How Kamala Could Show Donald She Worked For Ronald
Why I will remember the name Junior Bridgeman for the rest of my natural life and possibly far longer
Oy vey, I have been involuntarily offline for a bit, hello again.
Is it even worth complaining when we keep coming back? And yet I feel it’s not quite fair that minute ago, I dipped my poor toe back into the hellscape of the 2024 election coverage, and it fell off.
Doesn’t matter how long you spend with no tools*, and no matter how you try to buck yourself up with the idea that “digital detox” is supposed to be good for you—I, for one, am zero percent less fed up with everyone’s phony, self-serving, transparent-to-me but apparently-effective-on-stupid-people-and-ideologues bollocks and lies than I was before I toddled away.
Public life is so bad now, there’s no such thing as enough recovery time. The reps keep coming till you puke and die.
And the loudest stench comes from people interested in politics, duh; champions in this category are the champagne socialists, of whom the current queen is Kamala Harris.
Now, I’ve put up with a lot of fuckin’ stolen valor lately—largely from the kind of rich kids who walk around in a newspaperboy cap squeaking the phrase “workin’ class” while carelessly yet relentlessly ruining people’s lives.
You would think one would become numb. Yet I surprised myself with how many different ways I have imagined s(never mind, CIA and FBI) some lying piece of (ha ha)’s throat since this newest of the new, pantsuit-and-pearls power zombies started bullshitting about how she used to work at McDonalds.
Yes, if you can imagine. I don’t blame you if you’re checked out of 99 percent of what these gross new celebrities we’ve made out of our politicians are up to.
But seriously, this anarcho-fascist college extremist brat “Kamala Harris,” never mind that she’s unaware that she’s the main character of a Dead Milkmen song, she NO, SEEEEEEEERIOUSLY this lady wants you to believe that she’s the kind of person who’s ever had to work in fast food.
I realize sarcasm sometimes doesn’t translate, blah blah, but as a former Wendy’s employee, I can guarantee: Even if Harris TRIED to get a job in fast-food for some perverted voyeuristic reason, nobody would ever hire her. Because no fast-food manager wants anyone going anywhere near his office drawers when they’re obviously the world’s biggest narc.
But no, the lady who thinks minor drug dealers ought to be buried under the jail while rapists run around free as the breeze. she seriously claimed this week that she had to work under the golden arches during college.
The plot was tiresome: predictably, her opponent called her a liar, and also predictably she called him a mean baddie, I mean just look at your skin color dude!—clearly no you’re the one who’s lying, so he decided to keep shoring up his personal brand as a civic troll and go work for a day at a mcDonald’s.
This, I shit you not, is not AI.
This, on the other hand, IS AI attempting to reproduce the same scene. I should have never tried to use pinata and Hamburglar in the same prompt:
I can’t imagine the great pretender to Hall-Monitor-in-Chief didn’t specifically pick Mickeydees in part to troll Donald Trump herself. Everyone with a computer knows that for some bizarre reason the guy genuinely enjoys eating there, when he has the money to eat anything he wants.
Maybe she was trying to underline that—a passive-aggressive way of saying “see, he’s slumming eating this food, but me, I’m a REAL prisoner of that other clown that rhymes with “onald.”
But it backfired: According to the clown-based “food” corporation themselves, they have no record of a Kamala Harris working for any of their stores, ever. So it kinda sounds like she’s the phony.
My first knee-jerk reaction was pretty irate: “Don’t you fuckin’ steal valor from foodservice workers, bitch. At least soldiers get a free barrack.”/
But… How do I know she’s lying?
Well, I don’t know. I know I worked for a franchise of Wendy’s in the 1990s, unless I hallucinated quite a fair number of memories. But I can’t guarantee you I’m in their records, frankly. (Or even Samwise.)
Fast-food restaurants back then weren’t quite as uniform as they seem now. There were separate franchises for each store, and some were owned by locals who owned maybe one or two stores; there were also companies or individuals who had collected strings of franchises, sometimes covering an entire city or county’s worth of territory. Kind of like the Mob, but with a legal drug.
I worked for the latter configuration, a regional segment of the national chain, owned by a single guy—Junior Bridgeman. It felt like a kind of corporate turducken. But while the Wendy’s corporation set the overall aesthetic with their custom printed paperware, the personality of the guy who owned the chain of all the franchises in the region had muych more of an impact on the feel of our daily lives than the larger chain ever did. I also presume they kept separate accounting and employee records. There’s no guarantee that the McDonalds corporation can find every single peon who has ever worked for a week and gotten fired for every single one of their single proprietors (I can’t see her ever getting a promotion).
On the other hand, listen to that boojie bitch.
I think she’s full of it, and my opinion here is an educated guess. Educated by the tragic amount of my time that has gone down the black hole of “slaving in a restaurant because you’re a mammal that needs food and shelter and you’ve got no other option (yissam, in the medieval mystery of the 1990s, Paypigging and other e-income was not an option for young artists; you saved the remains of the day for your own work).
First, I have a hard time believing anyone who’s ever had to work for a living could be as full of crap as she constantly is. But then again, I cast my mind back to all my shitty exes from late adolescence, when I was so dirty and poor I was only eligible to date other dirty poor people. The rich kids I started dating when my fortunes were a little better—before they carelessly, cluelessly ruined my life, that is—were full of crap, and my memories of that are clearer. But oh my, poor people can be full of crap too. It’s just, you remember it less specifically when you’re all drunk all the time, which is kind of how you have to be when you have ASD (most of us probably did) and are stuck working indefinitely in a restaurant). (Way to ruin your own joke with parentheticals, Ann, but I don’t have much time and I have a lot of fuckin’ anger to smash in here.)
Wait a minute… if she’s as drunk as she acts all the time, maybe she WAS a food service worker. Yeah, I mean, that part checks out. Maybe she’s a great actress, and at some point she decided to go the fake it/make it route.
Well, alrighty then, it’s a toss-up. So I got an idear:
Ask ole Special K over there real quick, who her regional manager or chain owner was?
If she REALLY worked for a fast=food joint, she’ll instantly produce a name. And then probably laugh at herself, a real laugh—not that oh my god aren’t I funny laugh for which she is infamous, but a real, oh my god that asshole is STILL living rent-free in my head, and that was before “rent free in my head” became a saying, kind of laugh.
Not that she probably had any bitter quarrels with the man, or even much contact, unless she became a manager or target of sexual harassment or something.
No; the reason Junior Bridgeman will be able to retire if need be in the small chambre de bonne that will forever be his in the dusty attics of my cranial case—I guess if he dies first, he can use it in Purgatory?—despite the fact that I’ve only met him once and I was so scared of burning a hamburger or spilling a tray of tomatoes that I couldn’t look at him—is because I have heard his name approximately nine billion and seventeen times. (Roughly once for every food item that has been on the floor without your knowledge that you have probably eaten in your life, if you eat at restaurants a lot.)
Why?
I realize this might sound scoffworthy to those of you who are too good to know this kind of shit, because “fries with that,” ending up in this kind of unimaginable humiliation, is a punchline to you. Maybe someone who purposefully dedicates their life to “fries with that” ain’t even a real person to you. But I’m telling you, being a hooker used to be HARD. You had to go out of your way to even find the profession, and you had to see the people, and even leave your house.
So a lot of us just… did honest, useful work. Cleaning dishes, packing boxes, nothing involving a personal brand or pretending to advise people who know more than you. When you’re 20 and your country hasn’t let in 20 million unskilled workers, manual labor can actually be a sensible choice for your future, unless your future was already planned and handed to you.
Anyway, laugh away, but if I will finally allow me to get to my point around your imaginary objections: The people who own those fast-food franchises are proud of it.
Yeah, yeah, once you’ve got the kombucha drained out of your sinuses, I’m serious.
If Kamala Harris worked for a McDonald’s, ask her who her franchise owner or regional manager was. She will instantly have a name.
It’s decades later, I think about working at Wendy’s as little as possible now, and yet the minute this issue popped up in the news, up popped that name: JUNIOR BRIDGEMAN.
Because even if you don’t think owning ten Wendys franchises in southeastern Wisconsin is much of an accomplishment, Junior Bridgeman worked his ass off to get where he was. He was rightfully, if a bit cheesily, proud. If having “one’s story” doused in nausea syrup and advertising language and plastered all over one’s promotional materials had been a thing back then—believe it or not, they just used to sell you shit, instead of bothering you with their crappy stories—Junior Bridgeman DEFINITELY would have filled everything he could with the Junior Bridgeman Story, and you BET Story would be capitalized.
As it was, he all but replaced the little redheaded representation of the Wendy’s girl face on your Frosty cup with his grown-up man head, smiling just as proud.
Because he must have spent untold hours scraping grease out of the fryer after some monkey like me decided to get drunk on the clock, not that I did so, but I did have a coworker who pretty regularly tried to sell me the crack she always kept in her socks; I might have been a lowlife but sock-rock never had that much appeal…. ANYWAY, I have heard that man’s name more times than I’ve heard my own, and you bet I got out of that job as fast as I could. It was a nightmare.
Which is why I have a lot of respect, as an adult, for your Junior Bridgemans. And if Kamala worked for one, she ought to have that same respect—but even if she doesn’t, there’s no way her personal Junior Bridgeman’s name could have possibly escaped her memory. Junior Bridgemans won’t have it any other way.
So just ask her; case closed.
But-offf-cawwwwrse, no one will listen to any solution this simple. Why listen to someone who knows the terrain when we have endless aspiring politicians who barely got through college but scored a thousand percent on all the swarm-creature nightmare social exams, who know better than anyone who actually knows the terrain their dainty lily-livered paws (well… nobody would ever call Harris’s liver pristine) so easily skim o’er…?
Ah, that sentence is probably not readable enough. Too many big words. I’m cut off. The meter might explode. I always noticed, the higher up you went in the Wendy’s command chain, the easier it was to confuse people with a simple sentence, but they’re definitely our betters.
Whatever.
Ask her for a name.
Or you could argue about percentages and lie about lying for a while. You probably do have a bit of time to fill before you die.
I apologize for the handful of typose; it's not every day you have to compose prose on a Xiaomi telephone.2.
I remember all my bosses, both good and bad. I've never understood people who lie about themselves. I like reality, warts and all. Kamala is full of herself, which is why lying comes naturally and doesn't cause her shame. I know people like this. They bullshit about everything and never get embarrassed when caught out.