You and your proud working- class ethos. You, sitting at your laptop, spying on me on Facebook, jerking your parts off. Go ahead and pass on that shipment: you’ll get a cut. You’re no beauty school dropout, hanging around the corner store. You need to know: when they do make me into a rag-doll, you’ll get one of the first batch. You can wring me out, slam me down on your linoleum floor, bite my head to your heart’s content.