Oh Marty, How’s About We Give Happiness a Shot (no pun intended)

So it’s Martin Luther King Day and where am I?  Sitting at home with a hot titty in one hand, a cold beer in the other?  NOPE.  At the local dive shining a bar stool with my ass?  WRONG AGAIN…  You faggots guessed it, I’m at work, shoveling shit!  Not precisely what Doctor King had in mind for me I’d say.  I never actually heard his “I Have A Dream” speech in its entirety, but if his dreams are anything like mine, they revolve around mountains of cocaine, lottery winnings, fast cars and an incredibly intoxicated Elisha Cuthbert.

Good God Almighty

But enough of this dream bullshit, I live in the real world, and in the real world my skinny ass is working.  Well working, writing this jackass post and staring longingly at that sweet photograph I posted above.  Elisha sweetheart, I’ll possess you one day.  Bitch, I’ll own you like my Hasidic landlord owns my apartment building, inside and out babe, inside and out.

Usually, at this sweatshop I call a job, we get out relatively early on the holidays which we’re forced to work.  I’m not getting any goddamn OT to be wasting what’s left of my youth here today, so I like to think getting out a few hours early isn’t that big a deal.  Of course 95% of my office isn’t here, it’s just my team and my boss;  I’ll call this lanky ovarian cyst “Reba” for anonymity’s sake.  Everyone else has slept in, the streets are empty.  Hell anyone making over $3.25 an hour is in the comfort of their own home, farting under the sheets and pulling them over an unsuspecting lover’s head.  Everyone laughs, they dry hump for a few minutes then once again it’s off to dreamland.  Not me though.  I’m here.

Like I said, usually we get out early on the holidays.  But what does Reba, my fucking rock-a-billy dyke of boss do?  She says “when AND IF, she deems fit” we can leave early.  Which basically is her telling the staff that we’re powerless to repel the stagnant waft of her stinking saggy vagina until she feels like putting the lid back on that cauldron between her legs.  I mean what the motherfuck?  Martin Luther King Jr., this poor bastard gets his ass shot off while he’s trying to enjoy a smoke outside his hotel room and for what?!  He dies fighting for civil rights and here I am getting my rectum violated all over the workplace!  I got the system’s foot so far up my boney white ass I got a Nike swoosh tattooed on the roof of my mouth. 

Sad days.

– Mike James