(Classic Devils Newsletter)

When the phone rang, I already knew what was wrong,. The phone was white, but not because of the enamel, but rather because of the heat radiating from the receiver. I put my hand in an oven mitt and picked it up.. I smelled burning hair, but dared not turn away from the phone. I’ve had the feeling for hours that something was horribly wrong, my fears were confirmed when I heard the booming Taiko Drum that was His voice. It was him!

The Devourer of souls, breaker of sanity, the feared and infamous SEAN!! The Advertising Agent from Hell. The Destroyer, the hulking, Low IQ, barbarian of Doom. He Screamed through the receiver, His voice grabbed my eardrums and shook them with the ferocity with which a Mexican whore shakes the maracas (if you know what I mean) Demanding those forms, those quota sheets, those faxes and memos he’d never told me to write or send. I cowered in fear for my life Even over the phone, he was a force to be reckoned with. I told him I didn’t know what happened to his reports and his rage was legendary. He ripped the heads off two clerks in his own office, gnashing his huge teeth, spitting jargon and old ad campaigns at me.. I could tell he was pulling on the cord because the phone receiver flew out of my hand at one point.

The room became very foggy and the smell of sulphur pierced my nostrils. I knew repercussions would be swift, I decided it was time for action, I lied. I told him the quota sheets were done and we were doing our best. I explained that we were flying without a kite. But Sean the mind killer can detect an unfinished quota sheet from 3000 miles away on a cold night. In fact, I heard rumors that he was responsible for the destruction of the Unicorn. He could tell the color of a man’s eyes by the remnants of his campfire.

I asked if I could put him on hold, and went to sign for a fed-ex package. He promptly jumped out of it, and punched me in the face so hard, I’m still shitting teeth. (Now that shit REALLY hurts – shitting teeth that is.) He pressed me in the shape of a thumbtack. And here I sit, holding up next weeks schedule – I hate my Job

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