Saturday, July 20, 2002


We haven't heard from The Boss in quite a while now. The inmates have most definitely taken over the asylum. I am crouching under my desk typing this report as the Piker offices are in a state of utter chaos. Most of the cubicles have been connected together to form a sort of net in the middle of a makeshift office volleyball court. I'm not sure, but I think the Budweiser Girls are playing the Swedish Bikini Team. Don't ask me what the score is, as I'm afraid to poke my head above the desk line. Some crappy song by The Tubes or Wang Chung is playing on a continuous loop and it's driving me mad. We think that The Boss is still somewhere in South Florida, but apparently he is stranded with no cell phone service and some sort of antiquated dial-up connection. I just got hit in the head by a frisbee with a picture of Eddie Munster on it. I want to be loyal to The Boss, but I don't how much more I can take. I'm going to make one more attempt to re-establish contact with him before -- Oh no! Something just exploded. I smell smoke. That's it, I'm out of here. I'm making a run for it. I just pray I can make it to the door...

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