An Excerpt From the Diary of A Disgruntled Foot Soldier
June 11, 1991
Dear Diary:
What the hell have I gotten myself into? I am seriously starting to doubt my career path. I keep asking myself, is it worth $11.50 an hour to get punched in the face by a giant turtle on a skateboard? I’ve been working here for three months and all I do is get the crap kicked out of me by these friggin’ things. And, surprise, no health insurance plan.
Every time I see a turtle now, even a regular one, I freak out. I can’t help it. It’s really emasculating, but do these Teenage Mutant Ninja Pricks care? Not one bit. I might be able to go a shift without a freak of nature punching me in the stomach if the guys I work with weren’t so incompetent. You’re just standing there, watching him break dance?! Do something!
My wife thinks I should see someone, but no one is sympathetic to my problems. Whenever I tell anyone how my job description basically entails getting publicly beaten and humiliated by turtles in costumes, all they hear is “turtles.” Everyone loooooves the turtles. “You’ve met them? Is Leonardo cute? Is Michelangelo funny?” I couldn’t tell ya. It’s hard to get to know someone when all they do is beat the shit out of you. And last time, the one with the friggin’ stick, he put me in a garbage can and rolled me down a hill. In front of all these people! And they all cheered! How am I supposed to feel after that? But, that thing didn’t give it a second thought. As soon as he pushed me, he just turned around and kicked Marty in the nuts.
And, the boss is no help at all. I could tell just at the interview that he was gonna be a ball-buster. I mean, who calls himself Shredder? The guy’s an egomaniac. And, I’m pretty sure his accent is fake. A little over-the-top, if ya ask me, buddy. I don’t even think he’s Japanese. I peeked at his mail one day, and I could have sworn it was addressed to a Goldstein. And, he’ll never admit to this, but he didn’t burst his hand through that rubble after that creepy Asian rat threw him off the building. I pulled him out and carried him back to base! Then, I had to rub Icy Hot on his chest while he threw a pity party for himself. You know what I got that Christmas? A gift card to Ruby Tuesday. I know, right?
I even went up to him after one of the many nights that Raphael pantsed me in front of a group of college girls, I went up to him and told him that maybe we should change strategy a little. You know, surprise ‘em. He looked at me, dead in the face, and I swear to god, he said, “This is working. We’re sticking with the plan.” What plan?! Is he hoping the turtles get so tired of basking in everyone’s friggin’ praise that they turn themselves in? I don’t even think he knows what he would do with these jerks if he ever actually caught them! What is the point of this? I’m beginning to think this is all an elaborate scheme to get that pizza boy friend of theirs laid. If it is, it’s working. Meanwhile, my testicles are constantly numb.
Mom was right. I shouldn’t have quit school. If I stuck with it, I’d be a dental hygienist right now. Helping people, making them feel good about their smiles. Instead, the best I could hope for in a day’s work is that I don’t get thrown into a river of raw sewage by a gigantic amphibian that somehow has perfect teeth. I didn’t even think turtles had teeth, but apparently they do. Straight, perfect teeth. What a shocker.
