I am the only son of a bitch in this company allowed to swim in the soup vats. Nobody else. I can swim in the soup vats whenever I damn well please because this is my soup company. If you don't like that, go ahead and start your own soup company.
Brick Linehouse and his R&D team are working on the future of our company. If even one of you rat-faced imbeciles so much as pesters Brick or his team, there will be mass firings. HOWEVER, if you see Brick or his team not working on saving this company, you have my permission to spit and hiss at them.
Bear Cave Soup Company's illustrious president battles rampant rumors in the wake of the Soup & Broth Expo, the most prestigious and important event in the entire soup and broth industry.
It is my exclusive right as owner of this company to howl like a wild beast whenever I so choose or whenever the spirit moves me to do so. I will not tolerate any other employee, be he man, woman or beast acting in this fashion. It is my gift... It is my curse.
In case you failed to comprehend the meaning of my last memo, I AM DYING OF A HEART ATTACK. I do not have time for your small, trivial problems or your questions about my health. If I wanted to chat with you, I would invite you over for dinner. I do not like any of you enough to ever do that.
Today I discovered something disturbing waiting for me just outside the front door to our offices: a bowl of blood. I asked Manuel Rodriguez if he knew what this was about, and he informed me it was part of a gang ritual known as "THE CHOLO."
I just caught wind of a new trend spreading around the office that I do not approve of. "Hand Slapping" as it is called is not to be done on my property. If you want to slap your hand against another person's hand, do so somewhere far away and outside of work. I don't tolerate sex perverts and inappropriate touching in my office.
Some of you have had the audacity to question my decision to take some of the older boys on a "field trip" to the Bouncy House. It's amazing any of you would question me, since I was upfront about where I was taking them. Are that many of you really not familiar with local strip clubs? What other Bouncy House would I mean?
In case any of you get a mind to leave early, I should give you fair warning: I have employed a sharpshooter. His name is Ðâng Lành and he was one of the best solders the Viet Cong ever produced. I met him during my days in the war and was so impressed by his ability to capture and torment his enemies that I hired him on the spot.
I'm instructing Tall Charlie to stand outside my door and swing around a machete indiscriminately. He will be wearing a blindfold and earplugs to ensure total objectivity and no bias with his reckless swinging.
I want to hear the sounds of soup being made, not whimpering from cooing mothers and dopey pencil-necked do-gooders. I pride myself on running the toughest soup business in the country, and the record number of workplace suicides here reinforces my position as THE CRUELEST MAN IN SOUP.
Apparently I'm paying you all to gossip about the state of the company. Well, if you cannot possibly continue living without knowing the truth, here it is: I lost half our offices in a high-stakes game of poker at one of the Soup & Broth afterparties.
We don't need marketing. Our soups appeal to a large audience. We've captured almost all of the wife beater market and angry dads prefer our soups two to one. You can't buy that kind of success. You earn it by making the meanest soup the world has ever seen.
Effective immediately: I cannot be killed and I will never die. I will run this soup company until the earth is a fiery hellhole and I am the last living thing.
Lip smacking. It's a goddamn epidemic here. I hear it through the walls. If you can't refrain from smacking your lips, you’re going to be getting awfully familiar with the heel of my boot.
I HAVE BEEN A MODEL BOSS. I removed all the raccoons and possums from the soup vats. There's no more yowling to distract you from work. I have reintroduced rats into our intricate ecosystem to keep insects from contaminating our soups. Finally, I have managed to purge the last of the rockabillies from our ventilation ducts and soupyards.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
Please disregard the previous memo mentioning a business trip to Tehran. It was a typo. It should have read "I'm back from my vacation trip to Tahoe." It's beautiful this time of year, but I'm goddamn sick of eating kebabs.