I found the Alien C.W. picking my new guitar when I arose and went to my "music room" this morning. You won't believe what I saw. He had chosen the shape of a country singer and was belting out a marvelously weird rendition of the old standard "Working Man Blues."
He stopped when I walked in. "Tell me something, Slick," he said.
"I told you once not to call me that."
"Oh yeah, I forgot, Hotshot."
I ignored him. "Put that guitar down, I had to lie to the Commanding Officer about how much it cost. It's not for you to destroy."
He returned it tot the case. "Tell me something, Sport."
"As in, what?"
"Hit's Fridee, ain't it? trrying his best to imitate a southern drawl.
"Why do your people hate their jobs so much that they only live for Fridays?"
"Not all of them do."
"Then let's you and I write a song titled, "I Love My Job" and see how it sells."
He had me there. "Don't you have something to do?"
"I'm doing it. It's called 'research.' You ought to try it sometime."
"Tell that to the Magahatters."
"They hate their jobs the most, don't they?"
I sensed a rocky road ahead. "Do Falloonians love their jobs?"
"You wouldn't understand. Why don't employers make the jobs more fun?"
"I don't know. Profits I suppose."
"But look," he said, pulling a worn and dusty book from a table, "This says that happy workers produce more."
"I'm going to leave you to your research now."
"Good," he said. "I'm working on another hit."
"I don't think that's a good idea," I said. "You had the Political Correctness Police descending on us with your last."
"This one's different," he said. "It's called 'How You Gonna Walk Straight With This Job Up Your A…?
"Stop it," I said.
"Asset account," he said. "What?"
I walked out, closed the door, and went for breakfast, walking straight as I could.