As faithful readers, you will of course remember that Mr. Blacks lost his job as boss of the National Spy Bureau, and now spends his time as he pretty much always did, wandering the streets and harassing people. Will he ever get his job back and return to espionage or will he remain a bum forever? Don’t know what I’m talking about? Read my previous post.
Mr. Blacks and a fellow bum named Rat Face sat under a bridge, frying a can of beans.
“God damn the system,” Mr. Blacks sputtered. “I slaved day in and day out workin’ for ‘the man’ for years. And what did it get me? Nothin’! Here I am under a bridge with tattered clothes, a cardboard box for a home and not a cent to my name. Meanwhile, Mr. Big Shot Boss Man is partyin’ every night and tossin’ nickels around like they were pennies!”
“Mr. Blacks,” said Rat Face, “what are you talkin’ about? You were the boss!”
“Geez,” Mr. Blacks said, exasperated. “I know that, stupid! Have you no sense of metaphor? When I said I was working for the boss I clearly meant ‘carrying society’s burdens’.”
“That’s very well, Mr. Blacks,” Rat Face started. “But what are you still doing here? Earlier today you said you were gonna get your old job back. Then your eyes kinda glazed over and you just collapsed on the floor. Then, when you came to, you challenged me to that game of leap the dumpster. Sure, the Hobo-lympics were fun, but it seems like you’re procrastinating a little bit.”
“I’ll have you know I plan on going over to headquarters to demand my job back right now!” Mr. Blacks screamed. “But first, whadda ya say me and you have another whirl at the trash can cover discus throw?”
“Oh, alright. But do we really have to do it in the nude? It makes me uncomfortable,” Rat Face said.
“Hey,” snapped Mr. Blacks. “Do you wanna do it like the ancient Greeks, or dontcha?”
Pictured above: sports.
Rat Face groaned, and uncomfortably started taking off his top hat and tattered overcoat.
“Now dance. Look like you’re enjoying it.”
“But, Mr. Blacks, I’m starting to think you’re getting off on this.”
“I said dance, damn it. Dance!”
Rat Face uncomfortably shook his hips and shuffled his feet as he removed his shirt and tweed pants.
Mr. Blacks’ leer slowly turned into a look of anguish.
“Wait a minute” Mr. Blacks yelled, turning forward to begin a soliloquy, “This is disgusting! What have I become? I’m but a shadow of my former self. I sure miss all the women that came with being a world-renowned secret agent.”
Mr. Blacks started walking away from his half naked friend. “By all the women,” he continued, “I of course mean the large lady who cleaned the toilets at the Dunkin’ Donuts next to the office. Damn it, Big Betty,” he screamed, making a fist. “You tease! Walkin’ around in those sexy unisex plumber’s overalls and worker boots!”
Rat Face called after Mr. Blacks, only wearing the tattered newspaper he used as underwear, “Should I stop now?”
Mr. Blacks yelled back at him, “Shut up, I didn’t tell you to look at me or talk!”
Mr. Blacks was now almost out of sight, as Rat Face yelled, “Mr. Blacks, call me!”
Yes, folks, homelessness is hilarious and folksy
“Fools,” said Mr. Blacks, “perverts! I need to rejoin decent society and get my clout back. And by decent society, I of course mean the group of retarded truck drivers that hang out at that Dunkin’ Donuts, and by clout I mean the time one of them let me sit in his truck and pretend to drive it.”
He thought for a moment, “Hmm, I sure do make a lot of misleading statements, don’t I? In any case, this time it’s for real. No more distractions, no more sleezy, hobo stripteases. I’m getting my job back!”
Mr. Blacks walked aimlessly around the city for about twenty minutes. “Huh,” he said rubbing his chin, “I guess all that time I spent sleeping in the smokestack at the plastic smelting plant has caused a bit more brain damage and memory loss than I originally self-diagnosed. I have absolutely no idea where I used to work.”
He thought for a moment, “Oh well, I guess the only logical thing to do at this point is walk into every building I see and assume it’s my old headquarters.”
Mr. Blacks walked into a gas station and several Dunkin’ Donuts before he entered a large office building, pina-colada donut and triple-chocolate frappucino in hand. He entered an office with a sign that read, “Weinstein, Greenburg and some non-Jew, LLP, entertainment attorneys.”
“If you like pina coladas, and gettin’ massively obese.”
In the front lobby was a clean-cut young man typing at a computer.
“I want my job as head of the National Spy Bureau back,” Mr. Blacks screamed at the top of his lungs, “And you’re going to hire me, or you’re fired!”
The young man looked startled, “I don’t know who you are, and you look and smell like a crazy hobo, but please don’t fire me! I’m just a legal assistant. I’ll call Mr. Greenburg.”
The young man pressed a button and Mr. Greenburg walked out of a back office. “What can I do for you?”
Mr. Blacks furrowed his brow. “What do you think you can do for me? I said I want my job as head of the National Spy Bureau back.”
Mr. Greenburg look interested, “A wrongful termination suit, eh? I like it, although that’s not the kind of case we normally take on.”
Mr. Blacks was not really listening, thinking instead about his current lack of pastries in hand. “You fool, I said give me a job! Now!”
Mr. Greenburg looked at him, “Oh, you’re applying for the position then?”
“Yes, I’m applying for the position! Now where do you keep the pina colada donuts?”
Mr. Greenburg smiled, “In the corner there, near the trough of bear claws. After you’ve helped yourself, please come join me in my office.”
Mr. Blacks grabbed the trough, and entered Mr. Greenburg’s office and took a seat.
Damn you Google image search!
Mr. Greenburg looked at him from across the desk. “Now, about the job, we’re looking to fill the non-Jewish partner position, and I like your gentile attitude.”
“Who says I’m a gentile?” Mr. Blacks retorted.
“Well, I just assumed based on that Hitler mustache you’re sporting.”
“For your information,” said Mr. Blacks, “I’m not a Jew, but I do sing a mean Hava Nagila. Allow me to demonstrate.”
Mr. Greenburg smiled, “By all means.”
Mr. Blacks sang a few bars.
“I think what you’re singing is ‘Just a Friend’ by Biz Markie.”
“Yes,” Mr. Blacks said, “beautiful religion, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Greenburg. “Now tell me. What firm did you previously work for?”
Mr. Blacks, mouth full, sputtered, “What firm? I’ve been living on the streets for a year, you fool!”
“Excellent, excellent. I like that gritty real-world experience. Where’d you get your law degree?”
“Take a look at this,” said Mr. Blacks, producing a document from his wallet.
“Okay,” he said, looking thoughtful, “this is a cutout from a cereal box.”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Blacks.
“Well I never knew there was a Cap’n Crunch school of law, but hell, I got my degree from University of Phoenix online, so I guess I can’t really be too fussy, can I?”
Tastes like justice. And broken glass.
Mr. Blacks was extremely bored at all the talking. “Damn it, you’re fired!”
“You know what,” said Greenburg, “I like your attitude. And you seem to like firing people. We need a partner who can do that. I’ve been wanting to fire that lady we hired from Dunkin’ Donuts who cleans our toilets because she’s such a hussy. But my knees get wobbly every time I try, and I just end up making out with her in the Xerox room.”
Mr. Blacks looked at him sternly, “Don’t you ever talk about Big Betty like that!”
Mr. Blacks and Greenburg looked at each other and said in unison, dreamily, “Mmm…Big Betty…”
Mr. Greenburg reached over and shook Mr. Blacks’ hand, “Alright, you’re hired! Congratulations, I’ll show you to your office and have my assistant bring some fresh pina colada donuts and bear claws.”
“Okay,” said Mr. Blacks, “But I ain’t sharing.”
To be continued…