Daisy Chain

Four months ago, when I was running for president of the local chapter of IHOP (Inveterate Haters Of the Prolotariat), I received a number of phone calls from Daisy Weed, the midget dump harlot. I found it curious that Daisy asked me a lot of questions about how I intended to win our union election. But then Daisy had always been a true friend (and sometimes favor grantor). Although I was already our union’s business agent, I thought being the local-chapter president would give me a great deal more negotion leverage with Cheesey. So I blabbed away without any self-censorship. I told her how Cheesey was slipping me hush money, how I didn’t want to bash non-recyclers, how I no longer smoked kanja in front of the dump interns, how my belief in compost had kept me grounded, and how I planned to appeal to the swing voters by campaigning with an orang-a-tang..
The strategies and tactics that I outlined to her worked … and I won in a walk. (Some said, after they saw me at the local gay bar, that I had a man date). However, I awoke yesterday to hear that Daisy had betrayed me. She had recorded all our telephone conversations and was playing them for anyone and everone on talk-TV in order to promote her new book, “My Life as a Dump Fuck.” I was mortified by this betrayal of trust.
So I called Daisy and, in a round-about way, reminded her of the video tapes that we had recorded in some of our drug-induced por-favor sessions. “Nuf said,” she responded … and quickly dropped out of the remainder of her book tour.