April 28, 2004
A request for a raise in salary
I, the penis, hereby request a raise in salary for the following
I do physical labor.
I work at great depths.
I plunge head first into everything I do.
I do not get weekends off or public holidays.
I work in a damp environment.
I don't get paid overtime.
I work in a dark workplace that has poor ventilation.
I work in high temperatures.
My work exposes me to contagious disease.
Thank you for considering my request.
- - - -
Dear Mr. Penis,
After assessing your request, and considering the arguments you have raised, the administration rejects your request for the following
You do not work 8 hours straight.
You fall asleep on the job after brief work periods.
You do not always follow the orders of the management team.
You do not stay in your allocated position, and often visit other areas.
You do not take initiative - you need to be pressured and stimulated in order to start working.
You leave the workplace rather messy at the end of your shift.
You don't always observe necessary safety rules, such as wearing the correct protective gear.
It's doubtful you'll work until the normal retirement age of 65.
You're unable to work double shifts.
You sometimes leave your allocated position before you have completed the day's work.
And if that were not all, you have been seen constantly entering and leaving the workplace carrying 2 suspicious looking bags.
And now one directly related to my favorite hobby:
Ale's Well That Ends Well
Copyright 2001 W. Bruce Cameron http://www.wbrucecameron.com/
Believing that maybe it would help my relationship with my 12-year-old
son if we had a common hobby, I bought him a beer-making kit. My wife
seemed to think that the situation called for female incredulity.
"You got your son a BEER-making kit?" she demands. "Are you out of
"Hey, you were the one who said we needed to do more things together,"
I point out.
"So you picked drinking beer," she scoffs.
"Of course not. He'll only make it. I'LL be the one drinking it," I
respond. I hold my hands up in a representation of harmonious
balance in the universe.
She fixes me with a scorching look that I recognize from early in our
marriage, when I tried to train her to bring me snacks during football
games, but I will not be deterred. "It's very scientific," I declare.
My son is even less enthusiastic. "It smells bad; you DRINK this
stuff?" he sniffs, stirring the batch of malt and hops.
"Yes, but not until there is alcohol in it," I explain with fatherly
"Alcohol is a by-product of fermentation," he quotes, looking through
the little handbook. He squints at me. "You'll be drinking yeast pee."
"Real men don't read directions," I advise.
When we're finished, my home brew sits tightly sealed in a plastic
keg. "This is the pressure valve," I lecture my son. "The yeast builds
up carbon dioxide, which escapes out the valve; otherwise there would
be an explosion that would level houses in a four-block area."
I'm hoping this will excite him, but he's been reading the manual
again. "Carbon dioxide is another waste by-product," he intones.
"In other words, yeast farts."
For three days, the mixture sits implacably inside the plastic vessel,
as exciting as a bucket of paint. Concerned, I sneak in a little more
sugar to get the yeast motivated. "You're not supposed to do that,
Dad," my son warns.
The next day, the yeast have suddenly sprung to life, bubbling and
hissing as they busily produce waste products. Impatient, I pull on
the little tap, pouring an ounce of muddy liquid into a glass and taking
"Does it taste like beer?" my son asks anxiously.
"Maybe beer that's already been through somebody," I respond ruefully.
That night my son prods me awake. "Dad, the beer is calling you."
My wife gives me a frown, as this is exactly the excuse I give her
whenever I meet my buddies at the sports bar. "What do you mean?"
I ask him.
He shrugs. "You sort of need to come hear it. It's making noises."
My wife puts her hand on my arm. "Could it be dangerous?" she inquires
I laugh. "Of course not. How could beer be dangerous? Beer Is Our
I follow my son out into the kitchen and, at his urging, put my ear to
the plastic keg. He's right: There is some sort of creaking noise
emitting from the seams around the edge of the thing. Through the
thick, dark plastic, I can see that the yeast has rioted, filling the vessel
"Maybe you put in too much sugar," he worries. "Should I start calling
people in a four-block area?"
"Nonsense. More sugar just means a higher alcohol content. How could
that be bad?" But his question has drawn my attention to the filter,
which should be allowing yeast farts to escape. Instead, it looks
locked in place, a little button that should be bobbing up and down.
I reach out a finger.
"Dad " my son starts to say.
The moment I pry at the valve it fires straight up like a bullet, the
little button gone in an instant. The entire contents of the keg follow half
a second later, a thick spray of foam coating everything in the
kitchen. I don't even have time to blink and it is over, except that a
steady rain of gooey sludge comes down on my head from the ceiling.
Tilting my jaw, I'm able to catch a few drops in my mouth. My wife
bursts into the kitchen and stares at me, shocked.
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