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My Farked Up Life: Prisoner of The Cheers

 article about My Farked Up Life: Prisoner of The Cheers

Who do you love? Me! Me! Me! At least I would hope so being a prisoner and all. I'm being kept in chains inside the cyber castle of The Cheers magazine. My editorial staff is throwing stones at me, one bigger than the other. They used to just call me bad names, but that all changed when I told them there's no money for them anymore. They used to earn billions, but now I thought I'd buy a Smart car for myself instead, customized version, looks like something between Aston Martin, Jeep and a bicycle.


 


And the weird thing is that they don't even care about the billions I stopped paying them. All they care about is the image, the image I, as an Editor-In-Chief of this magazine, leave about the magazine with my car. They actually don't even allow me to call it a car. They call it a wheelchair without wheels. Or  a baby-spaceship in  sandbox. Or a mascot that should never have seen the light. Basically they just hate me. Everyone I work with would rather see me drowing inside my own vomit. „Work with" is not the expression I was looking for though, I should be called their superior, boss, chief, their leader, but for the last years it rather looks like I'm working for them. Do that! Don't do that! Publish my article! Write my article! Get me my coffee! Give my poodle a massage!


 


And then they keep calling me bad names as well, I'm used to that, that's been so for years, but lately they have started generating impulsive rhymes about me. The latest one I heard was:


 


„Once there was a dickless dick


This guy really makes us all sick


But still we want him all to stick


Cause he's actually a great guy"


 


Okay, yeah, I know, the poem sucks. To tell you the truth they made ME write it – they told me to write a poem about their feelings about me. And so I did, but I had some serious troubles coming up with the last line, so I thought I'd try to make myself look cool in the end. Which ended up getting beaten with a baseball bat by my midget secretary. Life in The Cheers magazine really is hell, especially if you're me.


 


Why don't I leave? Good question! Great question mate! Moron! A year ago I was afraid my employees would kill me. Now I wish they would have. Yesterday I decided I will leave The Cheers for good. So I tried to sneak out secretly without anyone noticing. Not sure if it was my 10 suitcases, modified Smart car inside the building or anything else that gave me away, but my employees noticed it and they decided they won't let me go anywhere. They like me....well, they like having no boss. They like having someone around to beat whenever they want to, someone to laugh at. They like me. And in order to teach me a lesson and to show what might happen the next time I try to leave, they locked me up in second storey toilet of The Cheers headquarters. Fortunately we have wireless laptops inside the wall of every single urinal here, so that's how I'm able to write about my hard life, just need to wash my hands afterwards. I've been here for the past 24 hours...wait...someone's coming, got to go. Until next time...



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