Skip to content

Word to your poker night mother

To: poker-night
From: electroblake
Subject: Word to your poker night mother
Date: Thu, 8 Feb 2007 19:31:09 -0500

Today at work Fred in Sales came up to my desk and was all like, Hey
Blake, what do you say we make our product into something that our
customers will pay more money for and won’t call us all the time
complaining about its poor quality and general lack of advertised
qualities. In response to this, I was all like, Hey Fred, why don’t
you go into the men’s room and see how long you can sit on the damn
toilet until someone notices you’re missing? Well I think he took
affront to that and soon we were in our shirt tails at fisticuffs with
each other. All the hot office girls were rooting for me, of
course. When you get down to it nobody in the company really likes
Fred, but he serves an important function. You see, like most
companies, we despise our customers and really wish they would just
send us money without ever speaking to us or telling anyone else that
they’ve had any interaction with us. That’s why the assisted suicide
contract was so appealing, but then those darn fat cats in washington
had to axe the program. We often joke that we should offer the
product free to our repeat customers. Ha ha, dead customers.
Anyway, so Fred has to talk to them, and he seems to enjoy it, which
just makes us all hate him more. The last sales guy disappeared four
years ago under mysterious circumstances and old Fred here was
itching to get a little more mystery into his life. So I kicked his
ass, naturally, and when he was down for the count the rest of the
office joined me in kicking the shit out of him as he lie there on
the neutral grey carpeted office floor, curled up in the fetal
position begging for mercy and then reverting to prayer. We all
laughed and laughed, and then we put his body in one of those large
contractor’s garbage bags left over from the last office renovation
and dropped it down the garbage shoot which leads to the
incinerator. Oh, won’t our poor customers be so sad to learn that
poor beloved Fred has run away to Cancun with his 16 year old animal
human hybrid boyfriend to start a satan worshiping cult of smoking
pot and having opinions on world politics?

Needless to say, poor old Fred won’t be joining us tonight for


XX xxxxxxxxx xx #X somerville

“first hand at nine”

Post a Comment

Your email is never published nor shared. Required fields are marked *