To hell with it. I’m relieved some Republican senators have sided with moronic fast food workers and forced me to withdraw before I could be confirmed as head of the Department of Labor. They’d have been lucky to have me. I’m a certified business wizard who pulled Hardee’s out of the dumpster and made their food edible and the company strong and strengthened Carl’s Jr. as well. Who cares my workers were planning to picket our restaurants in twenty states?
Republicans who caved in should have studied my overall record rather than worry I said that in fast food we compete for the “best of the worst” and sometimes have to settle for the “worst of the worst.” Come on, we’re not hiring people who’ve just graduated from Harvard and Yale. And, whatever their merits, they’re often gone in a few months. They either don’t like or understand the job or complain about the minimum wage, which I’ve always stressed should be kept low; fifteen bucks an hour would be catastrophic to our bottom line and my sterling entrepreneurial reputation.
“Get the hell out of my way,” I say to some protestors standing around my limousine. “You got what you wanted.”
“We want a living wage,” says a fat lady. I’m trim, by the way, and my shiny dome looks kind of cool.
“You’ve got one.”
“We can’t rent decent apartments and don’t have health insurance even though we work forty or more hours a week, and you and the franchise owners try to stiff us on overtime.”
“Paying overtime weakens the company.”
“Look, hombre,” says a tattooed young man, “you make four million four hundred thousand dollars a year. Do the math. That’s eighteen grand a day, about what we make working full-time for a year.”
“Aren’t you aware I’ve also complimented many of you? I’ve said your work is ‘meaningful and important.’”
“Then pay us a meaningful wage,” says the lady.
“Your wages reflect your contributions.”
“You don’t give a damn about working people. That’s why you want to replace us with robots.”
“Robots are always healthy and on time and never protest.”