[/caption]I’ve heard about these Occupy Wall Street protesters mulling around the streets of New York. I say I’ve heard because I have not personally seen them since I commute via helicopter.
Supposedly they are upset because they can’t find a job. I guess they’re not looking very hard. I find it hard to have sympathy for these unemployed people when I’ve always found it easy to find a job.
What’s my secret, you ask? I just ask my father. It’s very simple. In fact, you only need six words to get a job.
“Dad, can I have a job?”
If you add a seventh word, “please,” he will even let you pick what type of job you want to do. One time I forgot to say “please,” and he made me owner of the Cleveland Indians.
Man, what a lousy job.
I’m not sure what these Wall Street protesters plan to accomplish. I mean, would they even know what to do with a million dollars or a Swiss bank account? You should leave these things to the experts, the one percent.
There’s another thing that baffles me about this thing. “We are the 99%.” Why the hell would I want to be the same as everyone else? That would be like wanting to go to the same nightclub as everyone else, one without a velvet rope. Where’s the fun in that?
As I was firing my last secretary for having the gall to turn 19, she complained that I didn’t provide her with health insurance. I told her to ask her father, but she got all upset. Maybe she didn’t have a father. Based on some of the things she was willing to do for a quarter-an-hour raise, I think she had some daddy issues.
I guess I see why she was upset. Giving three of the best years of your body, I mean life, to a corporation should earn you more than a slap on the ass and a coupon for a free Big Gulp.
So I gave her two coupons.
What can I say? She had a great ass.
You can follow Dick Cashman at http://twitter.com/#!/hotwifefastcar
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