MICROFICTION

Time to Celebrate

It’s my party

Why did Emily pick a clown to be the MC? She knows I hate clowns, and my fifth year anniversary as station manager is special. Nobody has lasted this long. Nobody! I took this station from scraping the bottom of the barrel for has-been classic rock DJs and made it into the number one talk radio station in the greater metro area.

And she got a clown to celebrate?

Wait, the clown’s talking — shit, he’s doing mouldy old favourites for morons everywhere.

Take my wife… please!

I need some tylenol and a whiskey. Goddamm it! I rummage through my desk, and I find the whiskey beside my pistol. I can always find whiskey. But where’s the tylenol? Wait, there are a couple of percs left from when I threw my back out banging Emily on the desk. She loves the sex; too bad she’s a two bagger. But daddie owns the station, so I’ll keep throwing my hot dog into her bun until I move on to greener — and prettier — pastures.

A drunk was in front of a judge. The judge says “You’ve been brought here for drinking.” The drunk says “Okay, let’s get started.

Henny Youngman jokes? How desperate is this clown? At least I can relate to getting started. The percs and the whiskey are kicking in now. I can survive a bad comedian in a clown suit. I’ve been through worse in my career.

And I’d like to introduce someone you all know, Mr. Cormack! Hey, Mr. Cormac, come on up, and tell us all about your big plans.

Cormac. The station’s owner. Even uglier than his daughter, if possible. A squat bulldog of a man, with the face to match. He’s wearing a cheap suit, and far too much Eau de Asshole, but if there’s an ass to kiss in this hick town, it’s his.

Friends, I have big plans for this space. As you all know, staying downtown while everybody else moved to the burbs was a colossal risk.

But we made it — except for Big Ed. Damn muggers. Good man. He’s definitely missed.

Anywho, finally the risk is paying off. The downtown core is being gentrified, and this block is going to be the center of a major revitalization effort. They’re gonna tear us down, and put up condos.

So, instead of this being a celebration of Jack’s fifth anniversary as station manager, we’re having a closing down party. As of midnight tonight, we’re officially off the air, and the building is coming down.

Have a couple of drinks before you go, but these security fellows will make sure you leave by midnight with all your belongings, and will collect your keys. Your two weeks' severance will be mailed after I get back from Tahiti.

Thanks to everyone. Your hard work and dedication have made me a rich man, and I appreciate it.

Now drink up. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.

What the hell?

Where’s that pistol!

Paul Mansfield is a writer, a photographer, a guitar player, a philosopher — some he does well, some not so well, but he still tries them all. You can follow him on Twitter @pmansfield.

And if you want to subscribe to Medium, here’s a link where I get paid a trifle to sell my soul to the Corporate Overlords. The Corporate Overlords eat the Great Old Ones for breakfast.

Another amazing story by Paul.