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Wal-Mart Justifies Illegal Alien Labor: 'It's Much Cheaper'Low cost of illegals makes low, low prices October 27, 2003 |
Washington, D.C. Whit Pistol Wal-Mart, defender of capitalism and alleged exploiter of the illegal workforce.
"Regular labor," said sexy Mike Dunphy, the regional spokesperson for Wal-Mart of America, "is extremely costly in this day and age. Federal law requires you to supply benefits and a certain minimum number of hours for full-time employees. Also, you have to pay exorbitant amounts in overtime for employees working more than 40 hours a week—which can be pricey. Fortunately, Wal-Mart can ...
mm, mmm, mmm! Wal-Mart stores around America were hobbled Thursday when bucking young federal agents swooped in and arrested hundreds of illegal alien contract employees to deport them back to wherever they came from, with a friendly, "Better luck next time!" Friday, Wal-Mart explained the hiring practices that allowed so many illegal aliens to be working in their stores: "It's much cheaper."
"Regular labor," said sexy Mike Dunphy, the regional spokesperson for Wal-Mart of America, "is extremely costly in this day and age. Federal law requires you to supply benefits and a certain minimum number of hours for full-time employees. Also, you have to pay exorbitant amounts in overtime for employees working more than 40 hours a week—which can be pricey. Fortunately, Wal-Mart can get around this in most cases by hiring part-time employees, for whom the law offers no protection, and staff our stores with those employees without paying benefits. If we give them few enough hours, we don't pay them overtime, we can sufficiently run our stores for a reduced cost and string along employees for years before they realize they'll never get a full-time position."
All illegal aliens arrested in the federal probe, Dunphy was quick to point out, were not direct employees of the Wal-Mart corporation, but contract employees through other firms, allowing Wal-Mart complete exoneration. The hiring of illegal aliens, the Wal-Mart corporation noted, is against everything they publicly endorse.
"The Wal-Mart company and its subsidiaries has never employed illegal aliens," stated Dunphy, "directly. Now, we're not responsible for who our contractors hire to clean our stores. All we know is we're talking some serious coin to staff people to clean our filthy stores all night. If a contractor comes up to us and says they can get the stores cleaned for a ridiculously low price, what are we going to do, ask them how they can afford to do it? Of course not. Wal-Mart shoppers aren't asking us how we got those Sanyo TVs so discounted. We cut the costs and pass the blame on to you. Did I say blame? I meant savings."
The illegal hiring allegations come at a bad time for Wal-Mart, and Mike Dunphy in particular, who was losing his job at the end of the day. The corporation has recently begun downsizing after years of non-stop growth since its boom in the 1980s. Many believed Wal-Mart a teflon company after it survived past recessions without a scar, and continued to expand, but the announcement that hundreds of jobs would be cut came as a harsh call to reality for some. Damn shame.
"It's no surprise to those of us who work for Wal-Mart," said Dunphy, over cocktails at a local dive. "For years the corporation has barreled ahead to expand in areas where they've already eliminated most of the competition. Creating the illusion of growth is more important than real growth in the modern economy. Bringing superstores to small towns that could barely support a regular Wal-Mart, practices like that. It's like you're outrunning a drunken ex-wife with a butcher knife, sooner or later it catches up with you. The bitch is always right on your ass, economically speaking. You got pretty eyes, angel."
Wal-Mart had not been announced culpable for the employment of contractors who hire illegal aliens at press time, but federal officials said they hope it did not raise the cost of jeans in their area. the commune news only employees one alien, if you count the Great Gazoo, but Red Bagel, the only one of us who can talk to him, claims all his work papers are in order. Stigmata Spent is so damn good-lookin' it should be illegal, but she keeps getting off on a technicality.
 | "Sunfart" Wreaks Havoc on Earth October 27, 2003 |
Incriminating photograpic evidence of the embarrassing breech in solar etiquette “Yo I was tryin’ to ring up my girl for a booty call you know?” lamented cell-phone user Tyrell Keck. “But then the sun farted right in my face and my call got dropped and shit! Bam! Can’t believe that. Happens all the time with this shitty prepaid phone I got, but this time I got the sun’s stanky ass to blame. Ain’t right.” Thousands of cellular customers report...
powerful stream of energized gas and particles ejected from the sun last Friday may have a lingering effect on satellites and communications devices this week, scientistic men announced this morning. The coronal mass ejection, or “sunfart” as it is popularly known in the scientific community, reached Earth Friday afternoon, immediately making it clear that something was rotten in the state of Denmark. “Yo I was tryin’ to ring up my girl for a booty call you know?” lamented cell-phone user Tyrell Keck. “But then the sun farted right in my face and my call got dropped and shit! Bam! Can’t believe that. Happens all the time with this shitty prepaid phone I got, but this time I got the sun’s stanky ass to blame. Ain’t right.” Thousands of cellular customers reported dropped calls, and drug dealers the world over lost important pages as Earth passed through the solar wind stream. Several major television satellites also went on the fritz, with YoungBloodZ’s Damn! video appearing briefly on the History Channel during a segment on Nazi propaganda head Joseph Goebbels. According to men dressed like scientists, the sun occasionally unleashes powerful salvos of ionized gas that can cause beautiful aurora borealis as well as disrupt power grids and kill canaries if the gasses collide with Earth’s magnetic field. Sunfarts are classified on a scale of 1 to 5 like earthquakes or hurricanes, with a 1 meaning, “Is somebody cooking pork?” and a 5 being strong enough to curl hair and clear out a planet. Friday’s blast ranked a 3, which put it in the “God, Dad!” category. “Coronal holes, or what we like to call ‘corn holes,’ can leak out strong gusts of solar wind from time to time,” explained lab-coat-wearer Mark Carter. “And if one of those gusts is headed your planet’s way—look out!” Friday’s sunfart erupted rudely from a cluster of sunspots on the surface of the sun, and was rank like boiled cabbage. This giant dark patch, known as the solanus, had grown to the size of Jupiter in recent days as it slowly migrated across the face of the sun to a position where it faced Earth. Science fans stress that while it’s impossible to determine if the sunfart was aimed intentionally, the evidence doesn’t look good. “Look, all I’m saying is if a G-type star cut a big old nasty fart on my planet, and then was like ‘Who, me? I’m just the sun!’ I wouldn’t stand for it,” confided Ngu Ryon, not trying to start anything. “I’m just sayin’. Where’s the respect?” While seldom as ripe as the current solar air biscuit, sunfarts are not a rare occurrence. Airline navigational systems were temporarily knocked out when the sun cut the solar cheese in earth’s direction with eye-watering power in the year 2000. In 1989, one long, wet sunfart knocked out the power grid in Quebec, Canada, though the Canadian government initially blamed the power outage on a stray dog. Data indicates that earth should exit from the solar wind stream by week’s end, restoring satellite function but possibly damaging sales of the popular “Who Farted?” tee shirts featuring a picture of the sun that began to pop up over the weekend.
the commune news has always adhered to a strict “Whomever smelt it, dealt it!” policy regarding space phenomena, so we think these “scientists” have some explaining to do. Bludney Pludd earned lifelong office ignominy on his first day as a commune reporter when he blamed his vile, desk-rattling gas passage on a nearby mannequin that Omar Bricks had smuggled out of a J.C. Penny’s retail store.
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 July 12, 2004 Child Star for HireLet the word come down from the Mountaintops, which is Red Bagel's nickname for the commune offices: Clarissa Coleman needs work. Sure, anyone who knows me knows I want work, but now I need work. My legal troubles are finished now, you may have seen the segment on Court TV or read about the out-of-court settlement in the paper, or The Guinness Book of World Records, the page on outrageous payoffs. Damn Jerry Nascar, that's all I'm saying. As for you-know-who, the nice lady who filed the lawsuit, I'm not legally allowed to mention her name ever again. So let's pretend I'm referring to someone else whenever I use the word Skankabitch.
Getting back to work, which is what I'm here for, let's just say the settlement is bad enough, but I've got legal fees by the butt...
º Last Column: And Justice for Nothing
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Let the word come down from the Mountaintops, which is Red Bagel's nickname for the commune offices: Clarissa Coleman needs work. Sure, anyone who knows me knows I want work, but now I need work. My legal troubles are finished now, you may have seen the segment on Court TV or read about the out-of-court settlement in the paper, or The Guinness Book of World Records, the page on outrageous payoffs. Damn Jerry Nascar, that's all I'm saying. As for you-know-who, the nice lady who filed the lawsuit, I'm not legally allowed to mention her name ever again. So let's pretend I'm referring to someone else whenever I use the word Skankabitch.
Getting back to work, which is what I'm here for, let's just say the settlement is bad enough, but I've got legal fees by the buttload. Before all this, work was just some way to have fun and a shortcut to fame. Now it's do-or-die. I'm not having luck finding too many high-profile film and television roles to pay the bills—of course, that was the story before Skankabitch sued. So now I have to shorten the list of stuff I won't do even more. It's a talent clearance sale—every one must go.
It's a great sale for producers of weird shows. C.S.I., you listening? I'll even play a dead body. Bullets fly through my head, shatter brain and bone and crap—it looks like it hurts, but I'll try anything once. Any shows where I have to wear a prosthetic piece or a mask or anything, I'll do it. Put me in a gorilla suit, who cares? I don't even need any speaking lines. I'm eager to work. None of it can be any more humiliating than playing the ukelele with Taco on Conan O'Brien.
I turned down a reality series last year, before this bullshit came along. If you're one of those producers of Help! I'm a Celebrity, Don't Give Me a Sexually-Transmitted Disease I'm ready to talk contract terms now. Maybe you'll get on the air this year if you get bigger star power than Willie Tyler and Lester. So put me on the show. I'll call house meetings and everything, pretend like my feelings are hurt and stuff. I watch all those freak shows.
Not everybody's a producer, I know. Some people aren't involved with the wonderland that is television, not officially, but that shouldn't stop you. You want to make a funny home video? Have your kid swing a croquet hammer, hit me in the nuts—I don't have nuts, of course, but for a good-size paycheck I'll act like I have nuts. Rig a house to fall in, I'll make it look like it all happened by accident, I'll even make the funny noise so the video people don't have to do that. Or we'll sing some duet like Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond, I'll make them really believe you don't bring me flowers no more. Hell, I'm not picky. Don't send the video in, let's just make it for your own entertainment, you and your friends. We'll recreate all your favorite episodes of Who's Your Daddy?.
It's not limited to shows either. I can do the stage. We'll put on a burlesque act, like they used to do in France when it was classy and cool, or like they do now in Alabama. I do tame shit, too. I'll sing the Fabulous Thunderbirds at your daughter's Bat Mitzvah. I can do birthday parties, private Labor Day telethons, whatever your big deal is. Have a friend who's in the hospital and think it would be funny for a celebrity to visit them? Let's do it. Let's make it happen.
What I'm trying to say is, I need money, and I'm not picky. Just in case I didn't make it obvious. And just to save anybody else the troubles I've gone through, don't ever hire Jerry Nascar as an attorney. He knows dick about the law, like the judge says, and his "Thirty Minutes or it's Not Free" offer is trickier than it sounds.
I have to go over to Nascar's office right now. I'm doing a commercial for him to help pay off the legal bills. º Last Column: And Justice for Nothingº more columns | 
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Quote of the Day“Freedom is a fragile thing, and must be protected; however, it is nowhere near as fragile as my aunt's vase, so it seems a fair exchange to lock you in your room for two weeks, you little hooligan.”
-MomFortune 500 CookieMore fruit, dammit!—more fruit, I say! Time to give up the blackmail scheme; there's no getting blood from a stone. Flush once for yes, twice for no. You'll bury all your old grudges this week, and grandpa—sorry, I suppose we could have let you know in a nicer way. Bad dog goes horrible dog this weekend.
Try again later.Worst Arguments Used Against Right-to-Die Advocates| 1. | Can't learn to play fiddle when you're dead | | 2. | My personal religion goes against it, ergo, you should do what I say | | 3. | Star Wars III looks like it's going to redeem the series | | 4. | Probably no afterlife, just a harrowing void of darkness and stillness for eternity | | 5. | Got a really good feeling things are gonna turn around for you, man | |
|   Fox Cancels Yankees-Marlins World Series  BY roland mcshyster 6/14/2004 Whabang! And as simple as that we're back, America, for more of the movie review taste adults have grown to tolerate. It's grrrrrrrrr-decent! I'm your host, captain, and father figure Roland McShyster, here once again to brave the torrent of flops and crocks Hollywood keeps flinging at us unthinkingly, like a blind man cleaning out his garage. Who knows when we might find a diamond in the proverbial rough? That's not a rhetorical question, if you know the answer please write in because I'm getting really tired of waiting. On to the reviews!
In Theaters Now:
The Chronicles of Ritter
It's unusual that Hollywood makes us wait nine long months after the funeral before memorializing a marginal TV star with a shoddily mad...
Whabang! And as simple as that we're back, America, for more of the movie review taste adults have grown to tolerate. It's grrrrrrrrr-decent! I'm your host, captain, and father figure Roland McShyster, here once again to brave the torrent of flops and crocks Hollywood keeps flinging at us unthinkingly, like a blind man cleaning out his garage. Who knows when we might find a diamond in the proverbial rough? That's not a rhetorical question, if you know the answer please write in because I'm getting really tired of waiting. On to the reviews!
In Theaters Now:
The Chronicles of Ritter
It's unusual that Hollywood makes us wait nine long months after the funeral before memorializing a marginal TV star with a shoddily made biography picture, but such was the fate of John B. Ritter, late of Hooterman and Clifford the Big Commie Dog. In a brilliant ploy to distract us from the tardiness of their response, they've stunt-cast racially ambiguous meathead Vin Diesel in the starring role, a move that has paralyzed the bowels of filmgoers nationwide. Though I'd normally be tearing into Hollywood for this stunning show of hubris, this particular insult to audience intelligence is unintentionally hilarious and I loved it. I particularly enjoyed the scene where Ritter is recording the Three's Company theme song with Suzanne Sommers (played brilliantly by Suzanne Sommers in a fat suit), since Diesel's singing voice sounds like Henry Kissinger on Valium. If there's anyone intelligent left in Hollywood they'll sign Diesel to do a whole series of similar films, playing historical greats ranging from Albert Einstein to Mother Theresa, because that would be funnier than a sick dog on an airplane.
Garfield
When I first heard this project was in development deep within the bowels of 20th Century Fox, beneath the earth's crust where only the damned do dwell, my first thought was this: Only Bill Murray stands a chance of making the former president exciting, and they'd better not cast that fat guy from The Drew Carrey Show. Thankfully they followed my advice, and did it one better. I wasn't watching this film for more than fifteen minutes before my keen eye realized, "Holy shit! They CGI-ed him? Brilliant!" The bane of all previous Garfield flicks has been the failure of actors to accurately capture the sublime fatassedness of James Garfield, the colossal ennui that made the man move like he was wading through wet cement. Garfield was concerned with only two things during his four years as President of the United States: sleeping in and getting his meals on time. Don't ever let anybody tell you that being president isn't a cush job. While some have argued that the CGI wizards at Fox went over the top in committing the former president to pixels, I was impressed that they got his orange stripes right and bravely refused to bow to revisionist historians who claim the head of state didn't have a tail. Sure he didn't. Sleep tight, girls.
Susan Powter and the Prisoner of Azkican
Raise your hand if you didn't think spiky-haired fitness smurf Susan Powter had some poor schmuck tied up in her basement somewhere, kept handy for beatings and pep-talks depending on the swing of her manic-depressive pendulum. That's a hunk of news that should shock exactly no one. Anybody who saw her screaming "Stop the insanity!" on her infomercial years back knew she was talking to people the rest of us couldn't see. We didn't know, however, who the poor bastard was strapped to her radiator with surgical ties; his face caked in garish New Orleans whore makeup and a shameful giant piss-stain on the front of his flowery dress. Sure, we all had our candidates. I figured it was either Joe Piscopo or Caspar Weinberger. Those guys had to go somewhere. Turns out I was wrong, and Warner Bros. is betting you'll cough up $9 to see who it was. I'm thinking they're wrong about that one, since I just told you it was Bronson Pinchot.
And with a bang and a zip and a whiff of Nair, that's it! We're done for this installment of America's third favorite horse racing weekly, which is quite a bragging point around here since I've never even mentioned horses in this column. God bless the search engines. And for those of you hearing this column read aloud on late night Cuban radio, "¡coma la mierda!" I'm not sure what that means, but it's probably something.   |
