Hate your job? Do you pump gas? Flip burgers? Sell t-shirts to mall rats? Worry not- while your job might suck- it’s not truly the pits. What could possibly be worse than the smell of gasoline on your flannel shirt, grease splashing in your eyes or two dozen unsolicited requests for your phone number a day? I have a simple and unequivocal answer- try selling fucking minor league baseball tickets to foreign nationals, in January, in the snow belt(upstate New York). So this fucking fuck from the local half-assed, flyball dropping, double play bobbling, bad news bearesque, minor league baseball embarrassment that we call the Red Wings keeps calling my cell phone trying to sell me tickets.

Who the fuck wants to buy baseball tickets when there’s three feet of snow outside and the Superbowl is next week. Where do they recruit these people? Are they from homeless shelters or do they just clone them? Do they have belly buttons? “Millions of Sales Reps, Sales Reps for me, Millions of Sales Reps, Sales Reps for a fee - here we go…” So anyway I’ve found the best way to eliminate such nuisances is to allow my secretary (Rob), who is perpetually intoxicated, to answer the call in an Eastern block accent, in his best outdoor voice. Rob…uhm…my secretary politely informed the sales loser that Mr. Ku-aaah-ku-kun Kunty Tankatrucks was on the shitter and unable to take the call. I doubt I’ll be hearing from him again. But in fairness to this beleaguered hawker of fourth-rate entertainment packages, I would be remiss not to include his contact information. If anyone is interested in watching a set of washed up, ex-community college all stars butcher America’s pastime please contact Mark McGwire at 585-546-7942 ext 3004 or email him at imnotgoingtobeinthehalloffame@becauseimafuckingcheater.com.