Return of the Dumpsterguys?

The guy who bid this blog on E-Bay paid with a stolen credit card; so the management has informed me that the sale has been rule null and void. The buyer turned out to be a disgraced one-legged clown named "Stumpy." He had been a finalist in the "So You Think You Can Be a Clown" reality show which has been popular among the 8-11 age group on cable TV.

If you never saw the show, you are among the ninty-ninth percentile of viewers. Anyhow, he had been thinking of cashing-in on his near celebrity status by trying to take the Dumpsterguys into syndication as a reality TV series.

This Blog has been sold

Sorry but I sold this blog on e-bay.

You should delete the link since I do not plan to update it anymore

Lardass's widow says thanks for all the emails and cards.

DFM

Best of DumpF*cks

Acknowledging the holiday, I thought I might get away with reprinting an old - probably forgotten - episode from the Pre-FEMA days at the dump. This is one of my favorites. If you have already seen it, please feel free to do something else, other than adding some inane comment about the author.

I was sitting at the Managers desk in the cob house catching up on paperwork this morning when Lardass came in, wet and mumbling to himself. He threw his dripping gloves down on the floor and stomped around rattling cups and coffee pot.
"What's the problem now?" I finally looked up, hoping it would be one of those simple to solve contradictions that His Lardness found so troubling. Naive me.
"Aw, some asshole left a canister of antimatter in the plutonium take-and-leave section. For fuck's sake, anyone knows that you don't just leave antimatter lying around where some kid could find it and bring it to school. (Hello class, Here's my science project. Kaboom.)"

For once he had good reason to be annoyed. Antimatter is about as stable as Maria Carey on crystal meth. Drop it or bump it the wrong way and you get a huge vacant crater where your dump and town used to be, preceded by a gigantic fireball that can be seen in Iowa.

"What did you do with it?" I was tapping my pencil impatiently, Lardass let out a snicker that sounded like the old Woody woodpecker cartoon. 

 "What did I DO? you ask? Like there is something you can DO about a canister of antimatter? Hmmn. Let me see what it says in the procedure manual....funny there is no fucking entry for antimatter! I wonder why! Maybe because you need to contain it in a lead lined magnetic hemispheric dumpster? And we ain't go no fucking extra lead lined dumpsters..."
Lardass was such a dolt. I sometimes wonder why we keep him on the payroll. Then I remember. We don't get a lot of new blood in the dump business, at least not in terms of applicants. Young people just don't dream about working at the dump, these days.

"Wait a minute." I said consulting the asset board which hung on my wall.. I pointed to an icon that represented specialized dumpsters. #3408 was located in the north forty near the big slag heap. "How about this one?"
"That thing got a hemi?" he asked.

"Get the fuck out of here and get that shit secured!"

 He stomped out into the rain, smiling at his little joke.

Awkward Moment

So there I was sitting at the bar at the British Beer Company, my favorite watering hole when I am in Hyannis, drinking a beer with my newest friend - the driver of the maroon Hummer. He says his real name is Marvin, but I should call him 'Zemo'. We were still chuckling about the contretemps at the intersection with the global warming kids. "Hell, when I saw them I thought it was gonna be a car wash. I like it when the chicks get soapy on my car. But, this bunch of treehugger wussys..." he snorted.

I followed his eyes, which seemed to be trying to focus on something behind me, and turned around to see that we were being glared-at harshly by an untanned, bespeckled woman who had come into the bar with two small black dogs on leashes and a plastic bag containing what appeared to be dog doo. "You two are not funny!" she said by way of introduction. 

"You ruined that demonstration of exuberance by those lovely innocent young people. They were just having fun, and you spoiled the moment. You are not funny or brave, you should be ashamed of yourself with your drunken behavior. 

"Madam" Zemo burped the word, "I trust that you are not referring to moi when you are talking about dipsomaniacal behavior. I have not had but 4 or 5 beers today - not counting breakfast of course. I assure you that am a long way from drunk. Besides - I am not the one carrying dogshit around in a plastic bag as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do. So, if we want to open up the door of shame..."

"You think you are funny. I think you are ..." she hesitated, just long enough for Freddy the bartender who was witnessing this scenario to interject, "Hey lady, get them fucking mutts out of my bar before I call the cops!"

Looking as if she had been goosed with an umbrella, the woman stood her ground. "I think you should clean up your language young man!  Whereupon she turned and marched out into the sunlight, with the dogs trailing, wagging their tails.

I turned back to the bar, peeled a $50 bill off my roll, smoothed it out on the varnished wooden bar and grinned at the bartender, "Freddy, kindly get another beer for me and my friend Zemo here. And ... pour a little something for yourself."

Honk for Global Warming

Yesterday I was walking on Main St in in Hyannis. My wife was engaged in serious (and serial) shopping, so I had some time to kill. I was looking for an ATM when I approached an intersection with some young people stationed on all 4 corners.

The kids looked to be college age and were animatedly displaying large poster board signs that said, "Honk for Global Warming. No day at the Beach!" and, "It's getting Hot out here!" Some cars were dutifully tooting their horns. But some drivers passed by with frowns and extended middle fingers.

"What's this about?" I asked one young fellow who seemed to be having a good time.
"Just trying to save the planet, mate" he beamed superciliously.  I ignored the fact that his accent betrayed the fact that he was in the wrong hemisphere as well as latitude. I suppressed the urge to tell him to go back home and stop wasting our valuable New England-climate-balancing oxygen.

"Please feel free to make a honking sound, if you like." he smiled with the genuine smile of an evangelist who is certain that they are bringing the good news to the godless heathens.

I frowned. "I am more concerned with noise pollution than I am with global warming. Besides how does this help? Your signs don't make it clear whether you are for or against global warming. Besides not all scientists agree on the matter."

He just looked at me like I was being intentionally obtuse. "The UN says it's a problem, mate. You can't find a more neutral organization."
I laughed, "The UN is the most corrupt organization on the planet! What about the 'Oil for food' program? What about all the genocide that they are ignoring? They are corrupt and useless!"
"I haven't heard anything about those things."

Just then a maroon Hummer came through the intersection, honking his horn.
The college kids started booing and giving him a thumbs down sign. The driver, a big tanned dude wearing only a bathing suit screeched to a stop and jumped out. The look in his eyes showed that he had consumed several adult beverages.
"Ok!" he yelled in a whiskey voice, glaring at the sign holders "Who wants to get their ass kicked for global warming?"
The demonstrators went suddenly silent, lowered their signs and looked around to see if anyone was volunteering. No one was.
The Hummer driver laughed at the pall that he had thrown on the party, jumped back in his car and peeled-out.

I almost felt sorry for the college kids. But maybe they could identify with the missionaries who preached God to the cannibals and then were invited to dinner.

I found an ATM and got a wad of cash. As I walked further up the street, I noticed the Hummer parked in front of the British Beer Company. Next to the bar at Baxter's, BBC is is my favorite watering hole in Hyannis, so I decided to go in. Sure enough, the driver was at the bar, now wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, swigging a large stein of dark ale. I walked over and asked him if he was the one who had just yelled at the global warming kids.
"Yeah! That was me. Why?" he grinned, eyes unfocused.
"I just wanted to buy you a beer," I said.

A Patriot

Cares about people as much as the piece of cloth allegedly representing the people.

Feels that all men are not created equal; some are nasty, brutish, and short and it is the job of the Commonweal to help them approach equality, or put them in jail.

Volunteers for service to their country rather than pontificating about how others should sacrifice their time and blood.

Holds those who he elects to the same standards as those who he despises.

Does not condone voting fraud because he suspects the opposition is doing it.

Can believe that the Constitution needs to be updated

Can vote for a communist if he believes he or she would be a good leader

Can believe that unresticted free trade will lead to market in purloined body parts, human slavery and nuclear weapons sold at roadside stands as if they were fireworks.

Doesn't accuse others of hating America merely because the others want to change the way some tings are done.

Is not to be confused with nationalist (my country at all costs right or wrong)

Dumpf*cks Lunch

The sun was blazing as we walked toward the unimpressive building that housed the mexican restaurant. Bill said lets sit out side. No its too hot. I never get my way. You are just lucky we let you come with us so shut up Pricks, he mutteres.

Nice looking waitress looks at us like we are speaking a foreign language. Margaritas all around. She gets that. Deetto orders veggie burrito. Bill calls it a fag order. The waitress laughs and points to his strawberry marg and says pot calling kettle maybe. We all laugh at that one Sipping our salty margaritas watching the TVs. You cant look anywhere without seeing a TV. Some weather babe is pointing to red blob surrounded by yellow and green where the storms are moving in our direction Nice tits says Bill Then there is a promo for the TV station I did that spot says Bill. We hate it with the fast cuts we yell Pricks, he sulks. local celebrity babe reading the news Clooney says she looks like a skank. He wouldn't do her with Bill's dick. We eat our tacos and beans, veggie burritos and order some beer to chase down the Margs.
Look at that wind Deetoo says we look out the window at the leaves and bits of vegetation roiling around in the wind like you see on tornado hunters. Then the rain and hail for chrisakes pea sized bullets. A river of dark water churning in the streets almost over the curb. TV screen goes blue searching for sattelite signal.
By the time we finish our lunch it is all over and the TV's are working again. Clooney pays for lunch with his fathers day gift certificate. Because its my birthday,they tell me not to pay anything. Deetwo pays for the drinks. Bill says I drove and shamelessly throws in a mere fiver. Everyone calls him a cheap prick, except me.

As we leave Bill says he is glad we didn't sit outside. We pelt him with toothpicks.
He is the driver so we let him in the car. He heads back to Cherry St but being a numnutz takes a wrong turn. If that isn't enough a big tree has fallen across the road and we are forced to detour to the right. Unfamiliar streets. Suddenly it is tropical again. Strange sight: Freezing pellets of fallen hail still blanket the lawns. Clooney urges Turn Left. Deetoo says no turn right. Bill goes straight. We are hopelessly lost. Driving around the lifeless storm whipped unknown territory of auburndale two deckers and vinyl clad apartments. Yelling Where the fugawee!
Finally after wandering for what seemes like days without food or water we stumble back on familiar streets. Time is of the essence now. The Mexican fart food is building up dangerous lava pools of intestinal gasses which threaten to eruct in violent spasms of noisome vapors, or worse. I am the first to be dropped off. They all wish me happy birthday and I let go of an SBD as I exit innocently from the gray Toyota. Hah.

As the gas-filled Toyota backs out of the driveway, I wave farewell then my attention is drawn to my ruined garden. The hail has struck here too shredding the hostas and clipping the tomato plants like a scythe Where have you been yells my wife from the door the storm was awful we hid in the basement My young grandkids who we are babysitting yell grandpa you missed the tornado we were scared. then they go back to their monopoly board. I go out to the porch and sit there in the tropical dampness wondering about the tomatoes and cilantro dozing off thinking of Jack Nicholson's bucket list quote Never trust a fart

ad poopulum

It was one of those August dog days where the heat and humidity are so oppressive that you just want to sit in an air conditioned FEMA trailer and quaff frosty Sierra Nevadas all afternoon, composing long, Faulknerian sentences (for the mere reason that you find it entertaining) instead of going out in the sub-Sahara swelter of the dump, running a twenty ton yellow front-end loader spewing poisonous diesel fumes and creating a din of noise and vibration that makes your ears ring and your teeth numb.


But this is not August, you think to yourself, this is June and this is not Botswana, it is Boston; now all the nattering about global warming is gonna start up again. The good news is that even the most hold-out looney conservatives are starting to realize that the scientific evidence is against them and no amount of pretzel logic is going to sway the thinking of the best and brightest people in the world which we see melting before our eyes like an ice cube on a hot tin roof.

Clooney and I were sitting in the FEMA trailer. It was 3pm and time for what we call "high tea." Clooney was scrawling on that infernal white board that he calls his blog. We had been discussing the partisan political climate in the USA. I had observed that Conservatism seemed like a "lost cause" since the history of the world was pretty much a story of progress and change.

I noted that the majority of the most educated people in the country tended to be liberal. College professors and students, book publishers, news organizations (the "mainstream media" that conservative nutjobs are always complaining about). I wondered aloud why this was so.

Clooney haughtily declared that these poor deluded souls had been deluded by some sort of groupspeak, which apparently the conservatives are immune from by nature of their superior character and perspicuity. He had enummerated them on his whiteboard which can be found here

I thought it was a nice list of admirable characteristics, but that list did not describe many of the conservatives of my acquaintance. So, I started my own list:

A conservative

- Distrusts the motives of anyone not in the clan.
- Fears people who do not believe in absolute authority.
- Thinks Liberals are more likely to be fascists.
- Nationalistic to a fault; Abhors using the word "Global" in any context.
- Abhors dissent from party line; hates dissidents.
- Has no tolerance for ambivalence; everything is black or white.
- Believes that if God exists, he must be on their side, despite the disappointment and devastation in their lives
- Thinks that their personal accomplishments are due to superior character traits and core values and not sheer luck.
- Can attribute any problem in America today to something Jimmy Carter or Bill Clinton did.
- Will demand any handout by government that the law allows, but unabashedly derides others who do the same thing.
- Believes that the liberals engage in voter fraud - because Conservatives would do it if they believed that they could get away with it. The end justifies the means.
- Evokes the small government mantra while continually voting for corrupt big government politicians
- Can easily be seduced by phonies and hypocrites by a few litmus issues.
- Thinks society would be better of more people carried automatic weapons.

- Wants your kid to enlist in the military to keep his kids safe.

- Thinks poor people are morally bankrupt and probably deserve to be poor and ignorant.
- See slippery slopes in every new invention.
- Loves the flag as a primitive symbol of tribalism.

- Claims that the opposition position is illogical but continually engages in fallacious reasoning.
- Lacks empathy.
- Claims to hold personal liberty in high esteem, does not grant this right to people who were unlucky enough to be born elsewhere in the world.
- Hates people who change their mind; sees free thinking as disloyalty.
- Uncomfortable with unscripted situations and loose canons.
- Has an arrested sense of humor; thinks puns are hilarious.

Bill's Tee Shirt Idea

I was sitting at my desk, googling the phrase "Piping Plovers Taste Like Chicken" -wondering if there are any decent recipes posted on the web. I had a dozen frozen carcasses in the freezer - a gift from an appreciative landfill customer.

When Bill came through the door of the FEMA trailer that I call my office, I was surprised. He was wearing surgical gloves and a mask to protect him from the dangerous bacteria that lurked everywhere. I wasn't surprised at his outfit; I was not expecting him. he had not showed up for work ever since he heard about the asbestos contamination in FEMA trailers. (I figure what the hell - we got it for nothing. And you gotta die of something...)

"Who's here today?" Bill asked looking warily toward Lardass's chair. He took off his wet coat and sort of threw it at a hook. The coat made a wet mark on the wall and slid to the floor.

"Nobody," I replied, "Nobody wants to work in the rain. They all called-in "not-available" already."


"It's fucking raining torrents out there."

"So, what are you doing here?" I didn't mention the fact that he had never been re-hired and has not recieved a paycheck in years.

He took off his mask so I could see him grinning. "I have an idea."
Ever the master on non-verbal communication, I rolled my eyes and nodded for him to get on with it.
"I have a new slogan: we need to get T-shirts and hats that say, "I enjoy a good dump"




"You dolt!" I shouted. "Clooney had that idea years ago, but someone else already had the patent on it. "
"No - his slogan was 'I'm Down in the Dumps' it was about computer memory printouts or something like that."

"Whatever. It's already been used. Goodbye. " I turned back to my Google searching.



Deflated, with limp sails, Bill picked up his coat and headed out the door.
"But.."
"OUT!" I yelled.
Finally, he was gone.

I thought to myself, I really ought to get rid of Bill, he's way too obsessed with shit. I remember one time when he mentioned that as a student at BU he had taken a course in Scatology. When I asked him how he did in that course he said "I got an incomplete; I didn't turn in my feces."

But, how the heck can you fire some who you already fired two years ago?

Back from my Travels

In case you haven't noticed, I've been away for the past six weeks on my world dump tour.

I felt almost like a stranger as I drove the trusty old Hummer through the RDF gates this morning. It was good to be back, to see the gang again. Perhaps in my absence they had learned to appreciate me - or at least respect my leadership.

Anyone who has visited the dump in the past is well aware of my management challenges.

Clooney - Pedantic, arrogant and elitist. An Ivy League Frat Boy who once worked on Wall Street. He is alleged to have caused several men and a chimpanzee to commit suicide. His main contribution is to question my every decision and correct every little gramitical or speling misteak.

Bill - hypochondriac, germophobic, and a complainer. He was once a creative genius but gave it up to raise horses and weeds on a farm with his "wife." He calls in sick if he thinks someone else is sick. He won't sit in a seat that Lardass has used without wiping it down with purelle.

Lardass - a large doughy fellow with a high tolerance for grime and a disturbing case of gingivitis. Often accompanied by a lingering noisome miasma due to his nonexistent hygiene and poor sense of smell. Immorally analytical, he often seems to stumble into moments of remarkable lucidity. We can't tell if he is as wise as Shakespeare or dumb as a bag of rags.

Dee Two - the old new guy. Has the look and accent of an Asian, but is in fact a Canadian citizen. I used to save money by paying him in Loonies; now he is more highly paid than the others.

Achmed - The new new guy. From the Mideast. Obsequious and grateful for the job. Believes that if there is a God, he made humans mainly as entertainment to watch us fight.

This is the staff that they expect me to run the dump with. A bunch of rag tag workers who would rather sit around the office all day shooting the bull and arguing than do the work of the dump.

Finally a chance to wear that Hawaiian Shirt I got from Aunt Helen

I am always looking for new places to dump trash. Lardass gave me an idea last week at the Monthly Dumpf*cks Ideas meeting when he said - "Hey, why don't we just dump all the crap into a live volcano? Is it break time yet?"

The idea was sheer genius and pure Lardass: simple direct and impossible. I looked on a map and the nearest volcano is in New Jersey. But the idea was seductive and eventually I thought of the Hawaiian Islands. Now that would make a perfect dumping spot, because most of the islands are uninhabited stretches of rocky lava slopes and beach sand. A perfect junkett.. A scouting trip that can be expensed to the dump research budget - and a few days of sun and surf.

Try not to hate me. I know you are stuck in the doldrums of a ghastly winter and I am wending my way to a warm beach in Hawaii. Let me remind you that though you may be miserable, cold and sick, please try to have some empathy for me: stuck on a so-called island paradise in 78-80 degree weather, with nothing to do but to sightseeing, snorkeling in the lagoon and hanging around the lanai bars, inundated by young tanned buxom women who are wearing practically nothing. How is that supposed to be fun?

Pity me. You get to go to work everyday, catching-up on the news in your car radio while stalled in traffic, arriving late under the friendly and understanding hawk-eye of your manager. And your coworkers, sure they may be petty, back-biting shits, but they are your shits - team-mates and soul pals. And while you are getting the love from your social network, here I will be with hardly anything to do, out of the range of electronic signals, forced to meet new people many of whom are wearing skimpy outfits, and no one to talk about the news with, because all they care about is their freaking tans!

I’m telling you this is going to be a hellhole. And the worst of it is, this goes on for a month! Crikey! Who the heck can afford to stay in Hawaii for a month?

So I may be er too busy to keep posting while I'm on the road, but keep checking back just in case. I love those flower wreaths that they put around your neck. I think my first question to the cabby will be “Hey, where does a guy go to get leied around here?”

Videotaping The Competition

I was sitting in the Hummer in the parking lot of the Starbucks (where I often stop on my way to work), sipping my Vente Verona and reading the newspaper that I had stolen from the stack of papers when the clerk was looking the other way. I know what you are thinking: If you can afford the Hummer then you should be able to afford the paper. Well suck on this factoid, dude: The Hummer was stolen too! Hah! Not that anyone who is alive today is going to report it stolen... if you gather my meaning.

Look, go ask Obama how he got his house - Ask Hillary about how she made a skillion in the market - Ask McCain how he got rich as a US Senator... the facts is: when you have power opportunities sometimes come your way to acquire things... You don't ask questions.

When you run a busy suburban dump, certain people seek you out and start talking about how "one hand washes the other..." - unless your name is Lardass (he hasn't washed his hands since Bill Clinton was in office, "getting his ashes hauled by at least the one intern in a blue dress, lying under oath, dismantling the military, giving secret technology to China." as Clooney likes to remind us.) Anyway the point is that you do favors for people and... well, one day you have the keys to a new Hummer. It's the way life works.

So, I guess some day, I should tell you about how I came to be driving the Hummer. Some day.

Not today. Today I had this huge idea while I was reading the freshly purloined copy of the Globe Sports section. I was searching in vain for a piece on Bull riding, which has become the fastest growing non-team, spectator sport involving bovine animals in America (at least by the 23 fans who attended the rodeo in Worcester last week. The previous year only 10 fans came to the event so that is a 30% increase, if my math is correct.)

Browsing, idly while sipping and munching on the pumpkin cake free samples that I grabbed, my attention was caught by an article bemoaning last year's flap concerning the New England Patriots who were caught red-handed filming the defensive signals of the opponents. The writer of the article wanted the readers to "get over it." I was just about to think, Dude, It might be easier if you news whores would stop writing about it.

And that's when I had this killer idea. Eureka! I need video of competitors' dumps. How can I expect to keep my facility "State of the Art" when I don't know the state of the other guys' dumps?

When I arrived at the FEMA trailer that I call my office, I was excited to tell the crew about the idea. Strangely enough the usual gang was out working when I arrived. Achmed the new guy was sweeping up, sucking around the boss like most new guys do, looking for more work so he could show-up the rest of the crew.

I handed him the old recycled Super Eight (millermeter) camera and told him to go out and get some footage of some of the other local dumps. Natick, Needham, Newton.

"What ever you say, dude. " he said as he grabbed the camera and headed out the door.

I yelled. " ...and stop going around calling everbody 'dude.' It makes you sound like a damned Valley Boy." He grimaced. I'm sure he didn't know what a valley boy is, but it sounded kind of unmanly. He was raised in Kabul under Taliban rule, so anything that smacked of androgeny was both feared and loathed.

This was his first job since sneaking into the USA. He had been hired to replace Clooney while he was out for the "operation." After Clooney returned, unexpectedly, I did not have the heart to fire him, so I found enough work for both of them to do. It was easy to fudge the budget for the first few months, since I paid Achmed in Canadian dollars. Now the shit was beginning to hit the fan, because the dollar has fallen and - according to my calculations the Looney is now the bull goose currency - having increased by about 30%.

"And for Chrissakes, don't let them catch you with the camera!" I yelled.

Progress

A 14th century inventor, Irving Pascal, noticed that the drains on sinks were too big. People were constantly losing babies when they pulled the plugs after bathing the infants. He proposed smaller drains, and of course now we seldom hear of a baby actually being thrown out with the bathwater. This my friends is progress.

The Strike is Nearly Over

It occurred to me that I could explain the dearth of creative prose lately by pretending that I was "witholding my essense" in sympathy with my brother and sister writers.

But that would not have fooled you, would it? So I may as well admit that I have just been lazy-busy lately with more rewarding activities.

The term "crazy-busy" is the title of a book about people who live lives of frenzy and distraction.

Lazy-busy is a nicer term, describing people who drift from breakfast to lunch to nap to dinner to bed and get 8 hours of restful sleep. We fill our time with satisfying experiences, meeting friends, going to lectures, languishing at the library, drinking coffee at Starbucks while reading the entire paper... that sort of thing.

Who the hell has time to lay his ink stained soul out on the rack of public opinion where mooching freeloaders get to read it free of charge?

It Takes a Village

Hillary Clinton wrote the book entitled “It takes a Village.” Like the majority of people who feel free to comment on its contents I did not read it, nor do I plan to. But, according to consensus, it is apparently a blueprint for global socialism. Guys like Clooney go ballistic when you use words like 'global' (unless you are talking about tits) because they think you are trying to level the playing field by syphoning their gas tank. Yet, when the so-called welfare handouts (like the recent cost-of-living increases in social security payments) and free cheese programs are being extended to them, you don't hear a peep. This is just one of the wonderful and amazing connections (and blockings) that the intelligent human brain devises in order to justify a strongly-held belief.
But elitist political leanings are a topic for another day. We need to stay on point.

My topic today is "The Origins of Community Based Recycling Efforts and Global Warming"

Anyone who is interested in this topic should definitely not read Hillary's book. Frankly, while Clooney asserts that she has an intimate knowledge of "white trash", in fact, she knows very little about landfills and recycling.

Better you should read The recent article published by the MIT Environmental Programs Task Force entitled, "MIT thinks Globally, acts Locally to combat Global Warming." They say, "While skeptics still exist, a consensus around climate change issues continues to grow."

Cloony shouts, "Bah! MIT - what do those numbnuts know about science? Read my Blogs if you want the Truth!"

I say, Show me a gathering of humans - however small - where they did not leave a pile of trash behind. Dum dum dum de dum - I'm waiting.... Hah! See, you cannot!
So, let me now reveal the most exciting news item of the day. I, your esteemed DFM am writing my memoir entitled: "It Takes a Village to Make a Dump."

Here is an exciting excerpt:
"Once primitive man invented the campfire, the idea spread like wildfire (or was it the plague?) Coming home from a night of tacking, killing and dragging-home the family dinner, it just seemed natural to sit around singing and drinking beer, making popcorn and toasting marshmallows. Having warm and crackling fire became a popular fad for migrating herds of humans and eventually someone thought to bring the fire into the cave. This caught-on because it appealed to the innate human desire to spend time looking at something. Humans, unlike most competitive social species, seemed to have a need to gather in groups to form an audience. "

And in the chapter titled "The Search for Paradise"
"The convergence of on-demand warmth plus something to look at gave momentum for the indoor outhouse (or as some people refer to it – the library). When you combine having a warm place in which to relax during the morning squat, together with comfortable shoes and a warm blooded mammal willing to have sex with you - and you have right there pretty much described “heaven” for most of the human species."

The fact that people gathering into audiences created the need for Theater. In the old days people went to the Bijou or the Paramount to sit enthralled while Betty Davis or Frankenstein charmed or horrified the villagers. Come to think of it, In the end she rather resembled him didn’t she? But that is another story.



The innate desire to watch others doing things (playing sports, having sex, answering questions for prizes, even eating) is probably rooted in the DNA strand that allows humans to enjoy vicarious pleasures. Research has shown that ants and other social creatures do not have devices for viewing images or listening to noise. Yet, visit any ant hill and you will see that it is actually a dump.

OK, sometimes the strands of thought are like threads in a broken loom. Tying it all together takes patience and dexterity. You be Patience and I'll be Dexter. .... Oops I just notice from the old schoolhouse clock on the wall that it is III (yawn)- past the time for the DFM's nap.

Stay tuned for Next time when I describe my bold new idea for a New Reality Show - The Amazing Global Village Dump Race.

The Strike has Ended

I am pleased to announce that the writers strike here at the dump has finally ended. The DFM and his staff of writers were successful in wresting a fraction of the revenues from Internet sales of their work. The management and staff thank you for your loyalty and patience during these trying times. Even though they concede that most of you come here mainly because of the Naked Pictures link.

Tis the Season (Rewind)

I was looking through my desk drawer this morning, searching for stamps. And I found this old piece that was dictated to me in a dream. 1) I think it is appropriate for the season and 2) The DFM has been too busy lately to record his activities. So, no hate mail please.

How to write a Christmas Letter

The Christmas letter is a modern American tradition. It is the annual celebration of your family - mainly to assure others that you are NOT dysfunctional. Here are my tried and true secrets of a successful Christmas Letter:

While composing your Holiday Opus, remember chief objective is to make other people wish they were you. The problem is you are not Julia Roberts or Brad Pitt, so you will have to pretend that your existence is worthy of envy. Just remember how flawed your friends and relatives are. That makes the task much easier.

Rule number one. Talk about your kids as if they were the most attractive and accomplished over-achievers one could hope for. During the holiday season, one must put away the feelings of disappointment and pain that your kids have caused you. A good approach is to avoid using the words prison, and alleged rapist - even though they may have been convicted of a felony - you should refer to any incarceration like this: "Junior is Traveling in Mexico. We get letters all the time regaling us with his exploits." (omit the part about him being raped in the shower by a tough lifer who refers to junior as "his bitch.")

2 . Do not reveal any feelings about the meaningless of your real existence. People would love to think that you are doing worse than they are, but they do not want to hear about your financial difficulties or your nagging rectal itch. It is ok to mention fear of upcoming recession, but do not reveal that you have applied for a job bagging groceries at the local supermarket so you can qualify for health benefits. If you do mention your hourly job, disguise it as "Volunteer work to share some of the blessings which we - the Cratchet Family - have enjoyed."

3. Admiration for your spouse's hobbies. No doubt your mate has a really stupid hobby, but that is not what people want to know. You need to extol the fact that Biff is the anchor for the plant bowling team. You can omit that Biff's main interest is drinking beer with the gang from work, and that he often comes home very late after the game not wearing underwear and smelling of vomit.
If the missus is taking a Tai Chi course, describe her graceful posture and calm demeanor, rather than observing that “her ass is still bigger than Nebraska.”

4. Mention any family Illnesses - or god forbid, deaths - briefly and move on. Cancer and other lingering illnesses are a tremendous "downer" especially at this time of year. None of your readers wants to know the gory details of their suffering - or your heroic devotion during the last days. "Dad succumbed after a valiant fight against his disease last summer." Is sufficient. Nobody wants to hear: "We lost Tiny Tim after his agonizing battle against gangrene. The last days were full of blood and screaming but we managed - because we Crachets don't give up. Even if it means schlepping pails of stinking black bodily fluids from the deathbed to the outhouse"

5. If you traveled during the year, this is the moment to wax creatively. Everyone is jealous of other people who travel. Remember, your job is to make them wish they were you. Rave about the charming canals and the romantic gondola rides. Don't admit that you were robbed in Venice and spent most of the trip sitting in the damp American Express office. Certainly you should not mention that your late summer Key West mini-vacation was ruined by forced evacuation because of Hurricane Wendy. Instead, declare that you "decided to explore the northern regions of the state." And don't forget to stress how wonderfully everyone treated you.
This is a monologue. You can say anything you want. Forget about the endless waiting in lines, rip-offs and assorted discomfort of your travels. The American myth is that travel is fun, and anyone who complains should just stay home in Shit's Creek where they belong. Tell your readers that you danced and partied everywhere you went and that all the natives thought you were marvelous fun.

6. Pet anecdotes are a staple of holiday greetings. Your readers will literally be on the edge of their chairs marveling at Fluffy's adorable exploits. If you have a dog, pretend that he or she is not just a big crotch-sniffing annoyance and has a habit of drooling of the hors d'ourves tray. Don't mention that you usually feed your pets at the table as many of your potential guests may find this practice revolting, and will not wish they were you even for a moment.

7.. Do not get anyone –especially your spouse - to proofread your letter, it might constrain your creativity.

Hardly Working

When I arrived at work this morning, I paused outside the FEMA trailer that I call my office to enjoy the ambiance of September in New England. It was a fine autumn day The air was crisp and the sky was bright blue. The morning sun cast a glow on the wisps of steam rising from north forty compost pile. I thought of a huge golden volcano about to explode.

Reluctantly, I went inside. The usual crew was already there. Lardass, in his filthy orange work suit, sat in the recycled folding chair drinking from a large Dunkin Donuts coffee cup. He was animatedly arguing with Clooney, who had, as usual, bogarted the lazy-boy recliner so he could sit back with his feet up[1].

Clooney, who has recovered from his recent medical crisis, had reverted to dressing in his former dump-chic outfit: Faded navy blue tee shirt, olive work shorts, black socks and decrepit brown dock shoes.

Achmed, the new guy, was reading the paper, seated on the teak bench that he had salvaged from the take-and-leave section.[2] I couldn't’t help noticing that his outfit – recently laundered blue Levi’s jeans and denim shirt and Rockport work boots made the others look, well, shabby. He had a good haircut, too. Some of the other guys look like their wives cut their hair with pinking shears.

“Hey guys,” I said, giving it my best cheerful and friendly tone. Counting heads, I looked around. “Where’s Bill?”

Achmed was the only one who responded. “Ah Good morning, Boss. Can I get you a coffee?”
I nodded paternally. I was beginning to like this kid.

Clooney finally acknowledged my presence. As he usually does, he squinted over his black framed granny glasses, glanced toward the wall clock, then back to me, “Well, well, good afternoon. Glad you could make it.“

I just gave him the I-happen-to-be-the-boss-and-I-don’t-give-a-fuck-what-you-think look.

“Where’s Bill?” I repeated.
“Bill Who?” Lardass said instead of good morning, boss.


Achmed came back with my coffee. “Ah, here you go, Boss. Um, Bill called-in a while ago. “
“Oh, he’s out sick again?” I was getting tired of his frequent absences.
“No, not exactly.”
“Well, is he coming in or not?” Exasperation was shoving its nose into the tent of my composure.
“He called to see if anyone else had a cold or anything. He didn’t want to come in if anyone else was sick. He was waiting to make sure you were feeling ok.”

“Yes I’m fine,” I yelled, “Call him and get him in here right away!”
He punched in Bill’s number and related the message. Bill said something and Achmed told him to wait a sec. He held out the phone to me.
“Boss, he says he can’t go anywhere without his new puppy.”
-------------------------------------------


[1] I have on several occasions reminded Clooney that in some Eastern cultures, it is an insult to force another person to look at the soles of your shoes. He invariably gives me the annoyed look that he usually reserved for the parents of noisy kids in restaurants. If he is invited to your house for dinner and you do not let him put his feet up on your coffee table, he will leave right after desert.

[2]. Achmed has a finely wrought sense of humor. He has a distinct middle eastern appearance and has a fake suicide vest that he wears to costume parties and sometimes to scare people. As he was dragging the bench onto the dolly, he was accosted by two burly residents who thought they had seen the bench first. He opened his jacket so they could see the fake sticks of TNT and the wires. “Shall we let Allah settle it?” he asked in his best crazy Arab accent. The two jumped into their Lexus SUV and peeled-out.

The New Guy

I was sitting at my desk in the FEMA trailer that I call my office when Clooney came in the door. I was reading the death notices in the local paper. I noticed that a lot of them tell you to send a donation to some research or religious outfit in lieu of flowers. If I was a florist, I'd be annoyed.


I started composing the last few lines of my own obituary:
"....The DFM hopes all his grieving friends and relatives will remember how much he loved flowers. Now that he is dead, there is no point in sending any more money to the incompetent researchers who couldn't find a cure in time to save him. So, in lieu of wasted contributions, he requests big expensive bouquets of brightly colored, fragrant flowers."


When Clooney came through the door I glanced up to see who it was coming in too late for morning report but too early for morning break. He looked like hell. He was pale and was limping like he always does when his 'rhoids are acting-up. He was carrying a small container or something under his coat. It was late summer and 85 degrees WTF was he wearing a coat for?


"Where the fuck have you been?" I yelled, referring to the past three weeks.


He gave me one of his raised eyebrow looks that is usually reserved for meddlesome strangers. He selected one of the chairs in the break area across the room, but facing my desk. He took his time answering. Always the thespian, he let my question dangle in the wind for a bit, picked up a magazine, rattled it open in front of him, scanned it momentarily and intoned, "I was in the hospital. Being operated on. I couldn't work. You need a note from my doctor?"


"You look like hell." I said. I was trying to show that I believed him and we would not be needing a doctors excuse. Then I thought, crap! What if he had been having plastic surgery? No one needs to hear that they looked worse after the chin tuck or whatever. Hmn, his ears did look smaller. Maybe it was my imagination.


"What's with the coat? It's fucking 90 degrees out!" I said to change the subject. He grinned; it was what he had been waiting for. He held open the coat to reveal a quart size plastic bag attached tothe inside of the coat. There was a small tube that went from the bag through a small slit his pants. There was about pint of yellowish fluid in the bag.


"That's not what I think it is, right?"

"Oh, yes. It is indeed."

I sighed. I was trying to think of a nice way to tell him that his job had been taken by an undocumented citizen - on the grounds of job abandonment - he had not called in sick nor had he made any attempt to keep me informed.

Just then the new guy, Achmed, came in for morning break.

"Hey boss, it's hotter than Kabul out there." He strode over to the fridge and got himself a frosty Sierra Nevada, eyeing Clooney. He popped the bottle cap with his thumb, took a long swig and sat down a few chairs from Clooney.

"Hey dude," he said. "What's with the coat?"

The Twenty Dollar Rule

We had a bit of trouble the other day over at the Human Organ take-and-leave area. We are very strict about checking dump stickers to ensure that only town residents are allowed to wander the bins containing various body parts - amputated limbs, kidneys, meniscus, and internal organs (which Clooney refers to as the "sweetmeats.")

Anyhow, as I've noted in past entries, we get a lot of non-residents trying to gain access to this area looking for the "right" tissue for an experiment or other recycling project. The drug companies are always looking for healthy organs that they can use to substitute for the ones that were actually exposed to the new drug being tested. And I hate to think about what the chef from the Cannibal Club does with his "treasures."

So we were just being vigilant the other day when I had to kick out some guy who had no resident sticker on his white Jeep. It turned out He lived in a bordering town and had snuck into the area looking for a liver for his 8 year old daughter, who was dying.

"Hey, I'm sorry," I lied. "But, if I let you in I have to let in every parent of every dying kid... Rules are rules, and I just have to draw the line."
"I have money."
"Its not a question of money," I lied.
(This is usually the point in the discussion when the supplicant shows me a crisp twenty or fifty dollar bill, which I reluctantly stash in my shirt pocket and then look the other way for a few minutes.) But this guy just turns his jeep around and drives off, growling, "I'll be baack!"

The next day, to my surprise, the guy drives up to the trailer, honking the horn and hollering for me.

"Ok, I'm a resident now. See!" He thrusts a deed of ownership paper for me to see. I looked it over carefully. It seemed in order. Something about the address of the property was familiar. But now he was a legal resident, so I let him have access to the organ area. He found a fairly decent pig liver and went around high fiving the other residents before placing the organ in a cooler full of ice on the passengers seat. Then he drove off - giving me a middle-finger salute as he passed the FEMA Trailer.

I went inside. Lardass was sitting in the break area smoking a cigar and counting a wad of cash.

"Where'd you get the money?" I asked.
"Some guy. He said he needed a house."
"You sold your house?"
"Yah. He offered to buy it for twice what it was worth."

I went to my desk to work, but it bothered me that the guy had made it personal. I was just doing my job, enforcing the rules. They guy could have slipped me a $20 and he would have been in like Flynn. But no. In his rage and passion over a dying child, he had decided that he would show me who was in charge. The f*cker. The more I thought about it, the more aggravated I became. If this guy could go around buying up employee houses just to gain access to resident areas, where would it stop? Maybe he would start cheating on his taxes, or start posing as a senior in order to get the 5% discount on coffee at Mickee Dees... Where it would end is anyone's guess.

I got into my unmarked RDF Escalade and drove around, looking for the white Jeep. There is a pub not too far down the road, and sure enough, the white Jeep was parked there. I parked my SUV around back and entered the pub through the rear door. No one noticed me.

I could see the guy at the bar; he had an empty glass in front of him and was ordering another double scotch. One of the hookers was just coming out of the ladies room. I gave her a tenspot to "keep the guy at the bar busy" for 15 minutes. She did not ask why. She took the proffered ten with two fingers and stuffed it into her cleavage and nodded to me with a slight smile that said see you later.

I went outside and found the white Jeep with the cooler sitting on the passenger side in the hot sun. A slight odor of putrefaction was coming from the cooler. I am not sure what mischief I had in mind, my sullen rage had dulled my thought process and I was operating on unconscious reflexes as I opened the cooler.

"Hey you! Get away from there!" I turned around. It was the Jeep guy coming toward me looking bigger than I had remembered. He grabbed me roughly by the arm like a cop would and pinned me face down over the hood of the jeep, just long enough to show me that he was a lot stronger than I was. I could see the hooker standing in the doorway of the pub, watching.

"Um. I was just..." I had no idea what to say next.

"Yeah, I think you were up to no good." Then he let me up and called me a few unpleasant names. Then he looked at his watch, and said, "You're lucky. I"m in a hurry right now. We can finish this later." Then he looked toward the hooker who was still standing in the pub doorway.

"Thanks Doris," He said. "Let me know if this creep gives you any trouble."

After the white Jeep roared away, I turned to Doris with a quizzical look. She gave me that slight mysterious smile and said, "He gave me twenty to watch the Jeep."