May 17th, 1926
“I walked around the factory floor today and noticed my workers were tired, in low spirits, and lethargic. AKA the opposite of wet and wild. When I founded the Ford Motor Company in 1903, I had two goals. The first was to make an automobile affordable to the middle-class so their dreams of easy transportation to sexy beach volleyball games, wet t-shirt contests, and clothing-optional booze cruises would be realized. My other goal was for my automobiles to eventually be used in something I call a ‘monster truck rally,’ in which giant tires are put on normal-sized cars. (They’ll do wheelies and flips and shit in a stadium.) But none of this can happen if I have high strung, unproductive employees. That’s why tomorrow, I’m bringing in some bootlegged brews so everyone can unwind.”
May 18th, 1926
“Today I did three keg stands and shotgunned seven beers at 11 am. I thought it would be inspiring for the boys to watch as their boss got absolutely destroyed, but oddly, productivity went down. (Probably because of the time they wasted watching me get turnt as hell.) As I was spraying whiskey down from the overhead sprinklers onto the staff and screaming, ‘If any of you snitch on me for being in possession of alcohol, I’ll call the cops right back on your ass and tell them to smell your hooch stained overalls,’ I got an idea; what if I let my employees imbibe with me? Surely that would boost morale. Unfortunately, my instincts were off, as seventeen fingers and two arms were severed in alcohol-related accidents today.”
June 23rd 1926
“Partying is very important to me. I love it almost as much as I love my anti-semitic views, of which I hold many—” [REDACTED]
July 10th, 1926
“I had an epiphany. Everybody loves getting plastered on Saturday nights. It blows off all the steam that’s been building up over the week and also serves as an affront to God by embracing hedonism. (As most people know, I, Henry Ford, sold my soul to Lucifer in order to become a successful businessman, and now I am indebted to the Dark Lord. I love Satan and want to praise him, boop his little nose, and throw him a game-winning touchdown so thousands of fans cheer, ‘Satan! Satan! Satan!’) Here is my pitch; what if we got positively ripped out of our gourds not just once a week, but twice? I’m talking Saturdays AND Sundays off from work. This will increase partying by 100% and if my hunch is correct, profits, too. An old businessmen’s credo goes, ‘Partying makes profits just as kissing your dad on the lips makes you grow up to be a respectable entrepreneur who owns his own automotive company.’”
September 17th, 1926
“Beep beep! What’s that sound? Oh, it’s just the ‘genius alarm,’ and it’s ringing because I walked by. (The alarm also beeps when guys are really good at sex, too. It’s a very sophisticated alarm.) Productivity is through the goddamn roof. But I think we can do even better. That’s why The Ford Motor Company will pivot from creating automobiles to creating party robots, or ‘Partybots’ for short. They’ll serve you beers and say things like, ‘Now this is a party!’ By the year 1950, every household in America will own a Partybot.”
October 1st, 1926
“Automobiles are fine, but Partybots are the future. I don’t understand why my investors are mad.”
April 27th, 1927
“The Partybots have turned on us and eliminated all of my employees. They were designed to do one thing; keep the good vibes rolling. The vibes, however, were severely dampened when the Partybots refused to serve us margaritas, and instead, began a new objective to eliminate humanity. They’re not making it out of the factory though, because I’m blowing it to kingdom come. (I had my engineers rig this place with TNT when we started Partybot production on the off chance these metal fucks went rogue.) The only problem is, the explosives can’t be activated remotely. My final wish is that every time you kick back and get absolutely shitfaced with your crew on the freakend, remember Ol’ Henry Ford.”
This was the final entry, as Henry Ford died in an explosion at the Ford factory in Detroit, Michigan on April 27th, 1927. His journal is all that survived. On behalf of everyone who loves to get obliterated on Friday and Saturday nights, thank you for the weekend, Mr. Ford.
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