Floyd Barber, Motivational Warehouse Supervisor
What in the name of Sam Jerky are you trying to get away with, son? Do you think I am a feeble old schmoe who can’t fire enough neurons to count the kernels in my own crap?
You must believe me to be some washed-up fool who can’t tell his ass from a slide rule. Well, I’m smart enough to know when my lunchroom is being ransacked. And I’m a dishload of soggy shit smarter than the lot of you.
You must think that the “Honour” in Honour-System Snack Tray is something the Klingons made up. It sure as Hell’s Handballs isn’t a word in your dictionary. I’m thinking that this snack tray is your personal meal cart and the cash tray is some kind of lending system for you when you can’t make your paycheque last the weekend.
I don’t remember the part where I set up this snack service as a handout for my layabout warehouse staff. You’re not going to get away with this. I’m sure as a sheep knee-deep in his own woolly shit that you’re in a fix.
I’m not surprised. You’re just the type of dumbass who thinks he could get away with the crowned-fricking-jewels. But you know boy, you’re not that smart. I don’t think you know shit from Sugar Crisp.
You better enjoy that last free Mars Bar, because I’ll be serving you a whole mouthful of peanut-filled snacks come next week. If I ever catch you with your fingers in the kitty again, (and I don’t mean your own personal pet perversions), the only Snickers you’ll get will be from me, driving by the welfare office and seeing you standing in line.
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