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...
* * * * * * * * * * * *
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.
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