
...Badges? We don't neeed no steenkin', badges...so I get on the lot today and there's a new security guard at the main door...I walk toward my bank of elevators (as I've done for years on/ off)...and the new guard walks up to a brother and starts giving me what Wally and the Beav would call "the business"...I proffered my ID badge, ignored the hostile 'tude and rolled on out...thanks...brovah...Meanwhile, as the Barney Fife was busily keeping the world of entertainment safe from scofflaw writers in Adidas, a herd of "professional-looking" machers, rockin' haute couture, with their hair teased up to the moon (men and women), had slid on in with no botheration...as I rode up, in the middle of well-heeled twits, inhaling their second hand cell phone conversation (the basis for assuming said twit-ness), I thought of this Q.O.T.S.A. tune...fekkin' Mondays, yo...
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