Y'move sixteen tons, whaddya get
Another day burger and deeper in debt
St. Ronald don't you call me, cause I can't go
I owe my soul to the rock n roll store
I'm an average American man. I put in my fifteen hours at the hamburger mine every day like everyone else. 'Course, a day's pay hasn't bought a rock and roll disc in years. Inflation, they tell us. I think anyone who calls that "inflation" needs to be reminded what pickle fumes will do to a man with a leak in his respirator.
That doesn't happen much any more. Not since we won a canary in the last strike. Now the main problem's loneliness. These are men who miss their wives. Men who miss their husbands. Men who miss each other's wives. Men who can't even grab their boyfriends' asses on the clock without their pay getting docked. It's enough to drive a guy up the wall. You grab a firm bun in your hand, feel that warm, greasy meat dripping down your wrist, you remember how good it feels to touch and be touched. You remember what you're leaving behind to be here. Your loins wake up and they're not going back down without a fight. We got men here with every kind of equipment down there you care to name, and you won't find one that doesn't feel the call sometimes. Sometimes it's a sex thing, sometimes you just get so goddamned touch starved you lay your pickaxe down right then and there.
I shouldn't have to tell you this, but buddy, they won't let us fuck the burgers. Between you and me, it's not even a particularly satisfying conclusion. The bun's all hot and warm and firm, sure, and the meat has that perfect consistency, but there's no friction. It'll fall apart in your hands and then you're just standing there with ketchup and mustard all over your work pants like a fool. All you have to show for it is that you're behind on your quota and still not thinkin' clear. Some of the guys swear by it, but I think it only works in the same way an old boot's a good meal when you're starving. Hunger is the best sauce and all.
That's where I come in, if you'll forgive the pun. I suppose you could call me the hamburger helper. It's my job to make sure all those hardworking folks out there keep their eyes on the prize. Don't let anyone tell you it ain't hard work or that it ain't a noble profession. Accidents went down by half my first year working here. I gotta keep track of everyone's preferences. Sal likes my mouth, Alex likes the puppet (Miss Trixie, I call her), and let's just say Gayle keeps my hands full.
It's a dirty job, but somebody's gotta do it.