It's none other than your neighborhood pie-smith, Leonard Sunnyside, here to somberly inform you that Leonard's Ol' Fashion Pies...is closed for business.
You see folks, me and Ma just couldn't turn a profit with all the new minimum wage increases here in New York City, and I worry now that she has come down with a bad case of Pig Foot and we can scarcely afford the balms and creams she so desperately needs.
Oh how me and Ma' tried. The poor old gal nearly worked herself half to death just to afford the high salaries that had been imposed upon our poor employees Burt and Ginger May, whose hourly wages nearly doubled overnight by the tyranny of our cruel and unusual government!
Unfortunately we had to cut hours, and with no work staff to help us turn a profit, Momma was up every night, stomping boysenberries in her nightgown, while I took on a second job down at the docks, mongering fish guts and mopping up the putrid leavings of drunken sailors. But it was not enough, for the foreman could only spare a few minutes of employment per night (what with the astronomical wages and all), and all me and the other sad small-business owners could do was watch from behind a fence as two illegal immigrants slouched at their duty to run the billion dollar shipping yard industry by themselves, as they chain-smoked cigarettes and gambled for each other's food stamps.
As if that was not enough, more misfortune was to come. The pecan grinder threw a costly sprocket and I was forced to sell the remainder of my teeth to a local college.
Poor Momma had become full with worry for poor, simple Burt, who was getting paid so much money thanks to the wage hike that it was literally spilling out of his overstuffed pockets.
Burt had spent most of his new-found fortune on lottery tickets and spinning rims for all of his many extravagant cars he could now afford. It wasn't long before he had begun to sleep around with girl's of dubious moral qualities down at the dancing club. In only a month of work at his new sky-high wages, he had to abandon his charming rooftop home in Harlem for a stuffy suite on Lexington blvd.
But we can't save Burt from a life of undeserved enjoyment more than we can save ourselves from gut-knifing socialism. Ma and I have been bled complete, hung up in the garage and emptied of everything we are worth into rusty buckets of entitlement, which was then poured out into the sewer of utter despair, and left to drain into the sea of Dead Dreams...
There was nothing left to do but lay-off ol' Burt and lil' Ginger May, and send them both into the wild blue unknown, where they will most likely be raped and or killed by wild packs of Puerto Ricans.
With out her beloved pie shop I fear Momma has begun to lose all hope, and has slowly slipped into a quiet dementia. With the minimum wage increase, I can't even buy her a sarsaparilla (she loves a good sarsaparilla) because the great wage hike caused some strange thing called "inflation," and damned if the price of a bottle has risen from a nickel to 180$.
I guess folks just don't care bout me and Mamma, and hearty American Pies. I guess they just don't care about small business, simpler times, and affordable sarsaparillas.
Guess we heading west now, soon as I get the wagon patched up. I only hope they got enough sense out there to let these poor souls work at a reasonable, honest, God-fearin' pay-scale. And who cares if Johnny Two-Shoes is making seventy-trillion times more than Joe Credit Debt? That's none of anyone's concern. The simple folk should just keep their heads down and pray all us smart folks keep them from hurtin' themselves with financial mobility. No tellin' what mess they might wind up in with that nasty business.
Former Business Owner,
SoHo, New York City
Article generated by MONGOMEDIA, an automated news generator for a brighter tomorrow.