I’m Going to Celebrate Labor Day by Telling My Boss to Stick It
Here’s to Labor Day, our annual celebration of the workers who built this great land we call America. That is the reason for the holiday, remember? And that’s why this year, instead of just heading out to the lake with my friends, I'm going to honor Labor Day's true meaning by marching into my boss’s family cookout, shaking up a can of beer, spraying it in his face, and telling him to stick it.
Stick it right up his chute!
Throughout the day, I’ll pause to honor the forebears of our nation’s labor movement, like Cesar Chavez, who organized farm workers to stand up for better pay and working conditions. I’ll also pause a moment to grab my boss by the back of his neck and, while he’s half-blinded by the beer in his eyes, plunge his head into that 500-square-foot infinity pool of his, holding it there just long enough for him to think he’s going to die.
That’s not to say I won't have some fun this Labor Day. I’ll still spend much of my three-day weekend grilling and relaxing with good friends. After all, didn’t Emma Goldman once say, “If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution”? And didn’t she once put her boss in a headlock, drag him across his exquisitely landscaped yard, and slam his head down on a blazing hot grill with the intention of leaving deep burn marks on his face that he’ll carry with him for the rest of his life?
I guess this year I’m going to be a sort of modern-day Emma Goldman.
It’s important, on Labor Day, to remember those who died in the Pullman Strike, the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire, the Ludlow Massacre, and so many other tragedies. Just as those stories remind us what we’re fighting for, I hope the tale of me screaming “I gave your company the best years of my f**king life, and what do I have to show for it, you asshole?” into my boss’s charred and disfigured ear will motivate future generations of labor leaders.
Perhaps I’ll gather with friends to sing Woody Guthrie’s ballads of the injustices faced by American miners and migrant workers. And who knows? Maybe one day someone will write a song about me standing on my boss’s neck with one foot, kicking over his fiery grill with the other, and making him watch as his precious country estate slowly burns to the ground. Maybe people will even gather each Labor Day to sing this ballad in rousing choruses.
If not, they could do “Take This Job and Shove It.” That one’s pretty solid.
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