I’m seeing all kinds of rage in the media over the NLRB’s decision that FcDonald’s could be held jointly liable (alongside franchisees) for violations of labor and wage laws. The party line is that things like this, and paying a higher wage to McChow assemblers, can cost hundreds of thousands of jobs and put tens of thousands of franchisees at risk of bankruptcy. The party line has never been that rising fuel prices that drive up the cost of everything could cost those jobs or bankrupt franchisees — price increases are only considered threatening when low wage service workers are on the receiving end.
The CEO of FcDonalds makes that much money in about two hours. The Chief Operating Officer of FcDonalds has to work five hours to do the same. The average FcDonald’s franchisee with a single store takes that stack home every week (or two, depending upon whom you ask). The workers who were ripped off on their overtime pay by those franchisees have to work full time for nearly eight months (without getting ripped off by their employers) to gross that much.
If you don’t feel like counting the Benjamins, that’s $10,000.
And that’s the extent of my seriousness for today, Wednesday July 30, in the year of our fraud two thousand fourteen. Let us now see if I have anything to say after inhaling the smoke of demon weed… gimme a moment…
Miss Awesome cat has decided that I’m paying too little attention to her. She snuck up the back side of my desk and snaked a paw out to tip my little decorative gong off of the monitor pedestal. She was startled by the sound and hauled ass out of my office, so is now looking in from the family room trying to see if the coast is clear. I suppose that once she’s convinced of it she’ll be on top of my hutch pushing a glass candle holder around because that always gets my attention.
It ain’t easy being owned by a cat.
Oops, no, I was wrong. It was leaping onto the top of the back of my chair and telling me that it’s feeding time. Amethyst usually feeds her just before this time but she’s got the day off from work so is sleeping in. Darn cat can tell time just about down to the minute, it seems.
You know you live in a dinky town when it takes you an hour to get out of the market with just five items despite there being wide open checkstands. I suppose a corollary of that would be: If you don’t know why it might take an hour to get out of the market with five items despite there being wide open checkstands, you know that you’ve never spent time in a dinky town. 😀
I’ve seen it take an hour for a customer at the liquor store to realize that he’s forgotten his wallet. I just put it on his account, and later that month lied to his wife when she asked how much was on his account — we had to say that he didn’t have an account there any more. I hated doing it, but they were an interesting couple in many ways so it seemed like just playing along with a game in which everyone knew the rules. She dropped by every couple of months to ask about the account she was certain he had but he swore he didn’t, she knew he was lying, she knew we were lying, everyone knew that we knew she knew we were lying, but she went away smiling anyway. Maybe the two of them laughed about how’d they’d snookered us into that. Who knows? That guy went missing and was the subject of wild speculation for about four years, until his remains were found near a mountaintop. Guess he wasn’t shacked up with a bimbo half his age in Florida after all.
I still think of that guy every time I hear Little Feat’s song Time Loves A Hero, the bit about the uncle in Puerto Rico:
I liked the story about the bimbo in Florida better. He used to tease Amethyst about how hot she’d look in a French maid uniform, usually not long after or not long before saying that she and I are “a testament to marriage”. A guy who’d say those things would shack up with a bimbo half his age down in Florida, I think. But I guess that if you have to leave the party early a mountaintop in Colorado is a damn fine place to do it.
I wonder what stories would fly around town if we were to lay a French maid uniform on his grave. It seems a thing that needs doing. A public service, even. It might get people to smiling again when they speak of him.
That’s just life in a dinky town so far off and gone that you’ve got to drive an hour to reach the nearest FcDonald’s.