An overcast, bleak Thursday, August 27th of 2009. AT&T CEO Randall Stevenson, bloated to morbidly obese in excess of ham-sized foie gras wrapped in thousand dollar bills, wheezes atop his leather throne at the summit of the AT&T Tower, downtown Minneapolis.
"NO," he snorted, "NO, NO!" in fury, pounding his pudgy, cigar-clutching fist on his mahogany desk, his other soft sausage-digits perching his top hat in place. Through his monocle he squints in contempt at the CWA protesters marching in a circle on Ninth and Marquette, outside of the
atrium door far below. Leaning forward, he could hear the faint, distant echoes of their chants,
"AT&T, THIS IS YOU! AT&T, THIS IS YOU!"
"NO SHIT SANDWICHES, NO VITAMIN GUMMIES!"
"AT&T IS MUTATING SWINE FLU!"
"THEY TURK ERR JERBS!"
A red and gold-caped man, fist in the air, lead their proletarian cries of freedom with a megaphone, "Give us our Fair Contract Now or we'll pass out more rubber gloves as protected by NRLA Federal law!"
Randall Stevenson winced with contempt, jabbing his cigar out on his silent Tibetan slave boy. "ARGH, let them have their contract! I cannot stand this shouting!" he stood, a meaty tuxedo sleeve sweeping a solid gold statue from his desk, "My plans to take away their health insurance and outsource their jobs to Bangalore have been foiled again!"
"NO," he snorted, "NO, NO!" in fury, pounding his pudgy, cigar-clutching fist on his mahogany desk, his other soft sausage-digits perching his top hat in place. Through his monocle he squints in contempt at the CWA protesters marching in a circle on Ninth and Marquette, outside of the
atrium door far below. Leaning forward, he could hear the faint, distant echoes of their chants,
"AT&T, THIS IS YOU! AT&T, THIS IS YOU!"
"NO SHIT SANDWICHES, NO VITAMIN GUMMIES!"
"AT&T IS MUTATING SWINE FLU!"
"THEY TURK ERR JERBS!"
A red and gold-caped man, fist in the air, lead their proletarian cries of freedom with a megaphone, "Give us our Fair Contract Now or we'll pass out more rubber gloves as protected by NRLA Federal law!"
Randall Stevenson winced with contempt, jabbing his cigar out on his silent Tibetan slave boy. "ARGH, let them have their contract! I cannot stand this shouting!" he stood, a meaty tuxedo sleeve sweeping a solid gold statue from his desk, "My plans to take away their health insurance and outsource their jobs to Bangalore have been foiled again!"







