Whiny, Born-Again CEOs and the Health Care Debacle


A Letter from Fat Boy Press Management
By Willie Bee, founder and sole employee of Fat Boy Press

When I started this company a few years ago, I was working out of my
home office without any loan from a bank or handout from the donkeys
and elephants in that organized crime group better known as the United
States Congress.  I write, edit, take care of the sales and marketing,
handle the accounts & receivables department, do all of the hiring,
firing and, well, pretty much do it all because I have to if only by
definition of a freelance writer-slash-editor.

I’m not a Christian…nor Muslim, Jew, Hindu, Buddhist, Rastafarian,
Sikh, Scientologist, Agnostic, Atheist, follower of the sun, moon or
any other solar body, contrived deity or existing life form that came
about because of [choose one] intelligent design / evolution.  I’ve
always said that the first two goals of this business are to (1)
provide my clients with quality professional editing services and
written content, and (2) make a comfortable living.  And that’s what
I’ve done, not tried to do, but done.

My rates are not established by any minimum wage setting or other
government guideline, but instead by what the market dictates which I
understand is a completely foreign concept to many folks living in the
good ol’ US of A.  I work when I need to work, be it Monday, Tuesday,
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday or Sunday, be it early in the
morning, midday or into the evening.  I don’t believe it’s by any
god’s grace that the work gets done, and instead understand the sole
responsibility for getting the work done is mine.

I don’t blame a damn thing that goes wrong with this business on the
government, though I do blame the shape of said government on the
voters who are persistent in empowering it.  And when that government
cuts into my paycheck, I understand that ultimately there are only two
things (or combination of the two thereof) that follow: My prices go
up (if the market allows), or I find more work while also tightening
my belt a little, which isn’t always easy on a fat old guy like
myself.

I don’t care about anyone else’s sexual [choose one or any
combination] orientation / habits / fetishes / turn-ons / turn-offs
but my own, don’t care if they decide now is not the right time to
have a kid, or like getting naked, fucking like rabbits and eventually
landing on TV with a dozen or more of the little buggers.  I don’t
care what the bible or any other history book says about those things
or any other civil rights issue, for that matter.  And yes, civil law
and the proper interpretation of the Constitution of the United States
should trump any and all religious law.  I can only assume that
Christians agree with this when it comes to not empowering Islamic law
in some communities, and will not stoop to hypocrisy by allowing civil
law to be trumped by their own beliefs in any other case.

Now some of you might be sitting there right now saying, “This stupid
son of a bitch just doesn’t get it.”  Not true.  I don’t want the
federal government telling me what health coverage I have to pay for,
or if I have to buy any at all.  No sir and ma’am, I do indeed get it.
 Fact is, I got it back in the late 80s when I quit sending donkeys or
elephants to Washington DC.

This seems to be as good a time as any to remind everyone that the Fat
Boy Press Holiday Mixer will take place the afternoon of Dec.18 around
4 p.m. (CT) At Bill Martin’s Doghouse, good Texas whiskey from a local
distillery will be served.  We are also available to discuss future
business propositions the following evening (Dec. 19) at Gruene Hall
when WC Clark joins Chris Ruest for your musical entertainment.  Just
mention “fat boy press” to the bartender when you walk in, and it’s
free admission to the show.

Sincerely,
Willie B., aka the fat boy

GH2About the Author: A crotchety old man since his birth during Gen. Eisenhower’s first term as US president, Willie Bee resides in the bee-yoo-tiful Texas Hill Country along with his wife, too many cats and his beloved beer fridge. Employed as an overworked and underpaid freelance sportswriter, his few moments of happiness usually come when communing with critters, tending his garden or sippin’ cold beer and enjoying tunes at Gruene Hall.

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