Floyd Barber, Motivational Warehouse Supervisor
I am tired of seeing your ugly face in my office. If I really wanted to look at your stinking mug, I would have gotten a picture from your mother and framed it on my god-damned wall. This isn’t high school, and my office door doesn’t say Vice-Principal, but yet you still find a way to get yourself sent to detention.
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 ofCool 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.
No related posts.
