Free Enterprise Makes My Brain Hurt

Boy, did I make a bad move hooking up part-time with the PleasurePuss Gift Basket Corporation of America. Last week I had to resort to buying myself a Teddy Ruxpin basket with the lavender lilies arranged in a heart shape just to meet my monthly quota of two sales so I could keep my Sunshine Points total above water, and Barry Schilling, my regional account representative, sent me this letter in the mail:

Dear Space Waster:

If you don't mind putting down your spit-soaked copy of whatever collection of Garfield cartoons you checked out from the library for a second, let me have your attention. The home office has assigned me the duty of finding out if there's a single living breathing human being attached to the dysfunctional spinal cords working for our sales force. And they want me to trim the tree, queer-bait, before the roots get clogged up with the pus of your incompetence! This company is being stunk up by a load of incontinent infants who've been shamelessly sucking on PleasurePuss's overgenerous teat, and it's gonna STOP, you sack of crap! PleasurePuss Baskets is about SALES, and YOUR sales figures, you egg-eater, aren't fit to scrub my toilet! Looks like you sold two baskets this month. TWO BASKETS, you road apple. If I sold two baskets in one month, I wouldn't feel man enough to ask my MOMMY to wipe the FROST-SNOT out of my SCARF. Let me make this perfectly clear: the Lord's not gonna help you out of this box of bees, sugar pie. If you don't start selling some damn gift baskets, I'm gonna take back my ORANGE-ADE and kick you out of the TREEHOUSE. No one works for this company who doesn't PRODUCE. I realize you only work part-time, but fortunately for you, it only takes one hour a week to be COMPLETELY USELESS.

You've got the products. The Honeybunch Lavender basket. The Penny-For-Your-Thoughts Whitman's Choco-Kiss. The Roses-For-Noses Sniffy Treat Sampler. We've given you the combination to the freaking wall safe of PARADISE, you TAPEWORM, and you couldn't sell a night of cheap sex to Carmen Electra! You think the customers talk to you because you keep the hair in your nose nice and neat? They want to BUY! Close the deals or throw some Wheat Thins in a backpack and hit the ROAD!

Oh, I 'm sorry, have I offended you with my blunt talk? I really do apologize. Why don't I leave you in peace, you crotch-zombie, so you can cash in the NICKEL you generated this month for a ZIGGY NOTEPAD and then write about it in your DREAM JOURNAL. PleasurePuss is tired of changing your bedpan! Sell or get out of the sandbox!

You may at this point be asking yourself: Who is this horrible man to talk to me this way? Well, why don't we multiple choice that one, cowboy? A) I'm Santa Claus. B) I'm Art Garfunkel. C) I'm the guy who's gonna eat your LUNGS with lemon juice and CILANTRO if you let ONE MORE DAY go by without getting Klem Kaddiddlehopper and his suckerheaded beach ball of a New Jersey housewife to scrawl out a check for a Best of Celine Dion Music Box! Fill in your answer circle completely, WANG-MUNCH!

I suppose I could just FIRE your ass right now, but cutting the loser ratio by one tenth of one percent won't save me the trouble of having to write to all the other morons who have been sodomizing the corporation. So I'm giving you a chance. We're having a little sales contest. This month, the person who sells the most Peek-a-Boo I Choose You Taffeta Gumdrop Baskets gets to keep their job. I might even let you drink from the hose in front of my house. Second place gets CANNED IMMEDIATELY. Either you take the rock to the hole, or I'm gonna use your soul as a potty chair! Move the freaking Pippi Longstocking Peppermint Popcorn Petunia Wreaths out of the warehouse or go sell spices for those feebs at the March of Dimes! Or do neither and just sit around making yourself 'Smores all day, I don't FREAKING CARE, but unless I see some crooked numbers come across my desk in the next forty-eight hours, you're goat dung to me, UNDERSTAND?


My friend Janie from church got the same letter and she started to cry! We both sent Mr. Schilling our resignation notes today. Maybe we can make some extra money washing mailboxes.