You take away our free coffee, our holiday pay, our raises.
“We all must pull together,” you say. “We must do what’s best for the company.”
Fuck your fucking company, we say.
Smoking your cigar, drinking your cognac, you send 400 copies of Laura Bush and 300 copies of Newt Gingrich to San Francisco.
To San Fran-fucking-cisco!
And you expect us to work hard for you?
Fuck you, Borders. Fuck you.