July 4, 1776
So I was just at work minding my own business today at City Tavern when my boss Mr. Drucker gets a message that the fellas down at congress are working on some important shit and they need to have their lunch brought in. Seeing that Mr. Drucker is the only tavern in Philly that offers free-delivery, he gets all the business. So they Pony Express the most complicated to-go order ever and he’s making all these plates of sweet potato biscuits and pepper pot soup when I notice that our regular delivery guy Paul Revere is no where to be found. I know that Drucker is going to tell me to deliver it even though my job is to wash the dishes and clean the outhouse. “Fuck that, Drucker,” I says. “Go find Paul. I’m not using my horse to go all the way down to congress. Not my job, dude. Unless you’re gonna pay me for new shoes for my horse, I ain’t doin’ it.” He tells me that it’s in my contract to do whatever he tells me to do and that if I don’t do it he will fire me and since this job is better than cleaning outhouses for free, I decide to do it.
Those fucking congressman know how to eat, I tell ya. They ordered the whole damn tavern and my horse was bogged down with so much crap that I had to walk him because there was no place for me to sit. They must have ordered 25 lobster pot pies alone. Those are the most expensive thing on the menu so I guess we can expect a tax increase any day to pay for all that, fucking politicians.
When I get there, John Adams is the first one to see me and he’s all, “I had the lobster pot pie with no celery because I’m allergic to it. Which one is mine? I’m starving!” Umm, hello, Mr. Adams, I’m fine, thanks for asking. God, he’s such an asshole. So he grabs his food and scurries off to his little desk and then all the other dicks want their food right away like they haven’t eaten since the Boston fucking Tea Party. (Which I catered, by the way, and it sucked.) I finally get all their food out to them and when it comes time for someone to pay the bill, they all suddenly have short arms and deep pockets. No one wants to pay. “Oh, just put it on our tab,” they all say. “Mr. Drucker knows we’re good for it.” I tell them I’m going to need a signature and some fucking blowhard named John Hancock appears out of nowhere and signs the receipt like it’s the most important thing he’s ever signed in his whole entire life. That’s all fine and dandy, but I’m more concerned with my tip. Nobody seems willing to tip me on this huge ass to-go order.
I’m just standing there with my hand out like a fucking beggar and they totally ignore me. I am pissed as bloody hell. They’re all at their desks cramming roasted duck triple decker sandwiches into their faces and no one wants to tip me for my service. I wander over to this table that has all this parchment paper on it and at the top of one of the pages I see it says Declaration of Independence. It looks important, like, really important. The first thing I notice is John Hancock’s big obnoxious signature underneath it and a bunch of other chicken scratch bullshit. I can tell at this point that no one is going to tip me and I decide as a big “fuck you” to all of them, I will put my name on their little masterpiece. Who fucking cares? Hopefully, they won’t see it until it’s too late and their boss will make them do it all over again. I grab a quill and some ink and sign my own “John Hancock” right there between Charles Whoever the Fuck and George Somebody Else: Thomas “Bud” Henry! I don’t even have to be sneaky about it because they are all so involved in their food that they don’t even notice some 18 year old kid defacing their precious fucking document. I also pocket the quill and a jar of ink. Fuck you, John Adams and the horse you rode in on.
When I get back to City Tavern, I see Paul Revere and he’s all, “Hey asshole, you trying to steal my job?” I ignore him. Then Drucker wants to know where the money is and he blows a gasket when I tell him to put it on their tab. How the fuck am I supposed to know we don’t let politicians run tabs? Not my problem. By this time, my shift is over so I go back home.
It was a long hot day today and I didn’t make much money, but I do have some satisfaction knowing that I got my name on to some bullshit document called Declaration of Independence. I don’t know what it is but I hope that whoever has to turn it in gets in trouble. I hope it’s John Adams. Man, he seems like an asshole.
Good night, diary. -Bud