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It\'s a Bunny Eat Bunny World Posting Date: Apr 11 2009 11:48PM When I started this job, the guy who trained me sat me down and explained it real clear – “This is a ten hour job.” He says it with the emphasis all over the ten part so I get the idea that this is not an eleven hour job or especially not a nine hour job. It was a ten ... hour ... job.
Know how long it took me to do the job that first day? Three hours and forty-six minutes. I timed it. I showed up back at the shop with the bag empty, everything delivered, feeling pretty good. The veterans nearly kicked my ass. “Get your tail out of here before somebody sees you!”
I went and ate waffles at an all-day breakfast spot for six hours. I read the newspaper, like, five times. Every word. Came back to the shop ten hours and one minute after my shift started. The boys all slapped me on the back like a conquering hero.
That was back in 1967. You know how long it takes me to do the job now? Longer. Much longer. Last year, it took me thirteen hours.
Why the big change? It’s the G.D. parents. Spoiling their kids like nobody’s business. Back in the day, I just flew around like a damn comet, using my friction-free carbondonium nose cone and mondo-stretch candy sack and I would toss handfuls of little chocolate Easter eggs out left and right and let them land in random places around the countryside. Come morning, the kids would get up and stumble across a few off them and maybe by noon they’d have a dozen or so in a little basket and everyone was happy.
Those were the good old days.
Now, for the love of Jesus, I’m lugging three-foot-tall solid chocolate cartoon characters out to the suburbs like I’m f***king Santa Claus or something. Hello! People! Santa has a G.D. sleigh and eight or nine magic f***king reindeer, plus a whole f***king platoon of sweatshop elf labour up at the North Pole where I guaran-damn-tee you there ain’t no pesky government inspectors bringing their asses around the day before your big delivery looking to see certificates and permits and letters of lading and articles of incorporation and every other damn thing that they can think of asking for without a G.D. subpoena. Blood suckers.
Kids used to be happy with a few scattered chocolates. It was beautiful. But now, Easter has gone the way of Hallowe’en and Christmas and Grade Three Graduations … it’s all just an excuse to go bigger and better than the freakin’ Joneses.
Let me be very clear – I … am … just … a … bunny. I’m a bunny! I’m not Mother Nature or Sasquatch or Jack Frost. I’m just a bunny with a jet pack, a special nose-cone and a really large bag of chocolate. Go easy on me. Gear things down a little. Decorate a few eggs. Maybe buy the girls a nice spring dress. Get the boys a new pair of shoes. Grab a handful of scattered chocolate eggs that I scattered around, then feed everyone a ham dinner and call it a day. Done. Simple.
You know what I delivered last year? Easter f***king laptop computers. And I’m not talking about two or three. I delivered 26,432 Easter computers. What the f**k?
I said to my union rep, “Where the hell does it say in my job description that I have to deliver lap-freaking-top computers?” He told me there were two problems. First, my original job description just says, my duties include the delivery of “Easter gifts.” So if some lunatic decides he wants his child to be the only one on the block with an Easter Elephant, I have to deliver Dumbo in a pink ribbon. Second problem is that I’m about six hundred and forty-third in line to file a grievance. You know who’s number one? Jack Frost. Jack f***king Frost! He’s not even relevant below about the thirty-ninth parallel. They haven’t even heard of Jack Frost in freakin’ South Carolina. Seems Jack’s nose is all out of joint on account of global warming.
Whiner. |
