Tours de Farce: Workin’ Nine To Five
Time to join the rat race and start that forty hour countdown to next weekend.
We were once a working stiff like yourself. We flipped those burgers, we fried those fries, we even shook the shakes. We guarded the doors at the multiplex, we Kentucky fried the chicken and we learned the definition of responsibility by holding down the point position behind the Slurpy machine.
We know what you go through every day as you slug it out in labor’s trenches. We’ve seen the fear in your eyes and the loneliness in your soul that only the schedules for Anthrax and Al Di Meola can eradicate.
Of course, there are some who say we’ve grown soft by hanging out at Pollstar.com’s Olympic-size pool and watching our faithful tourbots compile dates for Aaron Tippin and Beck. That say we complain too much about how tough it is to find a good masseuse in this town while we look over the latest data for Air Supply. They insinuate we’ve gained a few pounds because we study the routings for Clint Black and Bjorn Again, while Phillip, our in-house bartender, whips up the finest Catherine Wheel daiquiris and Fishbone margaritas this side of Madison Square Garden.
Oh, well. No one ever said life would be easy.
Soon it will be another weekend, but your work doesn’t end when the Friday whistle blows. There’s still all those home improvement chores. Reshingle the house, resurface the pool, repave the driveway, and recombine the DNA. And when all those duties are finished, we’ll have a tall cool list of dates for Fuel and The Judds waiting just for you.
Yes, you work hard all week, only to slave away during the weekend. It’s tough being a grownup and the responsibility of being the breadwinner never stops. A week from now you’ll drag yourself out of bed to do it all again. Clocking them dollars in hopes of setting aside a few bucks for tickets for Leon Redbone, or maybe Kings X.
And we’ll still be searching for a good masseuse. Life sure can be a pain sometimes.