The Curse of Being My Assistant

  Well, there may be a curse being my assistant. I've had two assistants since I've been at my job. Both of them have had the same thing happen to them. No it's not crabs. It's flat tires while out on the road during lunch. Both of them being women of I guess old school, neither of them could change a tire. This one, like the previous (my ex work-wife, the fantastic Jackie Attackie) called me to tell me that they were stuck.
   Now, I know from my lengthy experience in the role of helper monkey that there's some you win and some you lose and recently, I have racked up a couple of "L"'s (and that bugs the ever-loving shit out of me). Well, I got my good juju back today, chalked up a "W" and now I'm starting to think maybe I ought to stitch me a fucking cape and get me a super-hero name and take my game to the streets. Once again, I had to go rescue my assistant. I can't send somebody else to go get 'em, they're my girls. Plus, they gotta get their asses back to work!
   Way back, when Jackie Attackie had her flat, it was in South Philly on some narrow ass street in eight fucking inches of snow. Wonderful that her spare also lowered from the undercarriage by a crank (into the filthy nasty slush). Super. Today, it was across from the piers under the Walt on Columbus. Awesome area. Great place to dump a body. It looked like she ran her car through a chain link fence. Her tire had two lengths of chain-link gauge wire hanging out slapping her wheel wells and all. Bad lug nut too. Fuck it. A W is a W and I'll take it. Doesn't hurt to get some good will in with your people either, let 'em know that you've got their back.

My motto: If you can't do something good for somebody, well then, fuck ya.