I Hope Peyton Manning One Day Decides To Endorse The Company I Work For

How cool would it be to work at an insurance company for like 20 years, and then one day thumb-headed Peyton Manning walks in, films a few commercials, and gets paid more money than you’ve made over those two decades?

It would be very cool, because Peyton Manning is a brand, a lifestyle, a man whose skin and your television screen are one and the same. Let’s not ruin this for him, okay? The man made enough money playing football to ensure that no one in his family has to work for the next three hundred years, and that is precisely why he should continue to get paid thousands of times more than the people who are actually employed at the companies he is shilling for.

At our next company meeting, I plan to request a pay decrease to free up some funds in order to lure Manning in, and hopefully he brings the shit-heads from The Voice with him. Given a choice to have a shot at retiring before I’m 75, or watching Peyton Manning tell Adam Levine he should change his band’s name to Maroon 18, well, let’s just say I plan on working for a very, very long time.

Or maybe a guy as rich as Peyton Manning should be paid entry level wages by these companies.

No. He needs this money.

Hard, Orange Scat For Sale

Donald Trump was in Minneapolis last Thursday. We’ve all seen the footage of him boarding AF1 with toilet paper stuck to his shoe, which means that his bowels were most likely active while here in Minnesota.

As a novelist who has never sold a novel, I saw a way to diversify my revenue stream.

So down into the sanitary infrastructure I went. I knew it wouldn’t be easy wading through the poo of a metropolis, but I need money, and there are worse jobs out there. Plus my writing desk is next to a litter box, so the sewer acted as a catalyst for my creative juices, which began flowing much like the feculent sludge all around me.

I knew I could very well come up with nothing, but I had to try. And I’m glad I did, because after only ten minutes in those tubes, I found what I was looking for:

Trump Nugget

It’s exactly what it looks like, folks. A Trump Nugget.

There is absolutely no question that this pile of feces came out of Donald Trump’s anus. Just look at it—the color, the texture—well you can’t feel it, but believe me, it’s as dry and scratchy as DT’s weathered hide.

So to everyone out there in the #MAGA crowd, this little guy is for sale. I’m seeing that Make America Great Again hats are going for 25 bucks on the official website, and those have never even been inside of Donald Trump.

One hundred dollars, OBO. I am also willing to trade for Trump Steaks, which is probably what this poop started out as.

Black Friday Comes But Once A Year

Too much focus has been put on the consumerism surrounding Thanksgiving week in recent years. The holiday is a time for family. For food. For fellowship. For football. No one should have to leave their gathering and go to work at eight in the evening on Thanksgiving just to get ready for a midnight Black Friday sale, unless, of course, that person works at the store selling the sick 72 inch TV I need in my garage.

Doctors work at hospitals on holidays. Pushing logically forward, this means that those in retail should always be available so that we can buy Stuff whenever we want, for without Stuff, we are nothing more than wild animals. Would you like to be a wild animal, living outdoors, biting and scratching and fighting for the scraps of a shredded rabbit carcass, or a human being, shopping inside, biting and scratching and fighting for the scraps at the bottom of a DVD bargain bin? In nature, when that carcass is gone, it’s gone, but on Black Friday, we have people who were forced to abandon their families that will replenish that dumpster full of NCIS DVDs while you push your thumb deep into a fellow Mark Harmon fan’s eye.

Police and paramedics are available every day of the year, too, so why do you think you shouldn’t have to clock in for a twelve-hour overnight shift, Mr. I-don’t-want-to-work-holidays-retail-guy-who-is-being-paid-almost-ten-dollars-an-hour? Just imagine if the police didn’t feel like working on Black Friday. Who would quell the riots that Black Friday causes?

Anyways, the first Thanksgiving was nothing more than a prelude to massive land theft and genocide. Is that what we want to celebrate? Methinks not! Erase the pain and terrible memories of Manifest Destiny by giving your money to a large corporation in the middle of the night! Exercise civility and engage in hand-to-hand combat with your fellow man (preferably of the same race) on the way into Walmart and then pay for the ensuing spoils. Time was, you would’ve given that same man a blanket dosed with smallpox and then turned his ancestral homeland into a tobacco farm. Being a part of Black Friday is being a part of the evolution of mankind.

It’s also one of those neat times where you can go plum wild, and no one can get mad at you.

For instance, on what other day of the year can I drink coffee all night and have seven hours of shopping in before the sun rises? When else is it perfectly acceptable to ram your shopping cart into the nuts of yuppies and vagrants alike, whether they’re stumbling around with a 75 lb. case of upscale dog food, or simply trying to get out of the cold? In June, why is it not OK for me to trample a seven year-old child that is standing where I want to be, but the day after Thanksgiving, people form a circle and cheer me on? On Black Friday, even people in wheelchairs aren’t off-limits, because who’s to say it’s not just a wily disguise to get preferential treatment? How can I be so thankful for what I have on Thanksgiving, but when midnight strikes, my face becomes disfigured, I let out an otherworldly howl, and I become a ravenous beast that needs to buy things that have been available every other day of the year during normal waking hours?

Hell, I don’t know. Probably some instinctual hangover from our Neanderthal days. If only those ancestors could see me now, belittling retail workers, breathing in the sweaty farts of strangers, and replacing the great sadness I feel inside with Stuff.

How I Almost Became A Pill Smurf

As was recently discussed, I quit my job, and got a different one. I can’t describe how joyous this was. Yes, the robotic management was one reason, but also, this: I almost became a pill smurf*. I was on the verge of throwing out my back, running in front of a forklift, or starting a fight with an immigrant, all on purpose, for profit.

Why?

Reason number one was to get time off work.

Reason # two(2)—>When many of your coworkers are addicted to a spread of pharm productions—uppers, downers, screamers, laughers—is there a better way to make extra money, a LOT of extra money, while dealing with the trivialities of something so minor as vertebral subluxation, forklift tire-marks on your flattened leg, or a shattered eye socket from a staged fight with good ol’ Magdaleno (Mags, for short)?

A skullet.

Answer: there is no better way. These guys are paying top dollar per ‘milly’ (milligram) for all the big names in painkilling. Let’s say I plant the warehouse manager’s skullet-comb in Magdaleno’s car and tell him he’s going to be fired for stealing. So he punches my lights out in front of the coffee machine. My face hurts. I go to the doctor. I score a Vicodin prescription. When the doctor gives me that slip of paper, he might as well be dropping a bar of gold in my lap.

That bottle of pills would have been a winning Powerball ticket in there. A month or two ago, a guy broke his leg. If he’s willing to deal with the fractured femur drug-free, and manages the sudden influx of cash responsibly, he might never have to go back to work.

If only I had the balls to do something hardcore like that, I could have auctioned those V pills off, and they would have sold like toilet paper at a butt party. Butt (pun) I didn’t. I stayed healthy, like a sucker.

Well, I’ve been screwed again, this time by my own conscience.

*I heard Jesse Pinkman say he had ‘smurfs’ buying Sudafed for him in Breaking Bad. I don’t even know if the term applies to what I’m talking about here. 

A Letter To The Perverted Deadbeat Whose Credit Card Got Declined At The Dollar Store

Dear guy:

You ought to be ashamed. The ridiculous scene you caused last Thursday at the Dollar Store tells me you need serious help. And I’m not even talking monetary help. Go see one of them head doctors, because you sir, are a pervert. All of us in line saw it—the deer-in-the-headlights look when the cashier swiped your card and was all like “Oooh haaaaay-uuul no! Don’t be bringin’ that trash in here!” You even resorted to lies. “But I just put money in that account today.” Of course you did. That’s why your card didn’t work. Because the account had money in it. For a moment, I even thought of picking up the tab for your two items, until I saw what they were, exposing you as the dastardly mountebank that you are.

What kind of two-bit rapscallion buys baby food and diapers for himself? At some vulnerable point in your childhood, the ease of eating liquified spinach and the comfort of wearing a diaper must have imprinted themselves in some twisted sexual way on your brain, leaving the adult version of you as a walking case study of depravity.

You were probably filling your diaper with creamed corn at that very moment, when the realization hit that you wouldn’t be getting your fix.

Your childish ways were even more evident as I saw you sitting out in the parking lot, crying, looking up at the sky and saying “How is my baby going to eat?” Like anyone would have a kid with someone who still wears diapers, for Pete’s sake. Textbook case of an addict—the heroin isn’t for me, officer, it’s for my baby. How low can you stoop? We’re all supposed to believe you have a kid waiting at home? Of course, and all four of my girlfriends want me to get a penis reduction, but you don’t see me crying at the hospital when the doctors tell me it just isn’t a reasonable procedure.

If I ever see you near that Dollar Store again I will kick you in your bankrupt crotch and then shave your head.

For real,

Me

The Free Money Fund Shoots Up Over 1000%

As of the last update, the Free Money Fund was at five cents. Since then, I found five more pennies here and there, nothing really worth reporting. Today, though, good fortune smiled upon me my friends. First, a nickel was found. Minutes later, a quarter. Then another quarter, and then the day was rounded off with a penny. Had I found a dime I would have hit for the cycle. That’s 56 cents, just today. Add that in with the five unreported pennies, and I am up to 66 cents. That’s an increase of 1320%.

The Free Money Fund Update

Great news everyone. The balance of the Free Money Fund literally doubled last Tuesday, when I found a pair of pennies on the ground at work.

Total in the jar = four cents, American.

The Free Money Fund

I always pick up money when I see it on the ground. Some of my richer friends used to throw their spare change on the floor so they could mock me and my other poor friend as we scrambled to pick it up. I have no shame. On October 5, I started a jar for what I like to call this “Free Money,” just to see how much I actually accumulate. As of right now, the total is two cents, American. More updates will be made as more Free Money rolls in.