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| CANADA'S SOURCE FOR HUMOUR, PARODY, AND SATIRE
I would like to make one thing clear before I rip into you like a canoe-building Indian on a birch tree. My warehouse is not a bloody speedway. My forklifts, which cost at least two more zeros than you'll ever see on a paycheque, and are more dear to me than my own children, are not for your recreational pleasure. You might think I'm thicker than frozen dogshit, but even I can tell that something is going on when I can hear my workers talking over the loudspeaker announcing that there's a frickin' monster truck show in Aisle 15. Who taught you how to drive a forklift anyhow? I've seen old women in Sunday bonnets who can drive better than you. Perhaps we need to teach you the proper use of a forklift. If I have to, I'll make you move boxes from here to there to here, like a bad revision of Cool Hand Luke. After that you'll wish you could dig a hole you could crawl into. I am a patient man, and I remember once when I used the forklift to hoist Morton Liettner up off the ground by his suspenders. But there is a fine line between harmless horseplay and the spectacular shit supershows you boys are trying to perform on company time. If I catch
any of you using my equipment for racing, jumping, or tractor-pulling,
I'll demonstrate to you how fast I can lift your ass right out of a job.
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