Good afternoon. I'm back at my office throne after a relaxing morning tour of Harlem Avenue. I started in Elmwood Park and finished in Bridgeview. This is always a pleasant drive and a fine substitution for office work. I had to accomplish a silly task at yet another south side McDonald's that had lapsed hopelessly into disrepair. Naturally I lollygagged to and fro.

Immediately upon my return I have been assaulted by various office staff. One is trying to slice my ankle tendons with boxcutters. He claims I didn't lash down the satellite dish and Mexican garbage pickers used lassos to remove it from it's perch on the roof. Apparently they were spotted at sunrise bouncing away in a rusty pickup truck, cackling and singing accordion music. I can easily picture the sight of them thrusting their new trophy in the air, triumphant and crazed with joy. It will do them no good without a subscription, so maybe they can put candles on it and convert it into a Catholic altar. Maybe it could be a cooking basin of some sort.

Another shithead is shooting at me with a high powered staple gun. He seems to think I'm responsible for the dead squirrel in his trash. He said it was drowned in gasoline and the fumes are making his voice scratchy. I know who did that, but it wasn't me and I'm no rat, so I can't point the finger at the guy with the box cutters. If I'd been the culprit, I would've thrown the squirrel outside into the flowerpot for cigarette butts in the hope of an accidental ignition.

Finally my boss is blaming me for an angry customer. Apparently I told this indignant store manager that the last time I ate their food I was forced to take a murky, painful crap in a graveyard. During my emergency business a skeletal hand reached up through the soil and goosed me. Now whenever I shit while camping I think the cool breeze caressing my anus is proof positive of a supernatural presence. I told this customer to leave me alone and go call Ghostbusters.

All blatant lies. 1:33 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm