You have no idea how many bike-related I, Anonymous submissions we get every day, so it’s really nice when, every so often, we get a freaky little gem like this. I think it’s a little too long and wordy for the print version, but it really should be read:

You visit him once a night. The perfume delivered seconds before your Himalayan cleavage. He’s always glazed of sweat and splattered in leftovers when they arrive.You cringe, say something condescending, he laughs, looks down and scrubs away. But he gets your get-up, how they work, how they got you the work. And on a good week, you make it to work most of the time. He comes early, leaves late. Does the labor of two men. He fills the shift when I’m hung low. Leaves the dish pit immaculate—every time. He is the backbone of this joint. You are burdened with menus, the fuzzy math of seating two people at a two-top, and ten pounds of cosmetic zaftig. It is a wonder how you whine your way through a grueling shift with all these rigors. Yet, you do. He has never missed a shift. Never complained—not once. Not even in his native tongue. You “excused” yourself from work due to a tanning booth “malfunction.” He never breaks for lunch or dinner. But he likes to put his cock against the rotary belt of the dishwashing machine. You take three-hour liquid power lunches. He likes the vibes of the machine when he grabs some afternoon delight after everything has been done. He got carried away one afternoon, a lapse in concentration, the belt snagged his nutsack and tore an egg from the nest. Maimed and bloodied, he found a staple gun to cauterize the gaping wound. Then some duct tape to control the hemmoraghing. He finished his shift—stayed late. Told no one of his injury. You skipped work because of a pimple. He carted around an infected scrotum for weeks, oozing puss and bile the size of a ripe grapefruit. Never missed a shift, never showed the pain…his face calm and blank. Until he buckled one night, crumpled lifeless, glazed in sweat beneath the machine. I know you are borne of distant hemispheres. But, the next time you and your sunburned tits take another day off work to be with yourselves, you might consider asking a Bolivian dishwasher what he would do. I’m sure he’d give you his left nut to fill you in….if he only could.