I grabbed my cell phone, keys, tablet, wallet, and a few bum bucks for the daily handouts as I left the studio. All I could think about was, thank God, it was Thursday. Okay, I know what you're thinking. This guy knew he was going to be a no-show yesterday. So please, I implore you to understand.
With only a short cab ride between me and ten for ten Tequila shots, shootin' a little pool, and some midget tossing after work, many crazy situations could arise to prevent a fun-loving, open-minded slacker from making it into work on Friday. And even though we always wait until the midgets are really drunk before the first toss, if the neighborhood B-Girls are there doing a little rump shaking in "The Spot", anything can happen, and most of the time, anything does.
It all started after the EMTs left with the last injured little person. There was a debate at the bar between some of my friends (all confirmed slackers) and a group of visiting socialists from Greece. I was trying to stay out of the fray because the more the Tequila shots flowed, the more common ground I found with the Greeks. When the back-and-forth got started about who was best at avoiding work or laborious activities of any kind, to my horror, I realized American slackers actually work harder than our Greek counterparts.
After my tenth shot of Tequila, I began asking myself, what kind of self respecting slacker is gonna tolerate some shit like that? How could anybody be allowed to work less than an American slacker? Anybody in this country who takes pride in loafing, goldbricking, or goofing off should be ashamed to know others are getting away with being less productive. I realize America had fallen sharply in international rankings in math, science, and reading, but when it comes to slacking, America should be No.1! I wondered if the President had been notified.
Then, a CNN news ticker started crawling across the flat-screen above the bar, reporting on a ruckus that broke out at the Democrats' Nevada State convention last Saturday. I saw people fighting for some guy named Bernie. I later learned Bernie was a socialist. I wondered if my fellow slackers knew about this guy and, if so, how come they weren't supporting him. I started asking around and got some disappointing responses. Yeah, Bernie is a socialist, they said, but he's been seen working really hard. In fact, they said Bernie works hard every day.
How could this be, I pondered between more shots? Who could call themselves a Socialist while allowing themselves to be caught working hard every day? Maybe this Bernie guy was a fraud, a fake, or a phony. I asked around some more, trying to find out if anybody represented the slacker demographic, and got even more disappointing responses. Everybody said the same thing. Nobody is representing the Slackers. I was pissed. So that's why Americans worked so damn hard. If all Americans could live like Greeks, nobody could be blamed for slacking.
Well, something's got to be done about this, I slobbered. America needs somebody to champion the slacker's cause. Somebody has to ease the burden of long hours for everybody, no matter how much or little they earn. Somebody has to shorten the workweek by extending the weekend. Somebody has to fight for the 90-minute one-hour lunch break. Somebody has to fight for a retirement age of 50 with a handsome pension for life.
I asked in a slurred stupor, nearly slipping off my stool. Who the hell doesn't want these things? Who is willing to take on the slave drivers and task masters? Who is ready to fight for the right to do nothing and still get paid? Who will push back against ambitious people undermining the Slackers' way of life? And by the way, is it too late to enter the race?
Hell no, came wild chants from a gathering of drunken onlookers. Unbeknownst to me, while rambling and ranting about what needed to be done in Washington, my friends scribbled up a platform for the Slacker Party. Somebody had made up the first "Slack Slacker for President" lawn sign. "Vote for Slack, and every day's a holiday", it read. So what if it was scrawled on a cocktail napkin with ruby red lipstick? It's the thought that counts.
After being egged on by the boozy crew, somehow, I knew this was the right thing to do. But even as fired up as we all were, we knew this was a long shot at best. We needed money and a lot of it. We needed an edge, and a huge one. We needed a lowdown, double-dealing, backstabbing, cutthroat to run things if we'd have any chance of beating the lowdown, double-dealing, backstabbing, cutthroats of the Clinton and Trump campaigns.
It was agreed that we needed Doobie, our estranged, radicalized Yorkie, and his Global Mind Manipulator. And we needed to find him fast.
To be Continued.........
To be Continued.........
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