I consolidated the stories about Fred.


...long live, Hill Blocks View. I miss writing. But the thought of one more round of "welcome backs", or obsessing over stats, or thinking of the clever response to a comment, or the obligation to read everyone else's blog... not so much. So I'll try and write. No pressure. If you feel the need to respond, you can email me. I like email. flipaul@yahoo.com

Monday, January 23, 2012

El Jefe Of Banana Republic, And Flaming Sansabelt Slacks.

In my job I get paid a pretty decent wage, and I get to work with my hands, and my customers are all pretty nice. So you know, of course, I totally hate my job! I have to work. Hard. All day. (Except for the bits when I'm taking a break, or lunch, or second lunch, or I'm just not feeling like working, or I don't show up because I'm using a "sick" day, or it's beer thirty, or it's early beer brunch o'clock, or the sun is too bright, or... whatever.) And my boss totally expects me to do good work, and like show up, everyday! He even expects me to be some sort of accountant. For instance, if the customer pays me $500, he gets all mad if I lose a bill or two. (If I wanted to be an accountant I would've gone to that accountant place. You know that one with the doors and the chairs and all that math stuff? Where all the smart people went. That high school place. Jeez, get a clue buddy. What am I, some kind of rocket surgeon?)
   But, the worst part of my job, is the cold. I HATE being cold! (Except for the times I caught on fire; those times, it would've been OK.) Especially in the winter, I seems so much colder in the winter. It's just so, you know, not hot. Maybe we should vote to move the winter to the summer like the Australians did. That would be great, and besides, people are always complaining it's too hot in the summer time.
   So the other day it was particularly frigid, and I couldn't bear to get of my vehicle to work, so I walked down the block to a nearby diner/bar/pawn shop and had some "breakfast". While I was drinking my breakfast I perused the want ads, because you never know when somebody is looking for a hard charging, go-getter like me. And right under the ad that said, "F U CN RD THS, U 2 CN B A CRT RPRTR", was the ad that changed my life. "Do you hating your life? Are you tired and sick of being working for, how do you say, the Man? Do you like to move where it is hot and sunny instead of during snow? Do you like being the head of a Banana Republic? Maybe you can be, apply yourself now, experience not requested." So I called the number listed with the ad, because hey, I could totally be a manager. Especially if they don't require experience. I hope I don't have to dress up. I hate being all prissy.
   But it turns out that the number wasn't for a Banana Republic, clothing store, somewhere in Phoenix or Miami or something. It was for a small Central American country called Pantalones Del Fuego. Pantalones was a originally a particularly infertile region of Honduras known mainly for it's polyester sansabelt factories. Early in the 1980's, Pantalones was feeling a tad neglected, and seceded from Honduras. Quite frankly, Honduras had always been rather embarrassed of Pantalones, and actually encouraged them to leave and to form their own country. After the polyester fad of the disco era faded away, Pantalones transitioned to a money laundering and meth lab, based economy.
   Pantalones Del Fuego had recently employed the service of a headhunter to secure a new leader, someone not mired in the rampant corruption, corruptly running rampantly through the national political scene. Unfortunately for them the local headhunter was good at curing impotence and not so much at finding people to fill leadership positions. The poorly worded want ad I answered was his best idea, which worked out OK for me. Apparently, I was the first one to answer the ad, so I got the job. Goodbye winter. Hello paradise.
   So now I am the El Jefe of Pantalones Del Fuego. My assistants are a little jumpy, possibly from the cloud of meth that hangs over the entire country. But at least they are surly and ill mannered. My aides refer to me as El Scapegoat Grande, or as El Impostor, or as El Target Numero Uno, obviously terms of endearment for their new beloved, and well respected leader. Everything I wear is emblazoned with the presidential logo, and the presidential logo is awesome! It totally looks like a red bullseye. Pretty stylin', if you ask me. The only problem with the job so far, is that I keep getting these prank calls. Some guy with a raspy voice named Medellin or something, keeps calling up my mansion in the middle of the night and demanding un millones dolares that was borrowed from him or that he is going to asesinato el jefe. My aides tell me not to worry about it, that asesinato just means throw a big surprise party. Then they kind of scurry off in a serpentine fashion. I can't wait! I totally love surprises!