Garbage Day!

In my nimble youth, long before I became awash with 7/11 slushees and the plight of the upper deck class, I served as, and this is an official title, Assistant Vice President to the Public Relations Stoolieboy of the Great Canadian Postal Service. In other words, I was a bitch's bitch. Not many people know this.

What the job entailed was basically me going around yelling inappropriate obscenities to old ladies and children, then seeing if they'd stick with the Canadian Postal Service. It was a test of our broad sweeping nationwide range, and an exercise in bureaucratic dipshittery. They just wanted me to get killed before I was established enough to be on payroll, so said Glacier Spooks, the grizzled 47 year veteran of The Force, who had survived both the second and third Unspoken Parcel Wars against a private branch in Seattle, Wa.

But anyways, a few inquiries, if we'll call them that, were mine, and a few were pre-written by, rumor has it, Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau's wife, who uttered absolute obscenities at the height of her orgasms. I can't really confirm this, though. I quit too soon.

Here are some of the greatest hits:

Old Lady Murtha: Hello, dear, I see you come from the post office, don'cha? Well, you got anything interesting today, eh?
Me: Alright, listen, we can only do this my way, or we both perish in flames. Contrary to what you believe, I'm actually an ever-loving creeper shark with an insatiable thirst for well traveled pussy. In most scientific circles, they call me an unhinged lunatic with a rampant, NBA sized libidous maximus. Anyways, the Russians, those swine tasting rat bastards are coming, with all their red buffoonery in tow. It is up to us to preserve the Canadian way of life. To do so, you will get down on your knees and echo St. Vincent's prayer twice. If it doesn't exist, come up with it now; you have 8 seconds. Once done, my pants will be in 1955 with Marty McFly. You will then proceed to treat my cock like it's a 1992 Toyota Tercel and you're way short on gas. When done, notify me so I can rip off these useless threads you cover up with and sing us a tribal lust song while we dance around the bonfires. Naked and dripping in incestually orgasmic moonfluid. Call me son.

Streetpunk Named Desire: Hey fagvirgin mailbitch, I ordered a laptop and six issues of Hustler Magazine. Where are they, you asshat?
Me: I am not your mother. I am not your father. I am not your brother. I am not your neighbor. I am not your G.I. Joe. I am not Spider-Man. I won't fly. I won't breathe fire. And I won't risk my life. Especially not for you, you 13 year old bag of chunky, dripping pastryshit. To be honest, I don't care very much about your laptop or your fap mags. I don't even care about you, and neither does your family. I am not the mailman, I just dress like him for strategic sheep purposes. What I am is an all-powerful 17th century clairvoyant, and I foresee a future of unhinged loneliness in you, you star-raping little cockturtle. By your 19th birthday, you will have become a patient of something South American, untreatable and relatively painful. No one will cry by your side as your health rapidly declines, your kidneys ooze from your pores, and you become a statistic, a casualty of nothing, a forgotten past. Hairless as a devoured mouse and skinny enough to pull a Houdini in a mugshot, you will be buried at the bottom of a canal, with weights tied to your wrists and a shirt that reads I Heart New York being all that decorates your atrocious, pathetically limp corpse. Nuclear glowing fish will then eat you to the bone.

Colin Cowherd: Let's go, coonboy. Empty out those mailbags. I know lots of people want to talk to me, boy, but this ain't no reason to be takin' so long. Daddy wants his fix of haterade.
Me: In all absolute honesty, what's the closest you've ever been to female genitalia? And I know that's a hackneyed response to anyone acting out as if something the size of Chile were lodged securely in the nethers of their cave at Asscheek Valley; but in all honesty, you seem like a tragically lonely pedantic little cock with an unending necessity to overcompensate for, well, something. But it's not my job to speculate, now, is it? Still, though, you're not even in my target demographic and yet I feel like letting you off would be a disservice to not only man, but both the flora and fauna of this planet. Which parent forgot to say no once in a while? In other words, where does this ungodly degree of self-importance emanate from? Or is it just that you couldn't afford a Hummer, so you made this radioprick schtick a suitable replacement? I'll want to be establishment, you'll say one of these days in the future? Not if it comes with third rate hookers and the social skills of leprosy. Oh, and here's the mail. All of it. A naked, signed picture of former Blue Jay Russ Adams fellatiating a donkey in New Mexico.
(By the way, I'm not black. Not that there'd be anything wrong with being black, but, just sayin'...don't get confused by FakeColin's misguided racism)

Opposition Leader Stephane Dion: Flkjsfsk? Flslkdjf lksdjfpaa kasd, afjj ka. Relkdf s; dfk s.
Me: GARBAGE DAY! (figure out the rest)

...This are satire.