time as far as I can tell, unless his previous messages got smurfed by my spam filter. Whatever happened, this one got to me and really put my colon in a twist. That meat mountain actually had the balls to suggest I've got an easy job, then he pressed his luck all the way by asking what in the hell I do the rest of the time if I've only got one column to write a week. What do I do? Shit man, what don't I do?

Who do you think writes Quentin Tarantino all those letters about how he never puts backwards-talking midgets in his movies any more? That's right, Roland McShyster. But who do you think mails that shit? Bludney Pludd, usually. Stay with me here. Who do you think covers the stairwell in grease-coated marbles before all this happens? Omar "Don't Tell Me You Didn't Know It Was Greased Marble Day" Bricks, that's who. Didn't think about that when you were so busy laughing at Bludney Pludd's hilariously broken body, did you? Somebody's got to put in the work behind the scenes to make this world go around, man.

Damn, that Machoman chaps my ass. Leave it to an ex-Shakespearean actor to underestimate how much this extra column cuts into my prank-calling time. I had to abandon an elaborate plan to sell Rok Finger the deed to a Nigerian gold mine just to give me the time to procrastinate about writing this column. And it just doesn't sit right with me, the idea of Finger spending his commune paycheck on bread and electricity instead of the commune in-office scam of the week, or Griswald Dreck's 1-900 answer line. Fucking Machoman.

It's time Omar Bricks proved to the world that he earns his paycheck, times two. I don't care if it takes a fake beard, fake tits, or imitation Alaskan king crab, Omar Bricks is going to find a way to get paid like he was two people, while maintaining the workload of a small child. This victory shall be my crowning achievement, making up the bulk of the text in my eventual obituary, and helping to pay for the ski jump I've been wanting to put in my back yard. Even better, the effort will likely kill the rest of the down time until they finish building my neighbor's new house and I can get all up in that biatch. Bricks out.

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