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June 8th 2006:
Money for Filth
I am watching Kevin Smith the guy who wrote the Jay and Silent Bob movies, as he tours college campuses. Campuses where he is paid to lecture audiences full of student sycophants who delight in hearing obscene and perverted references to sex, females and any standards of behavior. First thing Mr. Smith intones, after a standing ovation from 3,500 pairs of hands, is: "Well, I guess this makes up for all the girls who said I had a small dick." Isn't that an eloquent statement? Yet this same audience would blaspheme Richard Nixon who could pontificate and astound with his depth and range of knowledge of any of one hundred subjects. Writer/Director Kevin SmithAll without a single four letter word. To me, it's like: "When will it be enough. When will the language be enough? When will the words be shocking enough to 'satisfy'?" The girls in the audience, had they any self worth, would have, should have, gotten up and walked out. These girls will one day be wives and mothers ... even most of the ones now claiming to be lesbians. I cannot believe that these students in the audience (whose parents are probably paying $20,000 for each of their nine months of five years of learning) and how they virtually worship this obscene millionaire. If he were on broadcast television, you would not hear a word. The only thing he can talk about it seems, involves four letter words and promiscuous sex. I wonder if he would talk this way in front of his grandparents? In front of his kids, if he did chose to breed with someone he was actually married to? In front of the Catholic nuns whom he received his primary school education from. It would be different if the money he was receiving for these speaking engagement were something he depended on for his income, but it is not. This is the way the guy talks in public. Shameful. He explains one of his most popular character's as having absolutely no moral compass and I wonder if he realizes that his imagination is not that great? It's like something cannot be funny if it does not involve a sexual reference or foul language. Baby boomer adults, like your Mr.Wonderful, would not believe the language in this docu-movie. One clear instance of how little the kids are learning was revealed when he related an instance of how he went to Germany and he couldn't wait to ask a taxi-driver about the Holocaust ... like it was a funny thing. Anyone who has seen the pictures, read the books, viewed the documentaries of the crime of the century, where millions of Jews, Gypsies, mental retards (i.e., liberals) and (gasp) homosexuals were systematically exterminated. As the speaker is challenged by an 'out' lesbian (for which this grossly over weight, but still cute girl, received much applause) he defends her as a king might a peasant and while his words say one thing "dumb but harmless" his face shows "how dare you say that?!" What a pompous dumbass. Only in America.
Mr.Wonderful Talks Current Events @ June 5th 2006:
Playing Handyman
Did you know that individual 1.75 liter bottles of Jose Cuervo Gold tequila each have their own special taste? Just like women, although they are all women, they all taste different. And you can place that statement in whatever context you wish. Sigh, women. Such lovely creatures. Even after a truly heart-breaking divorce that severed a daily companionship that stretched over a quarter of a century, I continue to love, and virtually worship ... women. If I had the looks of George Clooney I'm sure my penis would resemble the exploded end of a stick of dynamite. In any case, since Mainio and I moved into our tony Town of Paradise Valley (zip code 85253) apartment, my bedroom has been hotter than the Hell most of my promiscuous readers are headed for. <grin> So, this 110F degree afternoon, shrouded in my typical intelligence dulling drunken stupor, in the midst of watching the DVD of "Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang", I hit the PAUSESTEP button on the controls and decided, that in a last ditch do or die effort, to maximize the refrigerated airflow into my sleeping place. I would do this by entirely removing the register at the end of the ducting that feeds my cozy bedroom. aluminum coated block found in ducting. Click to enlarge! Struggling onto the seating area of one of my rolling Herman Miller chairs, Leatherman multi-tool in hand, I backed out the two phillips-head screws that fastened the register to the air conditioning sheet metal Glued to the wall by paint, I then used the plier function of the Leatherman, and grabbing a single gill I pulled the grill away from the wall. And there, unseen for two years, I discovered a one inch thick, aluminum coated fiberglass block spanning the entire duct, with a small, small, three-quarter inch hole punched in it to allow the minimum amount of 12¢ per kilowatt hour cooled air through. (On the reverse of it, Leonardo daVinci had painted a miniature of The Last Supper, but that is a whole different story.) Dammit. I have been sleeping in sweltering heat for twenty-one months because of this unseen interloper.
Mr.Wonderful Talks Current Events @ June 3rd 2006:
Drinking after Work
On Book TV I'm watching investigative author, John Stossel, expose how absolutely horrible many of our public schools are. His book makes me want to be a teacher. Because that is what I am. I am, according to a twenty year veteran of hiring at Honeywell: a teacher. I am a teacher. Myths, Lies and Downright Stupidity: Get Out the Shovel - Why Everything You Know Is Wrong.I am a person who delights in telling people they have "done good" while simultaneously ignoring all the stuff they did not do quite as well. And you know why that is? Because I do not have a mandate, an ego-swelling calling to prove that I am better than everyone else. (It is funny, that while John Stossel talks about Wal*Mart, that I have actually met the majority owners [the Walton brothers] and while I'm fairly certain that they did not know that I realized who they were, regardless, unlike many of my daily guests, this pair of billionaires treated me like a human being. These people, these Wal*Mart people, who were each worth twenty billion dollars - more than I'd gross over 2,000 years - treated me like a person worth their respect.) I am so drunk. I cannot even poke the correct keys on my laptop . . . Now it is Sunday, and above ellipsis is where I left off Saturday afternoon. Too drunk to type, hardly able to walk. 'Glen Campbell' drunk. Released from the bounds of Earth, I was flying. Soaring so high that I left behind the memory of placing inside my pre-heated oven, in an effort to make it crispy, just like my mom's, my loaf of store-bought meat loaf. It was so hot and dry outside, I could have laid it out there on my plaster covered wall, but a dog, either the four leggéd, or two leggéd variety, would've gobbled it down. Oh, I remembered  to turn the oven off, I just forgot about why  I had turned it on. Regardless, when I awoke, hangover free, ten hours later, I discovered that Mr.Wonderful III had done a disappearing act on my twice-baked carne concoction. And then I found myself wondering if maybe the reason mom's meat loaf always sported a black shell resembling chocolate dipped cone was because she too passed out drunk during the final blazing phase of its creation?
Mr.Wonderful Talks Current Events @ May 28th 2006:
Mr.Wonderful Accuses Jesus
Having witnessed a crime last year, I was finally summoned to the downtown and thirty-six mile distant county prosecutor's office this month to go over what I had seen. After reading my handwritten report I had given to the sheriff deputy months ago, with twin tape recorders listening in, two attorneys interviewed me. The pair of young barristers seemed to know each other well and both were confident and upbeat. Odd, because one was for the defense and the other for the prosecution. At first I was scheduled to testify Monday, but, after arranging for another guard to fill in for me, was called at home Saturday evening (which was, I thought, very considerate) and was told I would be testifying Tuesday afternoon instead. In order that my replacement officer not take a hit to the meager income his family enjoyed, since he holds two jobs and had to tell the other job he wouldn't be in both Monday and Tuesday, I let him man two of my shifts and kissed $300 in overtime pay goodbye. But, it is my civic duty to testify against the 'bad-guys' right? Maricopa County Courthouse. Click and enlarge With the temperature in the low 100s, it was a cruelly warm day in the downtown asphalt and concrete covered capital city. I parked the mighty Hyundai in an uncovered parking lot that required a mere three dollars to be fed into a slot with the same number as my parking space. Amidst the rubble that would someday be the totally unnecessary and breathtakingly expensive Phoenix Light Rail transit system, I trudged the two blocks to the courthouse. Once there, I had to run the typical security gauntlet. In order to prove I was not hiding a derringer behind the buckle of my dress pants belt, I had to flip it over. To be certain I was not sneaking in a black Ninja knife strapped to either of my calves, I had to pull up each pant leg. I am so distressed that my beloved Phoenix has become so dangerous, and that the number one reason is the overwhelming presence of Illegal Aliens from Mexico and nations south. I brought a huge hard-back book to read while waiting. Which I did for an hour and one-half. In the meantime, taped to the courtroom door, I read the 'accused' name: "Jesus", and birth date: "12/25/1986". I was testifying against Jesus born on Christmas day! After seeing what I assumed to be my fellow witnesses being sucked into the courtroom and then spit out, angry, and disheveled, along with the deputy county attorney attached to them like as if he were a balloon on the end of a string held by a running child, it was my turn. Sworn in, seated and told to adjust the microphone, I could see the screen of the court reporter's DellTM laptop below me. Uncharacteristically nervous, your Mr.Wonderful was then treated as if he  were the criminal who had invented the claims against the innocent and headset-wearing Jesus seated at the defense table. When asked by the deputy county attorney, who during my interview was so poised and confident, now seeming like a nervous teen at his first spelling bee, how I happened to be at the scene of the crime, each of my three attempted answers was met by the defense attorney's squawk of "Hearsay!" paired with the Judge's "Sustained!" My testimony finally over, my subpoena service discharged after giving up sixteen hours of overtime pay, I left the courtroom feeling dirty, disgusted and depressed vowing never again to 'witness' any crimes.
Mr.Wonderful Talks Current Events @
January 28th 2006:
Trends Asks Mr. Wonderful 10 Questions
Like anyone who lives in the actual Town of Paradise Valley, I find in my mailbox a free "Trends" magazine, promoting the lives of the (unknown to us hoi polloi) rich and famous. Well, they finally got around to asking your Mr.Wonderful their 10 Questions. At least, I think they did.



1.Who is your favorite writer?
Boy, that's a tough one, Bill. As you probably know, as do my billions of readers across the three inhabited planets of this solar system, I read about thirty books each year. In addition I also listen to approximately three audio books each month. I'd say, to get my heart racing, Michael Chrichton cannot be beat. For great Sci-Fi by a living author Alastair Reynolds is excellent. And for a timeless novel I do not think, my fellow drunk, God rest his soul, Ernest Hemmingway can be beat.
2. What's your favorite movie?
Bill, as you know, my celebrity status prevents me from going to a commercial movie-house, so any movie that depends on the majesterium of a five hundred person, house-sized seating area has little affect on Mr.Wonderful. "Until the End of the World" (Bis ans Ende der Welt) directed by the incomparable Wim Winders, starring the perky-breasted Solveig Dommartin, featuring original music by Bono, T-Bone Burnett, Neneh Cherry and many other fine musicians, is my number one movie choice. And might I add here, Bill, that I am extremely disappointed that this movie has not been re-processed to appear on DVD as I traded my VHS copy to some Illegal Aliens so that they would mow the lawn of the house I lost in my 2004 divorce.
3.Where do you see yourself in 10 years?
Well, Bill, it is okay I call you Bill. Correct? I see myself having moved to Hollywood, well, actually Burbank, and having been discovered as both an actor and a author, and living in a three million dollar, fourteen hundred square foot, one bedroom home in the Hollywood Hills. That or I'll be in a community funded re-hab center here in nearby Phoenix, Arizona.
4.What's your worst habit?
Since you represent a 'family magazine' I guess the word "masturbation" is not what you're looking for. So let's just say that my habit of drinking myself blind on cheap tequila is probably my worst habit. I call it a habit, while Stephen King terms it an addiction. But what does that beedy-eyed-ex-coke-head know anyway? That answer won't see print either? Okay, let's see, my worst habit is getting in an elevator, quietly releasing a pizza, chili, broccoli and sauerkraut scented fart and then saying to my fellow close-quartered passengers that my English bulldog has a gas problem and as I point down to him, I realize that I had him put to sleep by Robert Young before I moved into my Town of Paradise Valley apartment. That won't make it either? You know, Bill, that it is this kind of censorship, that kept me from ever being allowed as a graduate guest speaker at any of the Phoenix Dale Carnegie centers? Okay, fine. My worst habit? Picking my nose and eating my buggers. Shit! That won't make it either? Okay, okay, fine. I don't read my Bible every day.
5.What three people would you invite to your dinner party?
Understand William, that I am a divorced single man, so I would either have to use a home vacated during the summer, by my wealthier friends (of whom I have ... one) or a fine dinning establishment with someone other than me picking up the tab. (Does Trend Magazine do that sort of thing?) Unlike many Christians, I would not have my dinner party with Jesus the Christ, because I would spend the entire evening kissing his feet, weeping, and wondering why he died a horrible death for a skunk turd like me. My three guests would be: George Washington, author, Ray Bradbury and actor, Johnny Depp. And dammit, since Johnny lives in France, I guess we'd have to go there to eat.
6.What is your idea of perfect happiness?
I am going to assume you mean "perfect happiness" while I am alive. Wow, that is a tough one. Being I was raised by a Nazi father who helped build the 'bombs' that transformed 110,000 Japanese into fried wontons and shadows and a mother who was 100% Finnish (the word 'Finnish' in English, translates to 'alcoholic') and the sweetest and most intelligent and caring mother (when sober) anyone could hope for, I am genetically anti-disposed to thinking about being happy, much less the impossible 'perfect happiness'. Let's see, in keeping with that theme, although I am a 35 plus handicap golfer (while my two older brother's between them, have 7 Holes-in-One) I'd like to die on the golf course like Bing Crosby did.
7.What do you think was the greatest decade for writing?
Since I ran away from my horrible, horrible home life into the pages of mostly borrowed-from-the-refrigerated-McDowell-Road-and-Central-Avenue-Public-Library Science Fiction novels during the 1960s, I'd say that was it.
8.What was your first job?
My first job? That was delivering, between 3:30 and 5:30 AM, the Arizona Republic newspaper beginning in the winter of 1962.
9.What words best describe you?
You desire an upbeat and optimistic answer, right? How about 'perceptive' and 'caring'?
10.Describe your latest works?
Zilch. Nada. Nothing. Can you hand me that jug of Cuervo Gold? Thanks. Mr.Wonderful Talks Current Events @

December 22nd 2005:
The Company Christmas Party
After attempting to fire me last month, my multiple superior's will, without question, wonder why I didn't pop in at the yearly company parking lot holiday party. Especially after the director, virtually weeping during our mandatory December meeting, implored us to attend. I thought it was odd that he had to explain to us that our owner, son of the founder (go figure) is, ". . . not arrogant. He is proud. He is proud and he's having fun." Later on, El Presedenté hisself, went on to humbly inform us how he has purchased six (or was it nine?) brand new Lexi (plural of Lexus) in the past few years. Of course this was part of a story demonstrating superior customer service. I think. Not to be confused with another story, heard in earlier years during a previous single annual mandatory meeting, about how he was, ". . . golfing with New York bankers".Raman-type noodles. Good and good for you! Oh yes, he is without a doubt proud. And having fun. However, I do not believe too many of those of us in charge of the unbelievably stressful day-to-day operations are having fun. Or proud. I know many officers, for fear someone will mistake them for a security officer, who rip off their uniform before even getting into their eight year old, dirty white Saturn's to drive home. I believe some of them have altered their blouses and had them fitted with velcro so that they can leap out of them even quicker, not unlike a stripper at one of Jenna Jameson's titty bars. Of course, I myself proudly wear my uniform, gold badge, beeper, Leatherman tool, and belly-hanging-over belt, everywhere, as it really impresses the ladies. You don't even want to hear how many times I've been at the grocery store bent down looking at all the sumptuous choices of 10¢ per package Raman noodles, when I hear, "Do you work here?" It is so odd, and probably points to the fact of how screwed up I am, that I actually felt guilty for not attending the party. Let's see, they threaten to fire me about every eighteen months, my work load has increased by almost 50% since February, and I've been told to quit asking for a raise. But yet they go to the expense to host a Christmas, oops, holiday party for 300 employees and their families, 45% of whom won't be with the company by next Christmas (myself included, dear God I pray.) And besides, you become like the people you hang around with and . . . no thanks. Merry Christmas 2005!
Mr.Wonderful Talks Current Events @ December 1st 2005:
Message from God ?
Out of the blue, my manager phoned and requested I visit the corporate office on such and such a day. Since the majority of his workday is spent putting out the fires ignited by my fellow co-workers who are certified security officers and dolts, and because he expends much of the time left trying to remember where he last left his Barbie-sized stapler, this would be a rare meeting. Meeting 2:30PM note stuck to dashboard Being a good 'do-bee' (the opposite of a 'don't-bee') I questioned him not. In the meanwhile, like the Don Quixote-type dreamer I sometimes become, I made a list of all the good things that could happen to me at the meeting. One was, that instead of the laughable quarter an hour raise, sometimes awarded to only outstanding officers, I would be getting a whole dollar. Another possibility was that maybe I would be awarded some kind of certificate (that due to endemic company-wide personnel problems) for having worked every paid holiday when asked and ending up working 1,000 of overtime every year for four years with not a single O.T. hour being at my own community? Maybe I was going to be thanked for pocketing only the salary and a scant two of the physical thirty-five days of paid vacation due me over the past four years? Or possibly I was going to rewarded for being fluent in the four computer systems used by my employer and also being familiar enough to step in at any of twelve different gate houses? Or maybe I was going to be thanked in some unenvisioned manner for training so many new guards? Or maybe I was slated to receive an award for being the only patrol guard in this century who actually caught a burglar inside a client's house. Yes, being it was near Christmas, visions of sugar plum fairies were floating through my optimistically vacant head. What awaited me instead, was a threat of being put on 90-day probationary status! Oh yes, from my home PC (since we do not have a company PC or internet connection at my gatehouse) I had commented to our property manager, in what I thought was a man-to-man-email, about a new policy that not only made no sense, visibly degraded the excellent and prompt service my guests and resident's were accustomed to receiving, but actually endangered my physical well-being. Sadly for me, the P.M. forwarded my email to all the members of the board of the H.O.A. Unsmiling, my manager's manager told that many of the men thought my email funny, and that most of the women did not find humor in it. And since the email tongue-in-cheek mentioned my anemic salary, he himself was not amused. Some mention was made of my far beyond the call of duty efforts, none of catching the burglar or giving up my vacation days or the countless burglar alarm leads sent in, however I was told in no uncertain terms, that I would never get a raise and to quit asking. Unsaid went the expectation that I was to keep providing (without additional charge) the exclusive services (which would require two pages of single-spaced-type to codify), donations of personal time and on and on. The rest of the time was taken up with discussing my latest employee (unilaterally hired by my manager) who possesses such poor mental capacity that all I can think of is the brain-scrambled frog we opened up in high school biology class. That, not being sad enough, he could be the reincarnation of Baron von Munchausen. But yet, and this is very, very, sad, the same company that told me I would not be getting a raise, ever, cannot seem to hire a replacement for the Baron. With all this, I swear to God, my manager will honestly wonder why my happy face won't be seen bobbing around in the parking lot crowd at the company's 'Holiday Party' later this month. And what do you imagine my answer will be to my manager's, manager if he again begs me this year to work both the eves and the days of Christmas and New Year's? Sadly, my answer rests more on how badly I will need the income, rather than any display of personal integrity. Now, even God is telling me I gotta get out of here.
Mr.Wonderful Talks Current Events @ November 11th 2005:
The Turkey & The Green Hornet
It's closing in on Thanksgiving Dinner again. This will be my fourth as a security officer. And, for at least a third of this day dated November 24th, 2005, I will be not be inside a home, but instead, a house. A house bordered by a pair of motorized, six hundred pound gates and amused by a white, black and yellow striped, hollow, plastic crossarm and its creaking while it goes up and down, up and down, up and down. My second Thanksgiving, circa 2002, after toiling through a barely tolerable single shift, found me declining attendance at a feast of a wealthy friend of the teen Mr.Wonderful III's. I spent it instead, weeping and alone and wishing my wife had not decided on divorce. Preceded by fifty years of not working on Turkey-Day, this one will constitute my fourth 'working' Thanksgiving Holiday. Thanksgiving weekend used to be a time that it was given I would not be working for four days straight. Gawdamn! what am I still doing here? My Microsoft millionaire friend and resident (who tells me he has no friend's in this sometimes insanely acrimonious gated community) claims that I remain here because the 'positives' outweigh the 'negatives'. While in my own tally, considering that there indeed may be positives, they weigh about as much as a cough during a hurricane. I am cocooned by people who have untold wealth and leisure, but yet are unhappy. I am bereft of any wisp of a financial cocoon and am profoundly unhappy. My MS friend claims, since he spent many hours with me at the gatehouse (prior to his current trek to earn his next 100 millions by founding an enterprise conducting futures trading in Saguaro blossoms) imagines I remain at the gate house for the free on-the-clock time the job offers. Two of the three bobcats
walking across my drive I told him any free time these days is because I arrive at work an hour early, so that could not be 'it'. Plus, the only reason I need free time while at work, is that I have no personal free time because I am always at work (64 hours in seven days last week) or driving to, or from, or back to, work. Wednesday, I told a maid that maybe I was here because ten feet away is the Arizona desert me and my Crazy Brother Pat explored every summer vacation from school. Three steps away are the cacti, the red cardinals, the lizards, the snakes, the rabbits and somethings we never saw: tarantulas, poisonous rattle and coral snakes, hawks, eagles, coyotes, feather-duster-tailed red foxes and bobcats, wolves and mountain lions. And thirty steps away begin the homes of my residents, who while not equipped with sharpened beaks or needle-tipped talons or three-inch pointed canines or poisonous fangs, are still brimming with venom. A few wish to empty the contents of that swollen and misshapen gland, where their heart used to be, on the lowest of the low, the security officers at their gatehouse. Me, my crew and my company must constantly fend off venomous strikes by a small percentage of our resident's whose lives are so empty they watch us as closely as they would the heart monitor of their newborn granddaughter. I hadn't intended to write about this recently revealed incident, but because it so clearly and concisely exposes the pressures we are put under while receiving net paychecks many Illegal-Aliens would scoff at, I begin. One lady, Mrs. Noseybutt, formerly on the homeowner's security committee, always seemed to be reporting slip-ups by us and any violations of the C.C.&R.'s by residents (who have a life to live and money to spend on it), far from her own address on the 'poor side of town', but yet, still within our community. Anthem Country Club houses This same biddy has not one service person listed on her permanent admit list. Not a poolman, landscaper, maid service, window washer, pest control company or the more esoteric providers: nanny, handyman, property manager, inside plant-care person, tutor, interior designer, limo-service, personal assistant, piano tuner or piano polisher, grace her blank Rolodex® card. Indicating to this seasoned security officer, that she belongs out at Anthem Country Club, not in north, North Scottsdale. (Nor does a single member of her family or any friends appear on her list.) Turns out that the other night, our midnight to morning private patrol truck found himself being tailed down our streets, by a car whose headlights were off, even though at the time, our byways were darker than the interior of Hillary Clinton's soul. He eventually negotiated down a cul-de-sac where, risking personally paying the $1,000 vehicle insurance deductible, blocked-in the mysterious vehicle, while he concurrently Nextel-ed a nearby Scottsdale police cruiser. When the officer arrived and questioned the wanna-be Green Hornet character in the black Audi Touring Sedan, it was discovered it was none other than our own Mrs. Noseybutt. She was informed, by 'Scottsdale's Finest', that should she ever be found to be trailing the private security patrol truck, she would be charged with stalking, handcuffed, arrested and sentenced to at least 364 days in Sheriff Joe's Tent-City. And, sadly, as I understand it, she was also removed from the security committee of the H.O.A. Maybe that's why I'm here: for the unbelievable stories I witness.
Mr.Wonderful Talks Current Events @
September 20th 2005:
Secure Insects Provide Jobs
For the PD, I'm keeping an eye on a resident who, earlier in my experience, had already proven himself to be a crook. For a spouse, in the middle of a pending divorce, I'm keeping an eye out for the 'interloper.' And, for our federal friends in Maryland, I'm spying on a known felon, possible terrorist, and recently a pilot of a brand new black Bentley automobile. Who says security guardin' isn't exciting? All this and I get paid too? I risk my life for wages that an average employee at a sandwich shop would run from to go to work in the butter-scented atmosphere of a Harkins' movie house? Management wonders why annual turnover is 65% and while there were once seventy applications per week, there are now only ten? Only ten people willing to pay eighty dollars, be investigated by the FBI, the DPS, Equifax, be drug-tested and endure a stone-faced polygrapher asking whether you've ever had sex with a vampire-bat-bitten, rabid, Mexican donkey or rigged a World Series game? The average security officer would lose a battle of wits with an earthworm and moves slower than a three decade old, moss adorned, South American sloth. Wasps in yellow jackets Although, in my particular situation, we are blessed with a handful of intelligent and diligent (almost always female) officers. The newest O.I.C. (Officer in Charge), after a period of one month to one year, while conscientiously and persistently delivering far more than the job requires, soon discovers that commensurate wage increase requests are met only with the generous offer of Diamondback baseball seats so cheap that they require the rental of medical oxygen; or a pair of Harkins movie tickets, and/or the offer of overtime work and the chance to be abused by a whole new gang of vendors, guests and residents, usually after already being severely pummeled during the previous eight hour shift. It is then that the 'newbie' discerns the corporate-favored attributes of any security company is the ability of its guards to not miss a single day of work, not turn down any overtime and, while burning as few calories as possible (to maintain the body fat of the typical morbidly obese guard), not to get caught asleep. Not to get caught asleep. When I wrote this I was doing the overtime mentioned earlier and substituting on a third shift (that is typically inhabited by officers who actually rode up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt) at another guard house. Door open, 74F degree outside desert air mixing with my 68F degree artificially cooled air, I could hear a pack of coyotes yapping, screeching and howling as visions of the movie "An American Werewolf in London" played back in my head. However, all is not lost on the job front. Understand I was recently chatting with Josh, who works for a large pest control company, and like your Mr.Wonderful, he too is under paid and under appreciated amidst massive personnel turnover and lackadaisical coworker performance. So, thinking outside of the box I have hit on what I believe to be a huge money-maker. Since Josh knows his bug-killing and I know my security guardin' I figure we will set up a company to protect bugs. Protect bugs from what would be certain death: the pest control man. Now why hasn't anyone thought of that before?
Mr.Wonderful Talks Current Events @
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