Our Man in America | Memoirs from Africa's son in U.S.A.

Juicy dossier keeps Our Man in America employed

Self Editor’s Note: Same as headline.

Yesterday Boss called me into the big office on the 78th floor of a downtown San Francisco skyscraper. Boss’ office has a panoramic, 360-degree view of Alcatraz, the Coit Tower, Marin County, Liberal Cesspool, Murder Capital and Silly Con Valley.

“Hey, Kenyan guy, it’s been a year since you started working here so I want to know what you think about your job,” Boss said. “Do you still like it?”

What do you think I said?

In this economy? In this recession? Or is it a depression? OK – you right-wing knee-jerk big government loathing Berkeley liberal – I think we can agree on “deprecession.”

In this deprecession? Of course I said I love my job. In fact, I went as far as telling the Boss that I don’t even need a salary increment.

“A raise? No, no, no, Boss. I’m afraid of heights.”

Actually, (basically?) I was like, “I don’t even need you to pay me, but it is the law.”

Turns out poor Boss (six-figure ain’t nothin’ in this great failed state of California) hadn’t heard such great news since she read that verse in the book of Genesis that announces a Middle Eastern virgin’s giving birth to a Mexican son named Jesus. (The birth of Jesus (hay~sues) was good news until Our Ladies of Guadalupe gave birth to 12 million Jesuses, who then changed their names to Jose, Kofi, Kunte, Motombo and such ethnic names and sneaked to these great United States of America to take all the Green [spinach] jobs we had reserved for emancipated Americans).

(I support the great sport of fencing – get it? – Sheriff “Average” Joe Arpaio.)

Anyways, ??? turns out Boss has a boss named Foundation!!! who has been putting Boss under pressure to justify the “Nigerian guy’s job.” Here is an e-mail I intercepted from Foundation:

Hey Boss, You say the guy is from Kenya? That’s a suburb of Accra, Nigeria, right? Anyways, it doesn’t matter. I command you, please, to explain what he does. We are tired of giving handouts to corrupt Africans.

Oh, Jesus, did I just admit to committing the federal crime of enforcing the Patriot Act on someone who underpays me? I hope the Federal Communications Commission of Homeland Security is not counter-intelligencing this. I hope those ugly gents and smiling ladies are out there protecting our American children from foul language. I hope they are listening to hear what vulgarity Howard Stern is gonna use. (The stupid kids they are trying to protect are on the 3p.m (PST) school bus, punctuating their every F-word with “mother-F-word” this and “C-sucker” that.

Anyways, basically, I get really riled up. A lot. So a lot that I get distracted from the Boss story. Americans tell me it’s ADHD, but I think Congress is trying to prescribe me some medications I don’t need. If that’s the “public option” then I’m bringing my AK16 riffle to the next health care town hall.

“Don’t take the health care I don’t have away.”

Why prescribe and bill me for things that don’t get me high? My father managed my ADHD well and it didn’t cost him a penny. Just a belt, and he had to buy that for his pants, anyway. (If you are reading this from a recent British colony, please note that my father did not wear panties so big they needed a belt. “Pants” is what we call trousers in this British colony that turned out greater than the colonizer. America! F yeah!)

Basically, I told Boss not to even bother paying me. Just send $1,050 every month to my landlord. (My refrigerator is missing a shelf, slumlord).

“Take another $100 and pay Charlie to check my mailbox for bills once a week,” I told Boss. “That Fcuker sits around the office watching the clock, anyway. Talking about, ‘I’m a manager. Let the immigrants do the Green [onion] jobs.’

“My mailbox is the one with no name on it. They don’t like Arabs in my neighborhood. Whatever money is left, please pay me in cash. I hurt my back a few weeks ago making you oatmeal, so I need to go to a massage parlor once a week. Your HMO piece of sith doesn’t cover that important kind of ‘therapy.’”

Boss started giving me crap about how I don’t know how to manage my money. That coming from a person who knows how much Boss underpays? You go figure.

Anyways, I was walking out of the office when Boss admitted that Boss too has a “back problem” that doesn’t seem to go away. (OMG! That explains the “Wellness LLC” charge I often see on the corporate credit card! OMFG! That explains something Boss once let slip out of Boss’ tongue in a whisper to me when they played Asian music at Ying’s and Yang’s baby shower.

“Doesn’t Asian music make you feel like you are in a massage parlor about to get a hand job?”

OMFG! Can you believe that sith?