If it’s Friday, you can be assured a certain member of the RetroVision Media crew will be absent. And while we all love Slack Slacker, his excuses for skipping work are beyond wearing thin. Today’s fantastical tale for being a no show was so far over the top, we thought it should be posted for your opinion as to whether this goldbricking liar should have a job come Monday morning. It reads as follows.

 
To Human Resources:
 
It’s come to my attention that my integrity and devotion to my job may be called into question due to a spat of unfortunate situations that have plagued my life on Thursday nights. Since my manager (KLB) will undoubtedly submit a copy of this note as evidence that shows a pattern of abusing RetroVision Media’s liberal personal days off benefit, I felt you should have the original to ensure it’s received without slanderous comments attached.
 
It all started out innocently enough when I passed by KLB’s office and saw her slumped over the desk around noon with a half empty bottle of Tequila nearby. I didn’t want to disturb her drunken slumber with work related questions, so I thought I’d take an early lunch and head over to my favorite bar and grill for a beer or two and some buffalo wings. Believe me, I had every intention of returning to the office by 1:00, 1:15 PM at the latest.
 
Unfortunately, the joint was packed and I was forced to take a seat at the bar. While waiting on my wings, I noticed a little white man seated next to me dressed exactly like Colonel Sanders of KFC. I was in a jovial mood, so I asked if he’d tried the house’s secret Blue Cheese dip before. His response was chilling. He said “the chickens will seek their revenge against you one day.” WTF?” I say. Then he says, ” the chickens are coming, the chickens are coming. You have been warned.” And poof, just like that, he was gone.
 
Now, I could stop right here and report, I was so unnerved  by the strange occurrence, that I left the bar in a cold sweat, caught a cab and went straight home. I could’ve said I had a difficult time sleeping and needed a personal day off to figure out if I’d gone nuts. But that would be a lie. When my order arrived, the wings came with a drink, courtesy of a tall dark stranger in a long dark duster sitting in the dimmest corner of the room. While I was no longer in a jovial mood, I thought a drink was right on time, so I nodded my thanks, downed the shot and tore into my tender succulent finger food.
 
Oddly, I noticed I had an inexplicable case of the munchies. It was almost ravenous. I just had to have another order of wings. So I ordered more. And, I ordered and ordered and ordered again. And each time when the wings arrived, they came with another free drink. But after awhile, the tall dark stranger dressed in a long black duster was gone. I no longer had anyone to thank. So I just kept downing the freebies and returned to wing heaven. Regrettably, It wasn’t long before I realized the price I’d paid for my gluttonous behavior and that price would have nothing to do with the bill. 
 
Apparently, I’d lost all concept of time because there were very few patrons left in the spot when it happened. It was a sudden lurch in the stomach, accompanied by a woozy, swirly, psychedelic trip-like feeling that began consuming my head that sent me off to the men’s room in a dash. Bursting through the door with the first stall as my target, I didn’t notice the tall dark stranger standing quietly in the dimmest corner of the room. When I’d finished calling “Earl” and cleaning up with a few splashes of cold water in the face, I saw him behind me in the mirror.
 
Dude, thanks for the drinks, but if you think that buys you a pal in the men’s room, think again, I said. That’s when the weird shit happened. When the tall dark stranger removed his long black duster, underneath, he literally shape-shifted into a giant rooster. He had to be the biggest fucking rooster in the world. Although I was in total shock, I couldn’t help wondering if it could talk. I had all kinds of questions I wanted to ask. But before I could even get a word out, he looked me straight in the eye and asked, “Why did the chicken cross the road?” 
 
WTF was the only thing I could come up, considering the big rooster was starting to look agitated. Okay, okay. So I say, to get to the other side. Unacceptable he says. Try again. I’m getting nervous now, because the big rooster is blocking the exit. “Try again”, he says, in a far more aggressive tone. “Why did the chicken cross the God damn road?” he demanded. I knew I was in trouble because my mind continued to draw a blank. So, I tried to reason with him. Look, I said, in the human world, “to get to the other side” is the answer to your question. 
 
That tactic backfired big time as he responded, “Well, in my world, the answer is to get away from chicken-shit, buffalo wing eating, mother-fuckers like you.” And with that, he kept moving closer and closer. I knew my goose was cooked when the giant rooster started chasing me around the men’s room until eventually I was trapped in one of the stalls too small for the rooster to squeeze into. He stood outside the door crowing, strutting and clawing at the floor with his rooster feet. It was maddening. And although I wasn’t too embarrassed to scream like a bitch for help, it seemed none was coming.
 
It began to appear all was lost when the giant rooster started pecking wildly on the outside of the stall’s door. I knew it couldn’t hold forever, as the bolts securing it to the wall were starting to weaken. The scratching sound became deafening when the giant rooster started ripping the entire group of stalls from their foundation. This was the end, I thought. There was no escaping this thing. I was sorry I’d ever tasted a buffalo chicken wing. But, just as the last screw popped from its wall-post, allowing the giant rooster to make a try for my nuts with its razor sharp beak, the Colonel burst through the men’s room door.
 
Armed with a huge canister (that I later found was filled with his eleven secret herbs and spices), the Colonel flung the canister’s contents directly into the rooster’s face. Instantly recoiling while letting out a horrible cock-a-doddle-doo, the enraged evil fowl flapped his wings with rage as he slowly collapsed and withered onto the floor. Only his lifeless carcass remained. When the Colonel began bagging the rooster like a to-go order, I was compelled to ask, WTF just happened? 
 
Mr. KFC calmly explained, the giant bird had escaped from an experimental food processing laboratory where intelligent chickens were being bred for some ungodly purpose. But, unbeknownst to the scientists and researchers, some of the chickens began to understand languages, as well as mimicking human habits. By the time the staff realized some of these chickens were thinking at the genius level, it was too late. They’d hatched a plan and flown the coup, you might say.
 
According to the Colonel, these birds were on the hunt for anyone they thought was contributing to the world’s chicken holocaust. Since attacking offenders at places like KFC, Popeye’s and Chick-fil-A would draw too much attention, they decided to target humans in smaller joints and restaurants first. Disguised, they’ll enter a food establishment, I.D. potential suspects, drug them and then just wait and watch. Anybody ordering buffalo wings or even chicken fingers for their kids usually never leaves alive. And, were it not for the grace of God, this was to be my fate as well.
So in closing, I beg of you to ignore the whispering campaign my manager has undoubtedly started against me, as I’ll need a few more days to recover from this harrowing experience.
Sincerely, Slack Slacker