Joey V. - "Paper Shredder"

I am a professional paper shredder.

Now, when one reads that, it is likely that the first thing that comes to their mind is: how do you make a living off of that? (They would pronounce that like one would say dirty diapers or sweaty gym socks, or Tony Romo).

The second thing that comes to their mind is: Who would need a professional paper shredder anyway? The answer to that is no one. But don’t tell my boss that. (My boss, by the way, is the richest man on the planet).

And because my boss is the richest man in the world, he feels the need to act like it. For instance, he hires, along with a professional paper shredder, a professional trash tosser, shoe tier, pencil sharpener, and hair comber. And to answer the first question, he pays each of them well over 1 million dollars a year.

I was happy with my job. I was happy with my life. And I thought would continue to be happy with it until one gloriously awful day.

The day began in a fairly ordinary fashion. I strutted into the shredding room, looking forward to another day of bringing papers to their doom. I sat in my black leather chair and put my hand into the bin to find only one paper.

“That’s odd,” I thought out loud. Usually there are thousands. My first thought was: today’s going to be easy. But as I studied the paper more closely, it seemed to come to life. A wave of silvery light flashed across its surface, and it spoke to me! The odd part was, it had no mouth or eyes or nose, it just rippled a little in the center and uttered the pleading words:

“Please, no.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I did the logical thing, I slapped myself. But when I looked down, the paper pleaded again: “Don’t do it!” I decided to take matters more seriously; I stapled myself in the forehead.

“Ahhhhhh!” I looked down. There was a moment of silence. Had I just been imagining it? All it took me to forget that a paper had been talking to me was to inject a piece of aluminum into my brain?

“That was stupid” the paper exclaimed blankly.

“Who are you?!” I asked it as I was trying to pry the staple out of my head.

“I am a piece of paper who does not want to be shredded. Seriously, how would you like to be stuck into a machine built specifically to devour you?”

Then a feeling of dread came upon me. I was a murderer. I have shredded millions of papers, and not thought of how they felt.

“I used to be an amazing pine tree. I smelled good, I looked good, but when I was cut down and shipped to a paper factory, I knew that the only chance I had of succeeding was to become something important, such as a dollar bill, or a certificate of achievement. And I did. I have become an important document used by the wealthiest man in the world, and now I am to be shredded mercilessly by you.”

“Why haven’t other papers told me this?” I asked

“Because they are not brave enough,” it answered, “and now open your window and free me into the wind.” And that’s what I did. For a moment the paper fluttered beautifully in the sunlight, until it ended up landing in a mud puddle and getting run over by a semi truck. But at least he wasn’t shredded.