February 25, 2009; Adjustments

Things are not good at Mook Manor. A was laid off of his job. (I'm starting to think that two shoes to the head of that fucking idiot wasn't enough—for what he did to the world economy he deserved the Imelda Marcos collection at least.) 

A is a sad case. He is still being seen by a nurse three times a week to deal with the wounds of a surgery he had four months ago. (This has the added benefit of me getting kitchy-koos from a bunch of disease-carrying Florence and Felix Nightingales.) Then A's dog died. Now he has lost his job. 

Meanwhile B is at least employed. Too employed. He has two jobs, is president of a professional association and is trying to start up a business. When he isn't on the phone or answering his e-mail he is climbing the walls with stress. Can you say: heart attack?

"Singing" (turn down your sound...this one blasts)

Mook A took me in his arms when he got the bad news about his job and said, "No matter what, you'll be taken care of. I'll starve before I stop feeding you." I should hope so, you fucking loser! Get a job!