Popeye Gets his Ass-Chewed by a Personnel Director

Sit down, Mr. Sailor Man, we need to chat.
That's alright.  No need to take off your hat.
Please though, put that malodorous pipe away.
At King Features here, we mean what we say
When we call ourselves a No Smoking facility.
Certainly you ought to have the ability
To comprehend and respect company rules,
But you choose not to.  Do you take us for fools?
Do you  believe that as King Feature's top name
That you don't have to play by the rules of the game?
I'm awfully sick of your Neanderthal style.
I've watched you demean Alice the Goon for awhile.
She carries a torch for you.  Imagine that?
And she's tries so hard, she bought a pillbox hat,
A string of pearls and a brand new blue dress;
Though what she sees in you, I'll have to confess
I don't.  Your sexist comments will have to cease.
"She's gots more shades of ugly than bilge rats have fleas."
When she heard you say that, it brought her to her knees.
For all you know, she might have the soul of a Venus,
But you're part of a genus that thinks with its penis.
Let's face it, Popeye, you're a chauvinist pig.
Poking fun at Ms. Oyl 'cause her breasts aren't that big,
Then suggesting implants.  That was callous and rude.
You've got to be the most disgusting and crude
Employee that I have to deal with here,
And your atrocious grammar, oh dear!
What an embarrassment you've become to the firm.
I swear, you haven't the faintest of a germ
 Of an idea of proper pronunciation
"I yam what I yam," such vile enunciation.
"Strong to the finich," also grates on the ears.
I could consult with Professor Higgins, but my fears
Are that even he couldn't teach you proper King's speech,
I can already hear him cursing, and shouting with a screech,

"By Jove, this bloody rotter is impossible to teach!"

And your awful "table manners."  I shouldn't have to preach.
Perhaps I ought to cut a former Navy man some slack,
But when you greedily consume your spinach, you lack
The basics in manners. My God!  Straight from the can!
And you devour it in three gulps.  A Cro-Magnon man
Attacks his food with more etiquette and couth.
If you want me to tell you the God-awful truth,
\I'm having a can of your spinach tested as well.
The way it affects you, it's pretty easy to tell
It probably contains a spore or some mind-altering drug
That turns you into such an unacceptable thug
Why can't you be more like Bluto?  He's a decent sort.
He dresses well, is suave, and he knows how to court
A lady,  You could learn from him, he has loads of class.
He's sensitive to the needs and feelings of a lass,
Unlike you.  I don't think you've ever changed your shirt,
And take a bath once in awhile.  What would that hurt?
The one thing in the world that I can't abide
Is a man who denies his feminine side.

About this time the interview came to an end.
Please note the attachment I've also had to send...

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     Request for Workman's Comp Benefits

Popeye popped a can of spinach and loosed an angry roar.

"I've had all I can stands and I can't stands no more!
I've swabbed many a poop deck and know it when I see it,
And when I hear it too, and you'se is spoutin bullshit.".

I began to sense some trouble when his muscles began to swell
But when his fists turned to mallets I knew I was in for hell.
He knocked me down, broke my jaw, then without another thought
Grabbed both my legs and chortled as he tied them in a knot.
I'm on a liquid diet now and have some trouble talking,
And it will be awhile yet before I'll be up and walking.
I've got trouble hearing from when he rapped me on the head,
The shoulder that he pounded on, its nerves may now be dead.
Due to the beating that I took from this despicable jerk,
It might be quite a while before I come back to work.

You ask me if we should sack him.  I've given it some thought.
I'd opt for something severe.  The asshole ought to be shot.

Feral Cats

They arrive after dusk; they're waiting in the morning.
Their pleading eyes anxiously peering through
The deck door window that's smudged with nose prints
Petition me for the blessing of sustenance.
Their faith has become the responsibility,
That my conscience refuses to let me shirk.
They've become my congregation, my pride,
My flock, and I their faithful shepherd.

They come to me in supplication tempered
With fear.  Self-delusion would call it devotion.
I can reach out and sometimes touch them.  At times
One will respond with feline praise; a nudge,
A back arched with pleasure, or a faint purr.
If I reach out to try to pull them closer to me,
Into the warmth, the safety and a haven of a home,
They tense, their claws come out and they shy away.
Their's is a creed steeped in trembling terror.
The God whom they petition is a hulking giant,
Perhaps even a cruel diety.  Certainly one to be feared.

Perhaps this is the frustration that the God of man feels.
They don't understand that I want what's best for them.
They don't understand that mine is the way and the light.
They're too skeptical to make that leap of faith
That will lead them from a nasty, brutish and short life
Of feral fear to the warmth and love of domesticity.

If I were like the God of man I'd resent their free will;
I'd take their rejection as a personal affront,
Loathing them for the sin of feral freedom
That leaves no room for me in their lives.
I'd drive them from the safety of my deck,
I'd cut off their food supply, I'd sentence them
To death by starvation if they wouldn't accept me.

I'm far from being a God though.  Only too human.

Understanding their fear, pitying their need,
Forgiving them their limited comprehension
Rather than resenting their refusal to accept me;
I still only want what's best for them
And will do what I can to make their lives easier.

May some God someday be as benevolent to me.