Category Archives: Guest Writers
(Contributions from Jane Lane)
There has been a “controversy” rampaging the shit out of various segments of the media. The wool was pulled over your eyes, people. We’re talking cover-up you easily fooled sacks. A sham! Flim-flam! Even a semi-syndicated talk show exposed this farce. I can’t think of any synonyms for sham, flim-flam, and cover-up, so let’s get to the point.
Ren is not real.
Depend on your personal choice of media outlet, you heard it hear first. The little blonde Irish elf does not exist. Sorry, people. It was bound to be discovered sometime. FWTC did its level best backstopping a cover story for “Ren” and build a solid base for our house of lies. But, you were too smart. The Geraldo Riveras in podcast and Internet land Sherlock Holmes-ed themselves to uncover the truth. Hats off to everyone who has a degree in criminology. Degrees from un-accredited schools from Indonesia on a distance learning program. But, who am I to judge. Apparently, nobody. You can’t make judgements when you don’t exist.
No, friends, Ren does not exist. I… I mean, “SHE” is just a practical joke. A combination of industry logos and urban legend. You’ve all been duped. I am….. shit, I mean, “SHE” is a scam. No one can agree on what kind of scam or who the hell “she” really is. It could be some sort of Irish pyramid scheme. Perhaps, some twisted person or persons came up with the idea to josh an entire nation just to create a publicity stunt to sell prophylactics made of bison scrotum.
Just like Roswell and Bigfoot, there are a few leading theories about who I… fuck! Who “she” really is. Here are just a few:
1. “She’s” a fat guy
This is, probably, the most obvious I mean, come on! We all know the vast majority of the “women” on the interwebs are fat, sweaty fucks with a tiny dicks. Christ, 90% of the “women” on Facebook are guys. It’s completely conceivable that this “Ren” character is really just some fat slob desperate for attention. Come on! This “girl” likes to drink, bang her “husband,” and loves the meat. Get it? Loves the meat?
There’s NO WAY a “woman” like that in the world. Check that. NO FUCKING WAY! That shit is like turning lead into gold. It’s all a myth. Hearsay. It’s just not possible that a “female” can actually enjoy meat and meat byproducts along with alcohol and and steady stream of fucking the husband.
So, yeah. That’s got to be it. Unless…
2. “She’s” a
Bots are annoying. Bots are cunning. Bots are fucking sneaky. How many times have you gotten a message from “Eliza Dushku” or “Avril Lavigne” or.. I don’t know… “God?” Well, we all sure as hell know it’s really some sweaty programer with more body odor than appeal.
This makes sense. First, you just scour the Net, and find a random girl on Facebook and second, pirate the fuck out of any pics set to “public.” Throw in a dash of spyware and a sprinkle of rerouting virus then, fucking viola! You got yourself insta-Ren!
The main issue with these bots is that many of them are programmed to adjust to new perimeters. To adapt to new spam filters. To… evolve. If this, “Ren” is a spam bot, it’s more than just your basic con to worm its way into your hard drive. Come on, people! That’s one more fucking step towards sentience! Christ, we’re all focused on the wrong issue!
3. “She’s” a fat chick
Dude, just re-read #1 and replace all the “guys” with “chicks.” You can leave the “tiny dick” part. Depending on the fat chick.
4. “She’s” is really a government conspiracy
It’s not unusual to suspect the government, any government (except Canada, I guess) in a shit ton of covert operations and secret programs that inject nanobots into unsuspecting children’s flu shots to build a perfect combination of man and machine.
5. “She’s” a celestial or atmospheric phenomenon
The less plausible theory being proposed by the most plausible stalkers (and their sad sad lives). This “Ren” is closer to the aurora borealis or some sort of Helix Nebula… The Eye of God, if you will.
It has been proven or, at the very least, conceptually kicked around that celestial physics can theoretically influence a person’s consciousness. Don’t believe me? Fine. Don’t. I don’t fucking care. See it for yourself. Pony up the dough to attend the “Toward the Science of Consciousness “at the University of Arizona‘s Center for Consciousness. Take the kids and come on down to God’s misshapen ash can. Takes pictures of an honest-to-god astrophysicist! But what’s fun without some learning? It’s bullshit… that’s what it is. Included in this dream package you will have your choice of murderously boring lectures. Oooooooo will it be the on discussing quantum influences on the brain. No wait! The lecture about electromagnetic flares hurdling to Earth like New Jersey Governor Chris Christie warp speeding to the Buffet King. We’re onto you, “science.”
6. “She’s” a incorporeal essence within us all
How do we know God exists? How about Allah, Buddha, or whatever the fuck the Vikings worshiped?
When annoying push comes to asinine shove, you don’t. As a “modern” society, we tend to incredulously cast looks toward our ancestors and remark on how “quaint” their beliefs were.
Every society does that to the society that came before theirs. We’re not running around worshiping the sun or offering our children to Yahweh on a funeral pyre. Not often these days, anyway. However, we cling on to our “enlightened” (enough with the fucking quotations, already) religious philosophies. Jews KNOW God exists. Muslims KNOW Allah is watching over them. Christians KNOW Jesus was the Son of God. Throw the Dali Lama in there while we’re at it. His followers KNOW he is the reincarnation of the reincarnation of the reincarnation of the first… um… Lama?
OK, so what’s the fucking point? Each and every follower of every religion can’t produce concrete proof that their god(s) exist. Shiva isn’t in the directory and Thor doesn’t have a Facebook page.
Even atheists believe that there is no higher power to the point where that disbelief turns into their beliefs. So, is it possible that this fictitious “Ren” actually exists in the hearts of man? Does “she” exist in our actions? Our thoughts? Our dreams? Is it possible that there is a little bit of “Ren” in all of us? How the fuck should I know? I don’t exist. Ask someone who isn’t a figment of your imagination.
*When not writing for the Fuse Was Too Cold, “Ren” exists only in the world of imagination.
*When not contributing, Jane Lane exists to make you miserable to the point of embracing the sweet release of death..
By Abby K.
If I were to tell you Len Lesser died yesterday you would give me a blank stare. Then, if I told Uncle Leo died you would immediately open palm slap your forehead and say, “No! Uncle Leo? Say it ain’t so.” OK, maybe you wouldn’t say it exactly that way, but you know what I mean.
Len Less… ah screw it… Uncle Leo had a long and storied acting career. He was in Clint Eastwood flicks like, The Outlaw Josey Wales and Kelly’s Heroes. Remember? Come on! I can let Kelly’s Heroes slide, but if you never heard of The Outlaw Josey Wales , you’re either a particularly dainty woman or a castrated man.
Don’t feel bad. The majority of the Free World really only know Lesser as Uncle Leo. To tell you the truth, that’s good enough. No, he didn’t get Orson Wells spherical nor was he well known for his penchant for hookers and rock cocaine. He just, I don’t know, COMPLETELY BECAME ONE OF THE 20TH CENTURY’S BIGGEST PRIME TIME TELEVISION POP ICONS. Don’t agree? You’re lying. Quick, which one of these characters from Lesser’s career do you remember?
Or Uncle Friggin Leo?
That’s what I thought.
Uncle Leo was a character that stuck out in a sitcom that already had tons of quirky goofy ass one-dimensional circus clowns. That’s no small feat. Sure, he wasn’t in the main cast, having just appeared in 15 episodes. 15 out of 180 episodes. That’s nothing, it’s a speck of corn in the cow pie of life. But, those 15 episodes are among the ones we best remember. Why? Uncle Leo had it all; dashing good looks, a wardrobe to die for, and one of the best catch phrases of 90’s television. “Jerry! Hello!”
But, why did we take notice of our dear, precious Uncle Leo within the sea of Neumans, Kramers, Mickeys, and close-talkers? Was it talent? Gravitas? Yes. But, it was more than that. Only one word can sum it all up accurately. Genius. Uncle Leo was the Macbeth of our time. He was Rosencrantz and Guildenstern all wrapped up into one hunk of a thrift store sweater wearing man.
The real tragedy is that Uncle Leo never had his own spin-off series. Think about it. Episode after episode of “HELLO!” We would finally get to see Uncle Leo’s personal side. His sensitive side. His studly side. Hey, don’t be so quick to judge. That description was already more than Jersey Shore gives you and those hosers make millions for being stupid and VD ridden.
Look, all I’m saying is that growing up in Alberta didn’t exactly provide a girl with an ample supply of man candy. We had Eugene Levy while the US had David Hasselhoff (in his pre- cheeseburger/bathroom floor stage).
How was this fair? You tell me!
Maybe I was a traumatized child. I did see my father in a speedo once. I guess that pushed me into the strong, slightly mothball smelling arms of Uncle Leo. Look, don’t judge me. Funny is sexy.
Apparently, I’m not alone in my Uncle Leo worship.
That’s right, a tribute to Uncle Leo set to “Hello” by Lionel Ritcie. And you thought I had issues.
Safe home, Uncle Leo. Without you, life is meaningless and dark. We no longer have the bright light of your “hello” to warm ourselves by. I guess I’ll just nurse my crush on James Earl Jones.
Oh, yeah. That eases the pain.
Fame does some pretty strange things to your head. Look at Madonna, for example. She was the definition of popular music and made being a “material girl” acceptable. Now, she speaks with a faux British accent, aggressively adopts/shanghais African children, and became an out and out caricature of herself. Not in a funny way like Charlie Sheen or Steven Seagal. In a tragic, sad way like Drew Carey.
We miss you, Mel. Remember all the good times we had? Mad Max? Thunderdome? Lethal Weapon 1-3? We stuck by you in your low points; Dying Young, What Women Want, Maverick. That’s because we knew you were going to bounce back and give us something like Payback or Ransom or We Were Soldiers. So, we got Signs. I mean, it was OK, for a Shamalan flick. It could have been 45 minutes shorter and the antagonists probably shouldn’t have been able to be killed with water (how much of the surface of the Earth is water, again? That’s just poor planning). But, that wasn’t your fault, Mel.
Everyone has the right to go nuts once in a while. Shit, Russel Crow still has a career. The key is to bounce back long enough for your fans to be able to defend you. OK, Russel Crow threw a cell phone at someone and punched a few dozen people in the face. But, he was in Gladiator and…. come to think on it, that’s really the only Russel Crow movie I liked. A Beautiful Mind? Come on! Who hasn’t had a university professor that wasn’t completely batshit nuts?
But, I digress. The world loves its eccentric actors. The world loves impossibly tanned douche bags from New Jersey. They all know their boundaries, though. Sure, Alec Baldwin verbally abused his daughter in voice mail. The public is willing to let that go, because he’s on 30 Rock. That and was only one recording lasting only a few minutes.
I’m not sure when it all went downhill for you, Melvin. Some say it was The Passion of the Christ. I wouldn’t. It was an interpretation of a story four books of the Bible told in different ways that WAAAY too many people took too seriously. Both the devout and cynical spent too much time dissecting the damn film and making it fit their personal views. After several months of this shit, I just wanted everyone to shut the hell up. No one was outraged by The Hottie and the Nottie and that was an outright punch to the collective nuts of humanity by Satan.
It didn’t take a cinema expert to figure out that you were working through some major issues while filming Passion. Maybe you were having a crisis of faith. If Michael Moore can use movies to make an attempt to choke people with the fat of his opinions, why not you? It was therapeutic; I get that. But, this seems to have been the last vestige of your sanity. After making an opus for such a personal subject AND raking in almost $612 million bucks, I’d probably call it a day and swim in a pile of money like Scrooge McDuck.
Then the other shoe dropped, Melbert. A story started to circulate about your drunken, antisemitic rampage. What? No way! After making a blockbuster movie centering around the most famous and arguably most revered JEW in history you start cracking wise about the Jewish community? At least you waited until after the flick already made the rounds in theatres. That would have been shitty PR, otherwise.
This was utterly baffling to your fans. But, after some thought, we chalked it up to drinking sour mash on an empty stomach and crippling emotional issues. Who among us hasn’t gotten shit faced and launched into a racist tirade? It might as well be part of the warning on the label.
- According to the Surgeon General, women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects.
- Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems.
- Consumption of alcohol may induce a flood of racist remarks that TMZ will immediately broadcast the next day.
Surely, this was the sign of a very troubled man. We wanted you to get help. We took pity. For God’s sake, David Hasselhoff managed to maintain (and increase) his following after his “eat the burger off the bathroom floor” booze fueled escapade.
We were bummed, but at least you haven’t sunken to the Andy Dick level of drunken dipshittery.
HA HA! Oh, Andy. He may have indirectly caused the murder of Phil Hartman, you know.
Things seemed to die down. We thought you were getting the help you needed. You know, before you made a smoking crater where your career and reputation were. Ah, shit.
Now, I won’t bother recanting every action packed, domestic violence chalked, racist soliloquy. But, in case someone has cut themselves off from society for decades and just now decided it was time to catch up on all the celebrity gossip, this article in the Guardian will fill them in. Why, Mel, why? Didn’t Nixon teach you anything? NEVER put yourself in a situation where you could risk being recorded.
According to this expert who has been involved in the super sophisticated career of creative forensics and crime busting, there is a good possibility that your soon-to-be ex-wife doctored those tapes . They were just too perfect. In a nutshell, the audio is just too clear and you can almost hear the editing in some of the clips. Let’s be realistic. If I can pick these anomalies out, then actual professionals must be having a field day with them. She wants a payday. So that’s something, isn’t it, Mel?
Yes, it’s something, but just not enough. Even if what’s-her-face had a team of recording engineers at MIT split and re-mix the calls, the indisputable fact is that those are your words, Mel. That was your voice pushing racial and sexist epithets like a crack dealer on third graders at a playground. The finished product may be just that; a product. But, the content is 100% Mel. We want to help you. We’ll do what it takes. Chamomile tea? A five year stint at Betty Ford? Shock therapy? Lobotomy? Everything’s on the table. We just want our quirky Mel back.
Above it all, that funny, cheeky, action star we see above was oh, so charitable. You and Glover were the stars, but you let another sweep us off our feet. We have never been the same since.
Is any of this getting through to you, Mel? You’re a step away from Gary Busey level insanity. You can still turn it around; drop out of the public eye for a few years, then come back better and stronger than ever! Look what that plan has done for John Travolta. The John Travolta Pulp Fiction and Face/Off era that is. The rest of it is just a shame filled diaper that Hollywood occasionally shoves in our faces.
Okay, Travolta isn’t a very good example these days. Stallone! Yeah! Sylvester Stallone! He did it, Mel. Granted he was just accused of popping human growth hormones like Tic Tacs, not of threatening to bury his woman in a rose garden. However, Stallone dropped off the face of the Earth for years, came back, for some reason made Get Carter, ran away, then rocked us all with Rocky Balboa. Sure, he struggled with the most recent Rambo atrocity, but he bounced back and made The Expendables. Sly managed to get the world to forget about Cop Land by uniting the single most badass group of 80’s and 90’s action superstars. No, there are no recording of Stallone dropping the N bomb or hexing someone with gang rape, but he has struggled against the handicap of having Frank Stallone as a brother.
Mel, we love you. You’ve just taken a bad turn. Well, a bad series of turns. I guess it’s safe to say you’ve crashed the car, set it on fire, then ran face first into a brick wall yelling racial slurs. But for logic defying reasons, you keep getting back up and launching yourself back into the brick wall. I guess I’m asking that you take a breather, invest in some seriously aggressive therapy, and STOP slamming yourself into that goddamn wall. One of these times you’re going to collide with it so hard you’ll open a rift in the space-time continuum and obliterate Mad Max and Martin Riggs. At this point, Mel, they’re all you’ve got.
Gene Gene the Roode Machine-
Alright, auto companies, I’m on to you. Decade after decade you churn the same shit boxes on four wheels out for a drooling public with more credit than brains. Each one has some bell or whistle that is slightly different than the bell or whistle the other guy has. Maybe next season the Ford Explorer will have air conditioning in the seat so you can cool that sweaty taint of yours after a long day at the beach. They can call it the “taint blaster.” No more will Ford owners have to worry about their wet taints on the drive home. That’s fucking progress!
I understand the appeal of certain car names; Mustang, Charger, Bronco. That shit makes you want to wrangle up a herd of stampeding cattle or single handedly win World War II. A bad ass who quips one liners while he stomps another asshole where the bad guy’s face used to be always drives sex on wheels. Take Jaguar, for instance. JAGUAR. The name, alone, hammers images of eight cylinder justice and constant super model boning in your head. These names don’t disappoint. Jaguar is as impressive to drive as it is to say. You just know the vehicle is going to be awesome when it’s named for a carnivorous killing machine or a wild, rampaging horse. Quick! What comes to mine when you hear the word “Yugo?”
Man is, by nature, a stupid and gullible creature. Marketing firms and car companies know this. They invest so much time in the product placement and brand name that there’s little left over for the actual car mechanics. Or, they just pull the name out of their asses ten minutes before they make the commercial. Either way, someone is fucking the pooch here. Car names no longer instill boner raging masculinity. For fuck’s sake, there’s nothing sexier than a smoking hot blonde behind the wheel of a Mustang. Put that hot blonde behind the wheel of a Volarie and.. shit. Nevermind. Chances are that guys wouldn’t notice the car at all. So that’s just a shitty example.
Regardless of the calibre of hot blonde behind the wheel or on the hood, you’ll still be stuck with a car that sounds like a third grader’s super secret fort. It’s hard to narrow down the list of banana sandwich goofy car names. So, this list is pretty much a random assortment of marketing retardation. Sometimes there is a story behind a name. Other times it’s just made up bullshit.
1. Studebaker Dictator: – 1927-1937
It was a more simple time in the early 20th century. People played jacks, hop scotched.. shit with kicking cans or marbles. Whatever. I don’t really know. It was a barbaric age before iphones and internet porn. But, there was no excuse for phoning in the name for one of the earliest cars ever made. If anything, you want its name to rock harder than a metal band playing in the crater of an active volcano. Studebaker decided to go a different route. It was meant to refer to how they “dictated the standard” for automobiles. Instead, it sounded more like a car that was hell-bent on staying in power and eliminating its enemies.
2. Nissan Armada: 2004-Present
Obviously someone remembered a random word from their high school history class. I’m not sure if the name is supposed to conjure up images of something gigantic or impressive. Maybe it’s supposed to suggest it can fend off the British Navy while conquering territory. Come on, there are plenty of other words from school Nissan could have used instead of “Armada.” How about the Nissan Galleon? The Whaler? The Nissan Small Pox sounds catchy.
3. Ford Probe: 1989-1997
Quick! What comes to mind when you hear the word “probe?” Is it the worst performing car of 1997? Does a Mazda GD platform rip off stuck in 4 cylinder hell flash in your head?
Exactly, who thought this name was a good idea? Nothing about the word “probe” sounds enticing. Who said, “PROBE! That’s GREAT,” during a board meeting? That’s what we want in a car name. Who wouldn’t want to fork over some cash for a car with a name associated with some of the most horrific alien abduction stories known to man? Was the “Ford Rape” taken? Take advantage of society’s desensitization to porn and slap on a label with some gravitas. I would be proud to be the owner of a Ford Rim Job or a Ford Donkey Punch.
4. Toyota Sequoia: 2000-Present
Well, shit. No word in the English language embodies speed like the name of a big ass plant. Yeah, I get it. A sequoia is supposed to symbolize the hugeness that is this SUV. It also symbolized a gigantic immobile-fucking-object. Forget “lightning” or “cheetah.” Toyota is happy to compare their vehicles to a fucking tree.
5. Dodge Coronet: 1949-1976
This thing either sounds like a musical instrument you were stuck with in middle school, because all the saxophones were taken or a type of toilet paper.
The predecessor for the aircraft carrier sized Dodge Diplomat, the Coronet was Dodge’s first go at a post-war design. Some of its generations looked downright awesome.
But, as soon as you say “Yeah, this is my Dodge Coronet,” you’ve castrated yourself. There’s no good way to say it. Fucker might as well be called the Dodge “Small Dick Premature Ejaculation.” Any self-respecting guy would have ripped that name badge off with a screw driver and hammer.
6. Toyota Tacoma: 1996-Present
Toyota makes our list for a second time. Aside from the fact that the Tacoma is designed for the yup-fuck crowd who like to drive SUVs with the cargo section roof missing and pretend it’s a pick-up, it’s named for one of the shittiest holes in Washington. Nice going, Japan. You’ve forever associated this wannabe truck with gang violence and the putrid smell of one of the world’s chunk blowingest pulp plants.
7. Renault Le Car: 1972-1996
Those fucking French. “Le” has no business being in front of “car”. These fuckers weren’t even trying. OK, it was officially called the Renault 5. But, in Canada and the US, it was marketed as Le Car. What the fuck kind of effort went into this translation? Just because a bunch of cheese eating surrender monkeys dubbed it “The Car” in French doesn’t make it chic. The only thing more asinine is the fact that this piece of shit was one of the first super minis. This shit has no place in Canada. I saw one of these atrocities in Calgary when I was a kid. I bet the pretentious son-of-a-bitch that bought it thought he was on the cutting edge of the international car scene. I went back in the winter and saw that fucker completely buried under snow. Nice buy, dipshit. Way to keep the Albertan winter wonderland in mind while car shopping.
8. Toyota Yaris: 1999-Present
At this point in the list, I’m forced to assume that Toyota just doesn’t care. This poor bastard tried to get a straight answer from them. Essentially, as their marketing lore goes, the inspiration came from the Greek Goddess, Charis; a symbol of all that is beauty and elegance. Then, for reasons only known to their corporate marketing monkeys and Satan, they crammed Ya in front of the name to represent the German word for “Yes.” Yeah, that explanation is real. So, here you have a car which is almost obscenely a hatchback, the misspelling of a German word, and the Japanese pissing all over Ancient Greek traditions. I, for one, can’t wait for the Honda Pontius Pilate to roll out.
9. Chevy Avalanche: 2002-Present
I’m not sure likening a vehicle to a natural disaster is good for your image. In my experiences, people RUN AWAY from avalanches, not towards them. Is this Chevy’s ham fisted way of conveying the “surrounded with comfort” feeling. Is the comfort in the cabin of one of these yuppie trucks that jammed packed? Is the driver virtually smothered by mp3 ports, plush upholstery, and cup holders? Claustrophobia must be a big thing in the auto industry. But, how wise is it to cater to the small pro-smothering demographic? And will Chevy be tapping other niche demographics in the future? I’m sure their over paid marketing geniuses could crank out names that would appeal to tiny demos that are into anal fisting, water sports, or S&M. Damn it, the television ads practically write themselves! The 2011 Chevy Fister would definitely turn some heads.
10. Kia Soul: 2008-Present
Is this way Kia is trying to give the white man soul (Read: music)? Or, are they attempting to give us a four-wheel spiritual essence (Read: spirit)? I see a lot of things when I look at this car and none of them is “soul.” I wonder if this is, yet another, case of random words floating around the minds of the company’s marketers. Someone had to have watched a bit of Soul Train late the night before while contemplating suicide.
Why stop at soul? As with the other cars on this list, there are hundreds of random words a company can half- assedidly stamp on the back of a car. If we’re talking intangible things that relate to the human condition, how about the “Kia Conscious” or “Kia Hootzbaugh?” If ever you find that your soul is more connected with your car than with humanity, drive your mobile soul into the nearest body of water.
I know there are dozens more goofy, groin-grabbingly good examples of an auto manufacturer taking a marketing dump on its products. But, the more I think about the idiocy, the more aggravated I get. The Gremlin, The Judge, Pinto, this list is fucking endless. There’s only one way to derail this hate train.
The FWTC, again, enlisted the “talents” of a guest writer. Translation: None of the regular columnists felt like writing anything this week. So, instead of re-posting an old article in the spirit of NBC’s old “if you haven’t seen it, it’s new to you” mentality we threw the ball into someone else’s court. Cue, PT. If it sucks, blame Ren. That’s our policy around here.- Tresckow
Tons of people in this country are having a tough time with employment. On one end of the spectrum you have poor bastards stuck in a shitty job that’s rotting them from the inside out. Even though their employer is crushing their souls a little more everyday, they don’t dare quit. The simple fact is no one knows if they can land another job that doesn’t floss its teeth with the spirits of their employees (at least not as much). At the opposite end of the spectrum are another crop of poor bastards fired from their jobs because, The Man is looking for ways to cut expenses. These poor sommabitches join the legions of unemployed in an economy that’s way past circling the drain.
1. Promotions all around
Let’s say an ass ton of employees were laid off last month. I’m not just talking about the dude that drives the little mail cart around. No, we’re talking skilled, white collar, middle management types. Inevitably you end up getting the dirt on the demon whore company that sent dozens of people packing. When you were still on staff, they couldn’t afford to supply everyone with a computer made in the last ten years. Half the staff gets shafted with an Amiga or Apple Lisa. But, wait. There were a round of promotions after the layoffs?
You, my friend, have been duped. Sure, the company had to make some cuts due to budget reasons; just not the reasons they eluded to. As soon as the dust settled, 10 friggin ass clowns were given hefty promotions and $25,000 raises. It’s true, you and the other expendables were fired for financial reasons. But, the reasons weren’t because the company had problems paying the electric bill. It’s because the money that used to pay you needed to be redirected to a handful of fucks that already made thousands more than you!
2. Adding to the Already Bloated Senior Management
While looking through useless job sites in an effort to find a job that pays in money, not beads, you become disheartened. It’s not that there aren’t jobs out there. It’s that employers know the applicant to available position ratio is 1000 to 1 . After scrolling past the 80th pyramid scheme or shady work from home ad, you come across a familiar company. A company hiring a shit load of vice presidents, czars, grand poobahs, and other master of the universe type positions. Wait a mother loving minute! That’s the company you were fired from!
As with the previous scenario, the company needed to get rid of a bunch of staff positions due to their finances. So, in turn, to save the money they just reclaimed from the round of layoffs they go on a Paris Hilton-esq shopping spree for high power employees that cost four times as much as the money they yoinked from your sorry ass. Why, you ask? Well, so they can look like they know what they’re doing while they drive themselves into the ground harder than a tent peg at the big top.
A few months go by and you’re forced to pay for your rent with manual labour and wheels of cheese. True, millions of people have it worse than you. At least you don’t have to shit in a hole in some God-forsaken third world country like France. There have been so many cataclysmic disasters in the past few months one thinks the End of Days is here. The most terrifying catastrophe: The re-make of “We Are the World.”
So, let us get this straight… the money whores gave you and a dozen of your buddies the ‘ol heave-ho, because they didn’t have the cash to pay you. So, where did the fucking charity money come from?
No, I don’t have anything against giving to charity. I’m not Roode. I don’t wish for the death of my fellow man. But, there is a certain bullshit contradiction when a company shit cans a shitastic number of employees for “financial reasons” then turns around and gives thousands upon thousands of dollars to the crisis of the month. OK, so I sound like a dick on that one. But think about it. There’s no good way to say this. It’s sort of a “Robbing Peter to pay Paul” deal. They say charity begins at home, but when was the last time a company sent out a press release for NOT firing employees?
4. Mr. Bigshot President/CEO Gets a New Ride
You haven’t gotten an oil change in five months. The only thing holding your shit box car together is duct tape and wishful thinking. The money is running out and you don’t have a dime to spare for luxuries like brake pads, a functioning instrument panel, and working seat belts. You end up rolling past your ex-employer because the building is at the bottom of a hill and gravity is your fuel now. As you roll by in the world’s most dangerous soapbox racer you see the carpeted, velvet roped parking spot that belongs to the big cheese. Wait one douchebaggy minute. When you left he had a Plymouth Reliant. Now, a fucking shiny new Lexus is in the space being washed and waxed by bikini models with bottles of Dom.
We call foul! A small army was tossed out the door due to cutbacks. Where, exactly, does a brand-spanking new pimpmobile for the bossman fit? To add some extra oomf to the crotch shot, the damn thing is leased by the company. So, it’s not just the fact that Mr. Cutback somehow has the cash to buy him some new wheels. That shit is on the company dime!