Printing Sales Manifesto —DeWese

A MOB OF about 15 printing company owners swept in, unimpeded, whilst I was taking a short nap. I had worked 21 hours (my typical work day) without eating or sleeping, and was only dozing for a few hours. They moved with swift execution. Obviously, they were well-prepared.

They looked professional in their matching black stocking caps, camouflage fatigues and glistening new combat boots. They had corporate sponsorship and wore patches advertising their benefactor’s logo.

Horribly, my spouse, Attila the Nun, was an accomplice to this vicious conspiracy. She was in on the planning and, in fact, served as a lookout who stood the door while the merciless villains bound and gagged me. She had been given her own matching camou shorts and turtleneck with her own black stocking cap. I learned later that her outfit was purchased from the Victoria’s Secret catalog.

The final indignity was the damn strait jacket. That was my wife’s idea. She thought the strait jacket would throw off the neighbors. She said, “They’ll never notice. They think he should have been hauled off to the funny farm years ago.”

I was crushed, broken-hearted and unwanted. It was almost as if she wanted me gone, gone, gone.

The kidnappers loaded me in the back of one of those fancy stretch busses. It was loaded with chilled beer, imported red and white wine, and premium liquors. I could smell barbecue. There were two scantily dressed hostesses to serve the drinks, and I was relieved that my bride of 45 years was not on the bus.

The leader of this well-dressed bunch of graphic arts executives worked his way back to me. He saw that my arms were turning purple and, without speaking, removed the strait jacket and loosened my bindings. He stared at me, snickering for several minutes.

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