“According to public filings, corporations including Ruth Chris’s Steak House, Potbelly, and Shake Shack have obtained millions in loans from the Paycheck Protection Program, a new effort intended to help small businesses that are struggling to weather the economic fallout from the coronavirus pandemic.” – Vox, 4/22/20
Greetings, fairly successful Americans —
Congratulations to you and your families for owning a corner market, hardware store, small contracting company, or whatever little butt-nug of a small business people like you own because you lack the sack it takes to become insanely wealthy. I, on the other hand, am not a communist misfit, respect my nation, and have been driven since age seven to own a multi-billion dollar retail business in any sector that would make me wealthy enough to hunt humans from a helicopter on some fucked up luxury preserve if I so desired. The point is:
I’m gonna need to cut in line ahead of you here and take a big fat chunk of that small business loan dough with a sweet little side of Paycheck Protection Plan. Ask any nature show on TV, and some man with a brainy foreign voice will tell you, verbatim: The biggest bear’s gotta eat, my bitches.
You see, while you were busy cutting off your balls and whatever the lady version of gumption privates is, and Fed-Exing them to a socialist poetry website’s GoFundMe or non-music radio station’s pledge drive, I was gearing up to be a well-capitalized king of home electronics and appliances to the tune of 1,529 full-size superstore locations and over 400 plaza, center, and mall kiosks.
So listen up, my little mom and pop shop ownin’, nutless spouse-huggin’ pud nuddlers: Shit’s gone wrong, and The King of Retail is gonna need to get at your SBA small business fixin’s.
I hope by now I’ve grabbed your attention, and please know that my thoughts and prayers are with my nation in this time of need, but guess what else I’m gonna need to grab, my little forty to ninety thousandaires? Yup, the forgivable advance on dem sweet SBA nuts all of you were hoping to get up on.
Cheer up, when I get my ten to forty million dollar pat on the ass and a little wink from Uncle Sam about not repaying that fat cheese slice from the fresh pie, it means I’ll be saving my personal dough from getting sucked into my concrete wage-labor bunkers across this glorious nation of mine. This means, if you can stop thinking about yourself for a minute, that my stores will be here for you when this is over and you need name brand electronics and quality home appliances at competitive prices in over fifteen hundred locations.
I’m sorry your small business has to suffer for my King-Size success, but this is America. You’re either at the primo golf course omelette bar when smooth D rips a deep meaty fart and whispers from the side of his mouth a secret alert that the money train starts rollin’ at zero dark thirty tomorrow, or you’re at home on your knees praying to a god that’s probably not listening because he doesn’t remember seeing you on TV from up in heaven.
I pray for you in this time of need, and the prayer goes like this:
American Jesus, please let these do-gooder small business twat niddlers pull their heads out and understand that the psychotic need for more at any cost will always be honored before those content with being of service and having enough. Thy will be done, on heaven, on earth, on daily bread that trespasses…
Surprise America, I don’t know the lyrics to this jam, but I do know I OWN A CHAIN OF 1,529 BIG BOX ELECTRONICS RETAILERS AND I’M GONNA NEED TO GO AHEAD AND GRAB THAT SWEET, SWEET SMALL BUSINESS LOAN MOOLAH, FUCKOS.
God bless, we’re all in this together/stay away from me.