I went to work at Pizza Shack for fifteen dollars an hour.
It was a good gig while it lasted.
Then the boss yelled at me for sneezing on the dough.
So I left. Just threw off my apron and walked out.
There was a bus waiting for me outside. To take me to the rope factory.
Where I got twenty dollars an hour. For inspecting rope.
But that was as dull as dust.
Sensing my dissatisfaction, I was approached by a headhunter.
She offered me my weight in gold to supervise a robocall center.
In Nebraska.
But who wants to live in Nebraska?
It's a great place . . . if you're a cornstalk.
She sweetened the deal by saying I could instead
go to the island of Bali and handle the robocall center there.
That sounded better, so I took the position.
But when I was flown to Bali the island had sunk.
In a recent typhoon. There was nothing left.
But floating coconuts.
So I went back to Pizza Shack. As the manager.
They let me live in the owner's penthouse apartment.
I bathe in the milk of Assyrian she-asses.
My assistant applies kohl around my eyes twice a day.
I have the power of life and death over thousands.
But still, the work is not all that fulfilling.
So I'm signing up with the Coast Guard in April.
I already passed their physical.
