Caked in the sunburnt stench of unfiltered Camels, I waddle farting into a small sterile building humbly titled 'Ethiopian Restaurant'. Here I stake my claim as an authority of the Working Man. Day in, day out: I wait for customers. Don't misread - I literally sit on a flatulence-coated swiveling chair, sniveling as I wait for someone to enter this globforsaken place. He hathent forsook it vengefully as cosmically far as I am concerned, but for the abhorrently apparent absence of Good Taste amongst these scum-ridden suburbanites, may they all rot in a vat of their own Excrement. Meanwhile, I flick the occasional boogie, pick the odd bum, and bequeath myself to an incessant barrage of gossip between Boss-Lady (racist) and Genuinely Good-working Guatemalan Guy (practically a pus-pocket of pity. Eternally moments away from violently exploding on my facial features). I heroically stand in as working medium for the respectively petty gibberish each slings, yet which not a one of us can respectively understand. I have found that a stern "Wow - Gee! That sucks" concludes matters rather abruptly after the fourth or fifth go. Oh sure, I manage the time to spoon feed utter nonsense to my tables in the hiatuses around these clandestine "fuck that person!" sessions, but trust me (and why would you not? I am a stolid beacon of veracity): my unofficial job here is illiterate diplomat. I effectively negotiate terms by means of guttural vocal noises and primitive, potentially crude hand gestures (coincidentally, how I also conduct business promotions to customers - we are a refined and inviting hearth to all who uphold the Banner of Un-Cunts).
Dear Allah. GGGG (check the reference, twerp) just informed me of yet another past job of his that far exceeded this one in wage, grandeur of task, freedom: sleeping in an 18-wheeler, waking only to make sure no outlaws (the vicious pieces of dogshit) stole 500 precious pounds of sawdust bread while the driver lurked through brothels on a quest for methamphetamines and/or purpose (however, given such a purpose, one ought still assume the meth to be obtained). Between his enthusiastically tootheless grin and my drug-worn hippie derp, I like to think of it as a conversation. Ojala que el no leya esto.
Returning to the Banner! It is crucial that Boss-Lady contracts a bouncer (read: one with an affinity for bouncing) for the sole purpose of publicizing our corporation's firm stance regarding customers of cuntish variety. They are to be refused service at all times and verbally abused if appropriate. We have a Banner to care for, after all. Lest one slobbers a contagiously moronic remark our way, we employ the ol' Scream 'n' Cream strategem. It appears that blank space (although this, "blog," as it were, is theoretically infinite in space, this doctrine was inscribed on a dear friend's upper thigh so do bear with) as well as my patience for these misanthropic musings amidst such myopic monotonies of existence are running thin. Better choke down the last crumb of angst before I ladle any of it on one of these fucking fiends' plates.
Until equivalent rage/disgust,
Your Righteous Bannerman of Veracity & Un-Cunts
