| I’m sorry I’m late for work. I know, I know -- after yesterday’s incident I swore I’d be on time from now on, and I honestly meant it. This time wasn’t my fault, see? It’s not like I’d spent the whole night clubbing, rolling on “X” mixed with meth and an Eight Ball chaser, all hopped up whilst suggestively dancing to pounding techno in my scandalous net shirt and sweaty pleather pants. That was last Thursday, and I copped to it once those pictures ended up on the internet -- without even asking you what you were doing on that site and then leaving the awkward pause alone, allowing you to just move on with your bitch session. You know that. I’m not going to lie to you anymore. This morning really wasn’t my fault. I only hit the snooze button on the alarm twice because I’d shaved last night -- just to make sure I got to work on time just like I’d damn well promised you I would. …
What happened? Fair question. Well, let’s just say, um, I had car troubles and leave it at that. … Why? Because you wouldn’t believe me if I told you what really happened. Hell, I could hardly believe it myself, and I was there. Sober as a fundamentalist at Wal-Mart, squeezing cantaloupes to make sure they’re fresh as I make my way to the men’s clothing section for some Wrangler jeans. Honest. I’m all detoxed now, and I like it that way. This isn’t me being some super freak imagining shit. …
Fine! Man, you’re not-- okay, but it’s a little nutty, so, uh, I just want to warn you in advance, because my tale is fairly fantastic and might be a bit much to swallow. And I should know. I once ate a whole Chipotle burrito in two bites. That’s roughly five pounds of carnitas, rice, sour cream, salsa, cheese, and lettuce wrapped in a lightly toasted soft tortilla shell. Two bites! What I mean to say is, I know from hard swallowing. Just want to make sure you’re clear you’re about to hear a tale so fantastical it couldn’t be true, but it is…
Man… hoookay…
Jon Favreau ate my car. … What? What do you mean, “Oh, come on!”? YOU "oh, come on”! If it wasn’t for my quick reflexes and seatbelt taking off skills, I’d be digesting in the stomach of that actor/director/freakishly-insatiable-hunger-mad-beast’s stomach like so many cars and that hot dog stand. … No, I do mean hot dog STAND. He ate the whole fucking thing. Creepy hot wiener water and all. And who knows what else? I didn’t see the beginning of his rampage. …
How dare you insinuate such a thing? You self-righteous BASTARD! The director of Zathura just ate my 2003 Mazda Protégé right before my completely sober eyes, something I don’t know if my insurance covers, and YOU have the gall -- the UNMITIGATED GALL, sir, to suggest I “come up with a better excuse than that” if I want to keep my job? Fuck you! FUCK YOU, man! … I’m sorry, but I’m so freaking traumatized here! I don’t -- I should’ve just gone straight to the hospital, but I knew you’d be pissed about me missing another half day of work, even though I don’t stink of bong water and don’t have any eyeliner remnants on my face. That’s how much this menial job and its teensy paycheck mean to me! I’m part of the TEAM! …
 Oh yeah? Well-- well, just turn on the TV! Or check the Internet! I’m sure this shit is all over the news. Jon Favreau eating cars and god knows what else in a hunger-mad rampage has to be at least as newsworthy as W’s latest war about which world leader has the biggest cock or whatever! … I seriously doubt it’s Bertie Ahern. … For one thing, he’s Irish, and I know first hand that -- look, that’s not the point, okay? The point is, Jon MUHFUCKIN’ Favreau ate my car, and I’m not the only one! … I’ll sue. I will SUE you if you fire me over this! … “Three strikes”? But this can’t be my third strike because it wasn’t my fault! C’mon, man! I got a -- I got myself to feed!
Look, seriously, I assure you that this isn’t “another one” of my “harebrained excuses” or “stories.” In all seriousness, I have no car, and I barely escaped the clutches of Jon Favreau’s mighty incisors. I’m lucky to be alive! … Really? Well, maybe you’ll believe me when Jon Favreau eats your precious tricked out lil’ Mini Cooper, which is, I mean -- it makes you look like such a pussy by the way. … The “mad sound system” and hydraulics make you even MORE of a pussy, man. … Fine! I don’t care! Like I said, I’m damn lucky to be alive, and maybe I should live every damn day to the fullest Queen Latifa style. … No, I didn’t see the movie, but that’s not the point. The point is, through falling into a hunger-crazed eating frenzy, Jon Favreau has actually made me see how precious life is. Sure I don’t have a car anymore, and sure you don’t believe me and are going to fire me, but you know what? At least I’m alive. I’m alive!
So you-- you can take this job and cram it straight up your fat fucking ass! … You heard me, shove it right up there like--- oh my sweet Lord! Behind you! … RUN! Jon Favreau’s eating the building! RUUUUUN!
…Oh, and, fuck you for trying to fire me. I QUIT. |
