On the Death of the Regime

We need to get to the bottom of who is really responsible for the economic horror show we currently find ourselves in. Not because it is destroying lives, putting hardworking Americans out on the street, and turning this country into a fractured Soviet republic of collapsing infrastructure shrouded in gaudy faux-patriotism, but because it has caused the corporate headquarters of my store to nearly eliminate my part-time warehouse help in an effort to save dough.

Once upon a time, I had a crack team of hot able-bodied stallions and chipper young fillies to do my bidding while I sat around playing with the minimoogs and listening to Steely Dan on the 600-watt PA system ganked from the sales floor. Those were the halcyon days of the warehouse, when I really was the manager, not the guy that has to do everything. We would laze around early mornings before the delivery truck would arrive, talking smack about the rookie salespeople and fondly recalling veterans past. Everyone knew the party was down in the warehouse; the general manager would have to come down and shoo away the employees that would gather down in the transfer dock, eating candy and avoiding selling DJ mixers to non-English-speakers. Yet things got done, and multiple tasks could be completed at once. It was a grand old system.

In all fairness and honesty, I’m thankful that I still have a job, and the whole situation has forced me to become much more efficient with my limited resources. But oh, that slacker side of me sure misses watching the underlings lift hundred-pound speaker cabinets up those stairs while I ate mozzarella sticks. Let’s all raise a glass for days gone by.

In other news, I’ve heard over the wire that there is another Maxwell that lives in Boston who is gay. I got to thinking, what if I were to date him? Maxwell and Maxwell. “Hi, I’m Max, and this is my boyfriend Max.” How would they tell us apart? “Max is the piano player, and Max is the telemarketer.” “Which one is the redhead?” “Max.” “Which one’s Max?” “The piano player.” “Which one has the pierced butthole?” “Max.” And any boudoir-related activities would surely be beyond awkward. “Oh Max. Max. Max! MAX!!” Unreal.