Yo, my name's Bubba. Bubba Johnson. I don't really know why my parents named me Bubba, but it doesn't really matter since I like my name. Well kind of. My dad's name was Bobby and my grandfather's was Robert, so I guess they got bored of recycling names and decided to be a bit more creative.
About me? Well, not much. I was into baseball as a kid but I was nowhere near making it pro, always the mediocre guy on the team, not good but not bad enough to be considered useless. I didn't really know what to do after playing baseball, it was my only goal in life. I never really played baseball for the game, but because it opened a world of opportunity in my eyes. If you were good enough, your whole life would be set: a hot wife, gazillion dollars, and the most important, a legacy.
I always found the concept of being remembered through your legacy as fascinating. It's crazy how your impact could live hundreds of years after your death and inspire others.
Unfortunately, I got a cushy job as an accountant and spend most of my time looking at analytics, charts, and numbers that suck the life out of your soul the longer you work. But it doesn't always suck, I guess. It has given me enough funds to rent an apartment and feed my pet turtle, Bagel, before I go off to work.
Maybe one day, I could support a family, become financially free, or go on a vacation every now and then. But then what? Do I just retire and hope that my impact with others will last? Will they remember the actions I have done, or the words I have said? It's hard to say, but I'm certain that nobody will remember me after a century has passed. At this rate, I probably won't be remembered in a few decades.
Well who cares. In the grand scheme of things, no one will be remembered. Not even the most beautiful, or influential people in the world will be remembered after enough time has passed. When the libraries are burned, and humanity begins to eat at itself, our memories would have become another piece of garbage in an endless landfill. Welp, that's what I think, but it doesn't really change anything. And today is no different. Time to go to work, I guess.
***
Yeah, fuck it. I don't want to work in this crappy job. I don't want to live this crappy life. I don't want to drink this crappy coffee. Everything is crappy!
I'm currently sitting in my stupid cubicle, staring blankly at my computer. I feel sweat dripping down my neck because of the oppressive, humid atmosphere of the office. Screw this man, they got me working like twelve hours and they can't afford a freaking air conditioner. Plus, my severe sweating conditions don't help. I think I can feel my sweat go down my fricking butthole!
Fortunately, there's a window in the lunchroom that has a nice breeze. With enough time, I can apply my antiperspirant deodorant and completely wipe myself rid of my nasty bodily fluids. The only problem is that lunch time has already passed, and my boss hates my guts, so there's no way he'll let me enter the lunchroom. Why does he hate me? Probably because I slack off a lot and suck at my job. Also since I occasionally steal his secret stash of Twinkies. But he probably doesn't know that it's me, right?
But heh, I've got a secret weapon up my sleeve. You may (or may not) be wondering, what is your secret weapon, Bubba? Well, it's a hot chick named Rachel. The boss has a tendency to stare at her fat ass whenever she walks by like a snobby kid drooling at the sight of candy. All I need to do is direct his attention towards her, but how?
I look over to the left and see my lackluster coffee. Wait, I think to myself, what if I make a mess on the aisle in front of the boss's office? I can't help myself but become pleased by my ingenuity. That should give me a five minute time frame to apply my deodorant and stand next to the cold, ethereal breeze of the lunchroom window.
I swallow my shame and walk towards my boss's office with my coffee in my hands. I stand there for a good six or seven seconds, questioning my morality as a human being, then slowly spill out the coffee onto the lifeless floor.
I shriek like a little girl, "Oh no! Whatever will I do? I just spilled coffee everywhere!" The boss looks like he's about to become a freaking tomato because of how red his face is.
"Damn it, Bubba, that floor costs triple your damn paycheck!"
I have to restrain my laughter, "S-Sorry sir. It won't happen again. Let me clean it up for you."
"Oh my Bubba! Let me clean it up for you!" Rachel shudders.
Heh. Bingo. Rachel bends over in front of the boss, flaunting her unbelievably thick figure. The boss's face starts to relax as his eyes lock on Rachel's ass.
The boss sighs, "Very well, good work Rachel."
Mission success. Now it's time for me to sneak into the lunchroom.
I start rushing towards the lunchroom with sweat seeping through my clothes. But my sweat is only a minor inconvenience compared to the suffocating heat of the office.
As I enter the lunchroom, I see about half of the freaking office workers panting next to the window, all sweaty and bunched up. What the heck? They must've capitalized on the opening I set up with Rachel's booty. Damn it all, everyone in this office pisses me off. But who cares about that right now, I need to get some of that refreshing air or I might actually die in this stupid office.
Abruptly, the boss enters the lunchroom.
"What the fuck guys? Get back to work or everyone is getting a pay cut!"
Impossible! How the hell did he get here? Wasn't Rachel's ass doing her thing? Behind me, I notice Rachel entering the door, jiggling in all the wrong places.
"Why the fuck are you here?" I moan.
Rachel retorts, "The paper towels are in the lunchroom asshat, so I came over here to clean up the mess you made."
That was the last straw. I couldn't take this bullshit anymore.
After bracing myself, I charge into my boss with pure rage and go for his face. But mid-tackle, his greasy hair detaches from his head, revealing a huge balding spot that looked like moldy cheese pizza. Gross. I held his slimy wig in my hands, which began oozing and mixing with the sweat from my palm.
My boss glares at me as if I stabbed him through his heart.
"You're fired Bubba Johnson!" he roars.
Welp, that's how I got fired. Perhaps this is my legacy. Just barely getting by, doing stupid shit and hoping that it would work out.
But no, I've always wanted to become something great. I want to be in control of my life and not eye-fuck greatness like it's Rachel.
I promise. I'm going to become the fucking main character!