From now on, I will answer to nothing less than "Jesus 'The fucking Martyr' Bring-the-Pain Christ". Quiz time: Which is more likely to get you fired: a) saying your manager is a hefty lip-flapping, potato chip eating moo-cow, or b) asking which one of your geriatric co-workers has knocked back the most man-chowder? The answer is c) I got fired from Fabric Depot for both of those things. That's absolutely correct, ladies and gentlemen: My last blog got me fired from Fabric Depot. In my own defense, if The Grandmas are reading Mr. Yuck, then they have probably done things that warrant my public inquiry into their sexual lives. Also in my own defense: What, they can't take a joke? I'm sorry, I thought we got Saddam Husein, but no, he's alive and well, and working at Fabric Depot. Doesn't an employee have the right to rail mercilessly on their co-workers and bosses in their free time and put it in public for all to see? Well I call it a fucking infringement. I want the mo' fuckin' ACLU, The Supreme Court, and Johnny Cochran in this bitch. Also, I've hired a witchdoctor to summon George Carlin from his grave, because he needs to be in on this too. Old people must be evolving, because last I checked, they didn't have internet capabilities. Although, I should have known something was up when they hired me for the website department. The Website. Department. Because that's where I worked. The dick-suckiest part about all this is that I didn't even get to use my discount. And there's still things I want to buy there! But can I show my face in there? NO. Here's what I'm thinking: Since I pretty much monetarily died for y'all's yucky reading sins, you guys basically owe me. And as Jesus needed you to believe that he existed as the son of god in exchange for his sacrafice, I'm going to need a mule. I send you in with some cash, you go in, you don't say a word to anyone, you buy that $7.99 corset pattern I want, smuggle it out in your stomach or ass hole, and I'll meet you around back wearing a mustache and trench coat. Then I'll give you some ipecac until you throw up the pattern. I might have to gut you to get it out, because it's pretty big, but you're right next to Fabric Depot, and they have needles and thread out the wazoo in there, so I don't want to hear any sass. I also want some vinyl, lace, and some passion suede, so...you might want to go to clown school and learn that trick where they pull all the handkerchiefs out of their throat, because it will help with me not gutting you. As for the rest of you, who won't be swallowing sewing paraphernalia and throwing them up for me, a simple middle finger to the man will suffice to repay me. So next time you're in Fabric Depot (or anywhere else that hates America, and everything that it stands for) scoot around on their carpet with your asshole. Take a long morning-after-New-Year's piss in their cash register. Use their candy aisle to shoot your own bukaki film. Tell 'em Alex set you. And tell 'em you're doin' it for good old Uncle Sam.
-Alex
-Alex