It must be the doomsday news again - driving people nutty with frightening stories about terrorists , dirty bombs and threats from all sides; and screaming headlines highly communicable diseases (SARS and Menegitis) and killer OTC diet aids, and finally Mad Cow disease.

The take and leave section was crowded with boxes of discarded canned meats - spam, hash, something called "potted meat food product." The latter was probably totally made from ground up lips, gums and similar byproducts of slaughtered beef. There were three pallets of Ephedra.

Lardass got the front end loader and rounded up most of the swag before any of the usual pickers got there. He loaded it in the shed behind the plutonium dumpster.

"What are you gonna do with all that stuff?" I asked when he got back to the cobb house. George and Bill were sitting near the stove perusing the moprning papers, in no hurry to get back to work.
"I hope he's planning to share the goodies," yelled George not looking up from his crossword puzzle. "I am fond of cow brains, you know."
Urp. We were all reminded of George's proclivities towards sweetbreads and other animal organs.
Lardass grinned, displaying a rather advanced case of gingivitis. "Hey, George I got a couple of jars of pickled Rocky Mountain Oysters. You would probably like 'em. Anyway, there's plenty of stuff for anyone who wants it. "
George shook his head, "No Testicles for me, coach; I like internal body parts - tripe, tongue, brains..."
Bill perked up, "Like Night of the Living Dead."
"Huh?"
"You know, they - the ghouls or whatever - liked to eat people's brains. Hey, what the fuck are you one of the living dead?"
"I've seen seen George dance?" I piped up. "I think you are on to something!"
"And you know it was toxic radioactive waste that woke up the dead people," Bill said. He was looking warily out the window in the direction of the plutonium recycle area. Sometimes, we get leaking containers of heavy water seeping into the ground, near the place where we dump bodies.
We all got spooked and crowded at the window looking where Bill was looking. I half expected to see a pack of lurching dessicated corpse-like figures, coming for our brains. Hey, if you can imagine it, it can happen! That's what all the self-help books say - at least the ones that people leave in the book recycle.

I am the boss, and someone has to take charge. "Ok Dumpfucks," I growled, "Enough of this badinage. Let's get back to work.

Post Christmas Blues

Today is the first Monday after the Christmas holiday week. It's a busy day here at the Dump. We have a full staff of people hauling trash and clearing stuff up.

You'd be surprised how many people are waiting when we open the gates at 7:30am. A long line of SUVs festooned with dead Christmas trees, one's that were likely brought inside the day after Thanksgiving and now the homeowners' tolerance for seasonal decorations was at a nadir. Their urgency to get rid of that now despised festive symbol is so high that fistfights threaten to break-out between drivers who feel that others may be attempting to usurp their place in line.

Then there is the wave of unwanted junk gifts that disappointed recipients could not wait to discard. Most of these are unceremoniously (and sometimes, angrily) tossed directly into the land-fill dumpsters - as if to ensure that they are never recycled.

These discards include: Fruit cakes (by the thousands), those cheap scented candles that smell like a french whore's buttcrack, boxes of imported fruit candies that taste like fishmeal, crappy perfume that you buy at the drug store, useless and often ugly replicas of snowmen or Christmas elves, reams of losing scratch tickets, anything made in Malaysia, tapes and CD's of Jim Nabors singing Christmas Carols, and piles and tons of other disappointments.

The staff likes to take coffee breaks near the take-and-leave section during these days after the big holiday. A Lot of people get booze gifts that they do not want. Maybe it conflicts with their meds or something. Anyway, many's the time one of us has come across a bottle or two of unopened fine single malt scotch. Or fruit flavored Absolut. You never know.

I was sitting at my desk in the cobb house when George came in wearing his new "Recycle This!" Tee Shirt. He had found some treasure at the take and leave, and was beaming. "Look at this," he shouted, "Someone threw away a set of sterling silver shrimp forks." He showed me a set of twelve small 3 tined forks, each neatly tucked into its own slot in brown velvet within a leather bound case. "These are worth hundreds of dollars."
"To whom?" I wondered. It seemed like a lot of work to keep a set of silver polished and ready for that event when you serve shrimp cocktail to twelve guests. Funk that!

I was in a vaguely blue mood. With the stress of the holidays behind me I should have felt relieved. I guess I was disappointed by the gifts I had received. The wife had been online and purchased a large container of Viagra and a tube of Penis enlarger for me. My boss had given me a monogrammed organizer. A friend gave me "The Complete Guide to Composting." In the Yankee Swap, I had ended up with a $1.50 box of ribbon candy (and I had put in a gift worth $5.00). Some cheap fuck probably regifted it in the first place. I chucked it angrily into the dumpster.

But there is a new year ahead...Things could get better.

don't blog drunk

Because you can accidently erase an hour of writing

Christmas Eve at the Dump

During my lunch hour I went to the mall to watch the commerce happening. I love monitoring the interface between supplier and consumer. I was pleased to note that I could not find a parking space within reasonable walking distance. I parked in a handicapped spot and limped into the mall concourse. One of the ways I entertain myself is to pretend I'm interested in the Bose equipment. I ask a lot of dumb questions, let the guy demo the most expensive rig, then, pulling out my checkbook, I ask the price. When he tells me that its $1100 I just shake my head and walk away, muttering. "You gotta be shitting me." (Some people think its mean to waste a saleperson's time, but for some reason it helps me relax.)
Anyway, I love seeing people laden with bags of stuff. I get a warm feeling because I know that eventually, all this crap ends up at the dump. I went over to the Christmas Tree Shops, which is an export outlet for China. There were 15 register lanes open, with long lines in each lane. More landfill futures.
So I was in a pretty good mood when I got back to the cobb shack that we use as an office at the dump. I dug out a couple of seasonal CD's that someone had trashed. I put the Tony Bennett one on. He was singing, "Here Comes Santa Claus." when Lardass came in, as usual, reeking with the stink of effluviam.
His usually pleasant demeaner turned dour. "Shut that fucking crap off, willya?" he groaned.
"Well, Merry Chistmas to you too, Mr Cheerful!" I turned the sound down to barely audible.
"Aw, Humbug on you, prickface."
"Nice talk. For Chrissake, It's Christmas Eve. What is your problem? You have a job. You have your, um, health. Well, sort of. And..."
"You wanna know why I'm pissed?" he interrupted.
"Yeah."
"I was thinking of all the people who re-gift."

We dumpsterguys hate re-gifting. We think it is a barbaric practice employed by the most cynical citizens among us. It keeps material that should be chucked into the shitcan in circulation. It's like robbing us of stuff that should come to us. I wish I could say it is an un-american practice, but on the contrary, only in america can you boast about being so tacky as to give shit that you wouldn't want to people on your "gift" list.

I was pondering the evil in the world when Bill came limping in wearing his holiday jodhpurs.
"Hey!" I Yelled, "I hope you didn't park in the handicapped space?"
"Naw. This dampness gets to my knee." he tapped his left knee with his leather riding crop. "I parked back near the used condom dumpster. Someone ought to empty that thing."

Morbid Fear of Work

It was a nasty slushy morning. The early crew was busy plowing the night's accumulation of snow - about 6 inches had fallen before turning to rain. Now there was a 4 inch pack of wet snow to be scraped off the access roads and disposal areas. I was in the office, as usual, doing paperwork when the phone rang. It was Bill.
"Are you coming in today" I asked, knowing it was another sick call.
"Depends." he answered warily. "How are you this morning?"
"OK. Feeling much better." I said assuringly.
"How's Lardass feeling? Is he still coughing?" Bill was deathly afraid of catching anything. It was humorous for the rest of us, because he was a walking disease factory. He lives on a farm and is contantly at risk for contracting deadly equine diseases, tick bourne disease, feed mold and spider bites. His faithful companion and best friend is a dog - the filthiest of god's creatures, known to enjoy rolling in feces. So it was funny that Bill was afraid of contracting germs from his fellow dumpfucks - most of whom were ten times more hygienic than he. For example, I always wash my hands before returning to work.
"Oh Lardass is fine," I lied. "He's out plowing the Recycle area now."
"Good. I'll be in shortly."
"Ok, Bill, see you soon." I hung up.
Lardass, who had been in the john puking his guts out, came out as I was cradling the receiver. "Who called?" he asked, wiping his chin. Before I could answer he started yet another coughing fit. I winced, feeling his pain. Poor sick bastard didn't get his flu shot this year. After the coughing subsided I sprayed a cloud of Lysol at him. Then I answered his question.
"Nobody." I said blowing my nose into a snot drenched hanky.

We got him!

The phone rang at 9am this morning. It was George (Dam Sad) doing his falsetto arab "lululululu" in celebration of the momentous and historical capture of the Ace of spades. I figured that was enough of a reason to get up and see what happened. Believe ot or not, they actually got the bastard. And, they say that he put up no resistence (unlike his maniac sons and nephew), despite the fact that he had a pistol.

Ironic - is it not? - that he (Saddam, not George) was hiding in a dirt hole. After 23 years enjoying the opulance of his former existence - which he sacrificed for no real reason. He could easily have saved all this nonsense by appeasing the US just a little more. He could have stayed in charge, stayed rich and powerful by just agreeing not to attack Israel or develop WMDs. What a Dumbfuck.

Bark at This, wagtail.

It was very cold this morning. No one wanted to work out in the yard on a day like this, not fit for man nor beast. I let them hang around the Franklin on an extended break that seemed to last all morning. George and Bill were discussing the intelligence of dogs.
"I had a really smart dog once," said George wistfully. "A golden retreiver. We called him Bowser. You know, I taught that pup to go and fetch the paper."
"No shit!" Bill was clearly impressed. "You mean you could just send him out, so you could stay inside on cold days like this?"
"Yeah, he was a smart little doggie. One problem, though..."
"What?"
"Well, maybe we rewarded him too much when he brought back that paper. Because he wanted to go back out, And after a while I heard barking. I went out to the porch and sure enough, there was a pile of papers. That dog had gone around to the neighbors driveways and got them too."
"What did you do?"
"Well, I had to get dressed and take the papers back. Had to keep the fool dog inside until everyone had brought their papers in. It took almost a year to break him of that training."
"Boy there's a moral there somewhere. said Bill.
Lardass had been listening to the discussion, piped up,"Like the Sourcerer's Apprentice - you were dealing with powers beyond your understanding."
I could see that this was about to devolve into one of those deep philosophical discussions that could take all afternoon,
I interjected, "Hey, did any of you ever notice the difference between the way cats and dogs look at you when you turn up the sound and dance naked in front of them?"
They all just sat and stared at me like I was some kind of weird fuck (just like the cats do).

The Friday After

I was out working in the compost lot all day today. This is a big change for me; the deskwork has been keeping me in the office a lot lately. A lot of the staff was taking a long Thanksgiving weekend, but some of us just need to come to work and keep the wheels moving.

Having just finished bulldozing up a pile of wood waste, I was standing there admiring my work and contemplating the inevitability of compost - that all of this would be decayed into a small pile of sawdust soon.

"Pardon?" A voice said. Even before I turned around I knew it was the voice of an ovulating woman. (Guys like me are constantly accosted by them)

Sure enough, she was a redheaded beauty with all the equipment in the right proportions. He big blue eyes seemed almost like a prop.
"I'm here looking for wood." She told me. I detected a hint of French Canadian in her look and scent. She was not wearing the big pink plastic hair curlers they usually wear during the day. She was dolled up for something.
"Well, Mademoiselle, you are here in the wood area. Ici." I pointed to the sign.
She decided to adopt a Parisian demeanor . "I am lookeeng for some wood." She insisted.
"No, this is the wood drop-off area …"
"You, you have some wood no? I am looking for… wood," she was now eyeing my crotch, "You know, wood."
I could see that her ample nipples hardening like small fire hydrants, even through her pullover sweater, as I played dumb about the reference to "wood."
"Hmmm," I said with an understanding smile. "What kind of wood are you looking for?"
"Lengths of nine or ten inches?"
"No problem," I lied. She smiled and took my hand.
We went into her SUV which had dark tinting on all the side windows. She had a pile of blankets in back where the seats had been removed. She did not waste time. In a matter of seconds, we were both naked and writhing in the blankets. It didn't take long, and, typically, I was not in the mood for after-play.
"Thanks honey." I said, struggling back into my jockey shorts. " Do you come to this dump often?"
"Oh. Yes," was her dreamy reply. " I look for de woodsman sometimes - when Pierre is on business to Toronto." Hah. I knew it.
I figured he must be the husband. A momentary sense of doubt passed. Hey, why should I have remorse for violating the sixth commandment when Pierre is up in Toronto - probably fucking every whore in town.
"Ok see you around." I waved as I got back into the dozer
Wow, I thought to myself. That was a lot better than the rush I usually get from recycling.

I need to get out of the office more often.

Reprise of one of my favorite Thanksgiving stories

Over The River & Across The Tracks

It was a chilly afternoon, as we headed to Granny Gert's house for the
annual Thanksgiving Feast. We were bundled up because Pap made Uncle
Gelbert drive the old Pink and White Nash Rambler wagon while he sat
in the shotgun seat with the window open. Pap was pretty hung-over and
he kept ralphing out the window. We - Maw, Throck, and me sat in back.
We were used to Pap's hangovers and the lingering smell of his vomit on
everything.

We were, of course, late. We were late for everything, except the time
me and Throck were born back in Montana on the way to the hospital.
That was the one time we were early for anything. Still, Maw always
said we could've made it to the hospital except Pap was at the
roadhouse when the first contractions came and she had to wait two
hours before him to get home to take her.

When we arrived at Granny Gert's trailer, we piled out of the car.
Granny's dogs greeted us in the usual fashion - barking raucously,
jumping up and down, and looking for a leg to hump. "Git back you
lot!" She shouted coming down the steps waving a cattle prod. Me and
Throck looked at each other wondering if she meant us or the dogs. The
dogs thought it was them and they instantly fell into a heap near the trailer
steps. Then she went over to where Pap and uncle Gelbert were standing.
"Georgie! Gelbert! You two boys!" They eyed her suspiciously. "Give us a hug." She bellowed.
They complied meekly. "I see you haven't changed your naughty ways,
Georgie." she said to Pap, nodding to the flecks of puke dripping from
the side and rear panel of the Rambler. He shrugged. We all went
inside to warm up.

Maw had brought a package of frozen peas and another of frozen squash.
Pap produced a 5th of Gallo Creme Sherry from a brown bag and waved it
over his head like it was the US open winners trophy. We all applauded
approvingly, except Gramps who hadn't even noticed us arrive. He sat
in a ratty old chair facing the TV watching the football game on a
small black and white screen. (Nothing like the rig we had back in
Montana, I mused) Granny, who was returning from the cupboard with a
tray of jelly glasses, nodded towards Gramps with her head, "Somebody
go and shake him. His hearing aid batteries went dead last month and
he hasn't been much for conversation." Pap went over and stood in
front of him. "Hi dad," he grinned toothlessly. The old man looked at
him, not recognizing him for a moment. Then a big smile. "Georgie,
hey sit down. Watch the game. Did you bring anything to drink?"

Dinner was predictable. Granny heated the turkey loaf in the
microwave and poured a can of beef gravy over it. She had mixed up a
batch of instant whipped potatoes, and had fried the green peas in a
pan. Each little pea had a burn mark, which she instantly renamed
'black-eyed green peas". She proudly announced that she had bought new
plastic utensils for the occasion and Chinette plates and cups. Even though
we were 20 years old, me and Throckmorton had to take our plates to a card
table in the living room while "the adults" - Granny, Gramps, Gelbert, Pap and Maw crowded around the breakfast nook. There was a hair in my gravy. But I wasn't hungry anyway. Halfway through the meal Granny remembered the Squash, which was thawing on the counter. "Save your plates everybody, we can have this for
desert. And don't nobody throw away them new plastic cutlery!"

After all the remnants of the meal had been cleared and piled in the
sink, we sat watching the end of the football game, cleaning our teeth
with individually wrapped toothpicks, like the ones you get at the
chinese restaurant. It had gotten dark, so Granny turned on a few more
lamps. We heard a truck pull up outside. Young Billy came through the
door, red-faced from the cold, but beaming.
"Hi everybody, sorry I'm late. There was a wreck on the highway. Look what I got!"

He held up a bloody wallet that looked like it was thick with a wad of
bills, and a severed finger with a large diamond ring still on it.
Gramps stared at the swag and then asked hopefully, "Didn't you bring
anything to drink?"

DENoonan@Oct96

It was another of those sunny Sunday mornings where there was more light than heat. Bill was outside roasting rats over a small campfire. He had a bandage on his hand where he had cut himself shaving. I was at the desk, reading the paper. The news was disturbing. Nothing stays fixed in this world. And there is little hope for improvement in the next one.
"What time is it?" George had looked up from his crossword puzzle and was looking in the direction of my wristwatch. I glanced at it.
"Nine oh five am. Why? You got an appointment." I was being sarcastic. None of us had anywhere to go on Sunday mornings. That is why we gathered at the Dump. Like the old men have done for ages, sitting on benches in the village square, with no place else to go. Watching the world go by.
George prides himself on his lack of adornments. He doesn't wear rings or bracelets and no watch. We think of him as being "chronographically challenged." He probably thinks of me as a bit of a dandy. Me with my gold wedding band, Seiklo wristwatch, and wearing my Mensa pin on my baseball hat. (Ok,ok, I found the Mensa pin at one of the recycle areas , if you must know the whole truth.)
Rajeed walked in from outside carrying a bag of Trail Mix bars. Some of the smoke from Bill's campfire drifted in with him. He shook his head.
"What's with the rat cooking?" he hooked a thumb in Bill's direction.
"Oh, Bill read Gordon Liddy's memoirs. He's determined to conquer his inner fears." I said dismissively. Bill is such a jumble of fucked-up-ness that any moron could predict that the rat cure was not going to help much.
"Hey, who's up for a St Andrews Day snack?" Rajeed was still trying to get rid of Trail Mix bars that he had leftover from Hallowe'en. Lardass, who had been dozing in the corner suddenly perked-up.
"Hey!" He said cheerfully munching on the granola treat, "What's this about St Andrew's day?"
Rajeed smiled showing his perfect white teeth. "A festival day in my native land," he intoned wistfully.
"Yeah, they celebrate the miracle of the Trail Mix bars!" I joked.
Everyone knew Rajeed was born in Canada. "What's with this 'native land' crap?" we jeered.
"I know, he invented bacon rinds - the Canadian National Food!" Lardass was into it now.

Rajeed could see that it was useless to try to explain anything serious to us at this point, so he trudged off with his bag of treats to the take and leave area.
"What time is is now?" George inquired.

Blubber Justice

It was a windy morning at the dump. I was, as is my daily habit, doing laps on the recycled exer-cycle. I was working in the "take-and-leave" area last month when this grossly overweight slug of a woman started unloading exercise gear from her Lexus SUV. I had to body-check one of the regulars (we refer to them as 'vultures') out of the way to be the first one to get to the exer-cycle, which was in near cherry condition (unlike its behemoth of an owner). The vulture had stumbled and fell awkwardy into a frayed bean bag chair. "Hey," he yelled, "Dump Staff isn't supposed to take stuff!" I grabbed him by the collar and pimp slapped him a few times. I opened my jacket to show him the Walther P38 nestled in my shoulder holster. I growled, "You know what Punk? One more word and your sticker is terminated. Why don't you go ahead and make my day!" Like the frightened hyena that he was, he slunk away mumbling to himself.

I dragged the exercise bike back to my office in the cob house. After a few spray downs with Lysol to remove the sticky residue, it was good as new. Speculation was that the whale liked to munch on Snickers bars while sitting on the cycle watching TV. The frame was slightly bowed, but there was virtually no wear on the pedals and gears. It worked great. I had shed 15 pounds since starting my daily workouts.

George was occupied with the Times crossword puzzle from last week. "Anyone know a six letter word for 'Ducks in a row?' Must be a mistake here. I never heard of a word with three "Y's" in it."
"Syzygy" said Lardass, who was reading one of the sections of the Times that George had tossed, "Earth Sciences 101. It's what causes an eclipse." Lardass was a dolt, but he knew a lot of useless facts.
"How's that Atkins diet going, George?" I asked. He looked up from his paper with a huge grin.
"Twelve pounds." He still looked fat as ever.
"Up or down?" Lardass asked. George responded with an Italian salute. He was the master of nonverbal communications.
"Speaking of fat slobs," continued Lardass, "it says here that Linda Tripp is getting an award of $595 thousand from her lawsuit of the US Government."
"Huh?" we asked dumbfounded. Dumbfounded dumpfucks, we thought to ourselves, you don't see that everyday.
"Yeah, she sued the government for leaking information about her to the press. She won the suit."
"But, wasn't she the one who illegally recorded Monica Lewinsky's revellations that she was polishing the President's knob?"
"Yep."
"And, didn't she give this information to the press?"
"Uh huh."
"So where's the justice here!"
"Well, I wouldn't worry about her getting rich. The Lawyers will end up with most of the cash," Lardass said.
That thought gave us some solace, but not much.

Veterans Day at the Dump

The dump is closed today in honor of those brave soldiers who sacrificed life or limb in defense of Freedom. The dumpfucks - most of whom managed to avoid military service - have a day off to contemplate the state of the world if men had not been willing to lay down their lives to ensure the freedom of other men.

Combat veterans deserve the ongoing gratitude of their nation, yet our veterans hospitals are the worst facilities on our nation. Most families of vets who were wounded or killed get less benefits than lazy foreigners who come here and apply for welfare. I heard on the radio that Massachusetts has welfare info printed in 26 languages - what the hell is going on!

This is not the deal that sent men off to risk their lives. Those lives were not sacrified in vain, were they?

How Come we still have flies?

I was finishing up some paperwork when Bill came into the office. His grubby coveralls were covered with a fine white powder.
"What's that white stuff?" I asked with some trepidation. Anthrax scares were back in the news and - of course - weighing heavily on my mind.
He wet a finger and swabbed some of it off his sleeved. He tasted the sample "Plaster dust, I think."
"Where the hell were you working?"
"The Ceruminous area, like you said to." He shrugged. We recycle tons of recovered ear wax from the HMO and sell it to a company that ships it to China. In that bastion of capitalism, low paid artisans fashion the substance into figurines of animals which are painted and then shipped back to the USA to be sold in discount stores as lawn ornaments.
"So how did you get dusted?"
"There was a small aircraft flying pretty low, and there was smoke or something coming out of the tail. I figured it was gonna crash, but I never heard an explosion." He tasted the powder again - oh yeah, now I know: It's Insecticide."
We both breathed a sigh of relief.

The Glass Ceiling

Ok, I admit it, I made a mistake. The outsourcing-the-dump approach was an imperfect idea. I was thinking about the bottom line. Thinking outside the box. You know, trying to re-engineer our infrastructure processes to save money. Noble as the cause was, it just didn't catch on.

This morning I had threatening phone calls on my answering machine. (Most of them sounded like Lardass using a dirty rag to cover the phone mouthpiece.) The board of directors called an emergency meeting to discuss the situation. My ass was on the line. Customers were bitching about the cost of UPS-ing their trash to India. I was accused of being an idiot.

Lardass and the guys were marching around with plaquards that read "Unfair to Employees!" and chanting, "What do we want?"
The chorus replied: "Garbage "
"Where do we want it?"
" Here!"

So I caved. The gates were opened. UPS was instructed to return all shipments. And I called each citizen in town to apologize. But Lardass was not satisfied.
"No one has been promoted around here in years." he complained.
"Hey, I have a budget..."
"Yeah, and you bring in this new guy, Rajeed. He's not even a citizen."
"True, but he does ten times more work that any of the rest of you homeboys."
"He's Illegal. I'm calling ATF," said his lardness.
"Go ahead, but I think INS is the outfit you are thinking of. Besides he has a green card."
"From India?"
"Nope," I replied smugly, "He's a Canadian citizen, born in Toronto. Besides, I pay him in Canadian dollars."

Outsourcing The Dump

When I got into the office this morning Bill was sitting in a chair near the Franklin stove which was generating enough therms to keep the cob house warm. He was reading my fucking Boston Globe. His head was bandaged with gauze. It made him look like a Sikh. He always has some medical problem, and I didn't feel like listening to his aches and pains so I didn't ask. George was in the corner, doing a crossword puzzle from last Sunday's Times. Rajeed, the new guy, was making coffee.

I was groggy, waiting for the coffee to heat-up. Last night I tried to stay awake to watch the Patriots-Broncos game on Monday night football. When I fell asleep around midnight they were tied with about 5 minutes to go in the game. I heard on the van radio that the Pats had won it in the last few minutes by taking an intentional safety on their own one yard line. Then, after the free kick they held the Broncos in their own zone. When they got the ball back they scored, and won. I wanted to read the details in the paper, but Bill was bogarting the thing. It was annoying. I was already in a bad mood, what with the rectal itch flaring up and...

Lardass came in from his duties at the Diaper Recycle. As usual, he exuded an aroma of fresh shit. "Cripes, LA, leave the door open, will ya?" Yelled Bill fanning the air with my Globe. I lit one of the incense candles on my desk, which I used to sweeten up the cob house atmosphere at times like these.

Lardass ignored us and sat on the other side of the Franklin. He was munching on a trail mix bar. The new guy, Rajeed was telling everyone about how he had gone to BJ's and got a deal on a 35 pack of them for Halloween treats. He had decided that American kids didn't get enough nutritious food so he was going to offer them to trick or treaters. After the first few groups of Vampires and Ninjas angrily refused the health bars and in fact had threatened to egg his house and decorate his cars with soap, Rajeed quickly sent his wife down to the convenience store to get some bags of junk candy. Crisis averted.

He brought the leftover trail mix bars in to the office. Lardass loved them. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with a dirty sleeve and looked over at Bill and asked. "What happened?" Lardass actually cared how other people felt, and he never obeyed my don't-ask-don't-tell-Bill rule. Fortunately Bill, whose ears were covered with guaze had not heard the question. Time for my announcement:

"I'm thinking of moving the whole operation to India." I declared.
Everyone except Bill looked up and gave me their full attention. Everyone knew that outsourcing was just the other way of saying 'your jobs are going away.'

"Hey I have a budget. I need to control costs. Everyone is doing it. India, China, Russa. People work cheaper over there. It just makes sense.."

Lardass spoke up. He was looking at me like I was nuts," How the heck are the citizens in this town going to get their trash all the way to India?"

Just then, a big brown UPS van pulled-up outside. Good timing, I thought to myself. The driver came into the office with his hand-held pad. "I have a pick-up notice that you got some stuff going to India today."

Not That it Matters

I was sitting at the Manager's desk in the cob house, catching up on paperwork this morning when Lardass came in, wet from the rain storm and mumbling to himself. He threw his dripping gloves down on the floor and stomped around rattling cups and the coffee pot.
"What's the problem now?" I finally looked up, hoping it would be one of those simple to solve life-work contradictions that His Lardness found so troubling. Naive me.

"Aw, some asshole left a cannister 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. A pound of the stuff was said to be as powerful as the kind of nuclear bombs you have nighmares about. But plutonium is almost impossible to get fissionable. Antimatter is as easy as a three dollar whore on prom night. 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. The loss of human life would be immeasurable.

"What did you do with it?" I was tapping my pencil impatiently, I had a board meeting in a half an hour and was trying to get my notes in order. Some one was always after my ass for this or that perceived malfeasence. I needed to assure them that I had a Plan, I know my priorities and I am in charge.

Lardass let out a snicker that sounded like the old woodie woodpecker cartoon. "What did I DO? you ask? Like, there is something you can DO about a cannister of antimatter? Hmmn. Let me see what it says in the procedure manual....funny, there is no fucking entry for antimatter in the procedure manual! I wonder why! Maybe because you need to contain it in a lead-lined magnetically balanced hemispheric dumpster? And we ain't got no fucking extra lead lined yada yada 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. The new arrival #3408 was located in the north forty near the big slag heap. "How about this one?" I pointed to it with my pencil.

"That thing got a hemi?" he asked.

"Get the fuck out of here and get that shit secured. I got a meeting to go to." He stomped out into the rain, smiling at his little joke.

What's that stench?

At the dump, we are accustomed to a lot of peculiar and often disagreeable odors. It goes with the job. Not unlike other professions, there are drawbacks. But there are good times too. Like, ...well, I can't think of anything at the moment. But you can bet your sweet ass that I and the other dumpfucks would not continue working here if there weren't some fun times.

The news today had a piece on the air quality around ground zero in the days and weeks after 9/11/2001. Some scientists are now questioning whether the EPA had been correct in determining the air "safe" to breathe.
A bunch of us were gathered for afternoon tea. (ie, beer) One of the new guys had brought some Blue Moon Pumpkin Ale, and we (who normally settle for Pabst Blue Ribbon) were tarrying past the usual break time. I was not feeling sympathetic about the poor new Yorkers who survived and breathed the air. "How many people have to work thirty yards form a decomposing moose?" I wondered. "The fumes alone give you a nagging groin rash."
"Yeah," said Lardass, whose lack of olfactory sensitivity was legendary.
George had recently returned form a vacation to Europe. He was sorting his trip photos, hoping that one of us would take an interest. We hate to see other people's travel photos. It simply reminds us that we never go anywhere. Hey, nice church. Oooh nice mountains. Gee you were in a cab? Wow.
OK, maybe I am jealous, but how the fuck do other people get to take trips to dumps in foreign lands and the rest of us are stuck here in the fetid piles of human waste, wondering if there is a higher power than the 700 horsepower shredder-baler.
Bill walked in, wearing his usual outfit - jodpurs and red sneakers. He is a weird one, even here.
"Hi George," he said, ignoring the rest of us. "Glad to see you back." Then he saw the photos and tried to change the subject. Too late. George made him look at the 14 pictures of him and his wife looking at things that were probably interesting in real life, but inadequately recorded on a cheap one-time-use tourist camera.
Lardass, who had been dozing in the corner, abruptly jumped up, yelling "What's that stench!"
The rest of us just shrugged our shoulders like we hadn't smelled anything. Bill was the only one who didn't realize that his after shave (Aqua Velva) was the offending stink.

Blink Day

According to the This Day In History feature that appears on the comics page of the Globe, forty one years ago, Soviet Premier Khrushchev (big Nikita) announced that the Cuban missiles were being dismantled, and taken back to mother Russia.

A lot of young journalists today are referring to the so-called War on Terror as "World War 3."
But, not for me. I think the ending of the Cuban Missile Crisis of October, 1962 was the real WW3.
JFK ordered a blockade. He made the decision that those Soviet supply ships were not going to get though. It was the classical confrontation of two nuclear superpowers. The world held its breath, wondering what would happen next. And, the Soviets blinked.

As a twenty year old enlistee in the USAF who was on the front lines, waiting to die in a Defcom 5 multi-megaton atomic holocaust, I was particularly aware of these events. Note that the "front lines" were actually in Cheyenne Wyoming, where all of our country's operational Atlas Missile silos were located. We definitely believed that the birdies would fly and the world would be ruined for eternity.

But the Soviets backed-down, thank goodness. They blinked. I believe that moment was the beginning and the end of WW3. Only no one knew it at the time.

Falling Back

Everyone showed up early today. It wasn't that they were so anxious to come to the dump to sit and watch the rats or for stale donuts, rather the dumpfucks never remembered to set their clocks back.
Lardass was philosophical. "Look my PC automatically adjusts itself to the time switch twice a year, why the fuck can't they make clocks do the same thing?"

Bloody Sunday

It was dank and cold morning. We had the Franklin stove going, but it hadn't really cranked-up yet. Nobody felt like day-old coffee, so Lardass started mixing up a batch of spicy bloody marys in a bright orange 5 gallon home depot bucket.
"Lotsa ice for me," mumbled Bill. He had a patch over his left eye. He always had something wrong with him. None of us even razzed him about it, anymore. It would just feed his chronic need for attention and sympathy.
"OK Captain Hook," Lardass grinned, "Pass that can of tomato juice will ya?"
"Tomato Jews? Is that some kind of anti-semitic remark?" Bill was always alert to potential defamation.
"Yeah, whatever. Just hand me that can will ya?" Lardass had no sense of discrimination, or smell.
George strode in wearing his usual outfit: faded work shorts and a raggedy sweatshit with the words "No, you suck! You Commie" emblazoned. He had his cell phone out and was (as usual) talking loudly to someone on the other end. "Sell when it gets over a dollar sixty." He flipped the cover of the phone down and growled, "Did I hear the sound of BM's being made? Done and done. What say you, Bill?"
Bill farted, as a greeting. "They should fire that Grady Little."
George nodded. "That fat-faced Zimmer, too. Somebody should remove his feeding tube. What happened to your eye?"
"Hey," I interjected, to keep Bill from going on about his petty aches and pains, "Where are those bloodys!"
Lardass was just finishing the concoction, mixing in a huge glob of horseradish. He ladeled the Bloody Marys into coffee mugs. We don't have much call for coctail crystal here in the cob house.
"Needs more salt," pronounced George.
"Yeah, it's a bit niggardly on the salt," said Bill.
We all just stared at him, horrified.
He just smiled as if he knew something that we didn't.

They Bite

It was our usual Sunday morning gathering of dumpfucks. Lardass had brought the day-old pastry, Rajid was making coffee in the old dented coffee urn that had been retrieved from the take-and-leave section. I had been up early (5am) and noticed a pile of Sunday Globes in front of the newsstand. They would not be open until 7am. Someone had cut the twine holding the pile together, and had taken a paper and tucked 2 one dollar bills under a rock that kept the papers from blowing away. I helped myself to three papers and the money. The early bird gets the goodies. Honesty is for losers.

Everyone had a section to read for a change. Lardass got excited when he read the item about the Tiger attacking the famous trainer Roy the while on stage at the Mirage. "Hey Rajid, did you see this?" Rajid had heard about the attack from the TV news. He keeps a grown white Bengal tiger which he brought in to our recent take-your-cat-to-work day.
"This is not so surprising," he said. "My little Cindee has attacked several of my children. We lost two of them last year."
"My god!" I gasped, "Why haven't you had the vicious beast put down?"
"Oh no. These Tigers are very valuable and rare. Children are easy to make." he said pointing to the family photo of him posing with his large family and tired looking wife.
We were all sitting there somewhat shocked at Rajid's attitude, when Bill came in. His right arm was in a sling. His elbow was heavily bandaged, but you could see fleks of blood seeping through.
"What the fuck happened to you?" we wondered.
"My horse kicked me." Bill announced. "Thanks for coming to visit me in the hospital."
"We didn't know you were hurt. When did it happen?" I tried to sound caring, but an article in the paper caught my eye. Some guy in the Bronx had been bitten by a 400lb pet tiger he was keeping in his government subsidized apartment.
Bill was talking, but I wasn't listening anymore. It just sounded like more droning injury details - blah, blah,de blah. I was getting tired of Bill getting wounded every few weeks just to get attention. And I was wondering if we should set up a wild animal recycle area. Nah.
"No one feels my pain," he moaned. We all avoided eye contact with him and rolled out eyes at each other. He was right, again.
Lardass changed the subject. "Hey look at this, the paper reports that Doctor mistakes kill about 50,000 patients every year in USA hospitals. Most of these are deaths caused by infected wounds. Here's an idea: We send the murderous Doctors to North Korea to "help" the enemy (sort of like a reverse M*A*S*H ) during the next war instead of wasting our valuable weapons of total destruction." We all nodded in agreement. Good ideas are hard to come by these days.

Do Not Call

We have been on the "Do Not Call" list since the get-go. We deride the recent flap over "free speech" and any supposition that there exists a right for businesses to access my private, paid for , communications to annoy me with commercial messeges.
Our so called elected representitives have been falling all over themselves trying to look like they are zealously guarding our privacy. They even gave themselves away recently when they agreed on the laws supporting the Do Not Call List , and passed the measure in record time. Now we know that they actually can do something when they want to do it.

The federal judge who enjoined the law was right in his actual reading of the law. It exempts so many of the people who might call us, that the law is worthless. The authors of the law forgot that we (the callees) want to be free from ALL unwanted callers - not excluding politicians and charities and businesses (and their partners) who may have received a check from us in the past six months. Or salesmen posing as information providers or courtesy calls.
The congress has an opportunity to fix the situation, Go back and include the wording that allows us to sign up for a database where no one can call us for any informational or marketing purpose unless we say it's ok. No unsolicited calls whatsoever with an intent to sell or provide any information relative to a commercial transaction, no charities, no "surveys", no no no.
Also while thery are in session they should change the law that allows callers to block their identities. We want to block all unknown callers. We run our own do not call by refusing to answer the pphone unless we recognise the caller on our callerID.

If I was a telemarketer, I'd be delighted that the government provided the means to eliminate people who have already self identified themselves as not interested in my product. It is much less efficient to establish that the person is not interested, by havong to dial their number.

I'm hanging up now (click)

Huh?

What the screaming fuck are the editors doing when we see this headline in the Globe:
"Worlds Oldest living Man Dead at 114"
There must have been a more intelligent way to rewrite that line.

Not All Ideas are Good Ideas

This morning I had to send Lardass over to the Old-People-Take-and-Leave section to beef up the security fence. The place is starting to look like a concentration camp. People keep dropping off their old and useless relatives, no one seems to come by to pick-up. The other night one of the old fucks wandered off and got in the back of a deuce and a half pickup truck and fell asleep. He wasn't discovered until the next morning when the driver noticed a peculiar smell. Allegedly, the old fuck became confused and bit the pickup driver on the hand when he was offered a sandwich. I had several angry calls about that incident.

The newspaper reporter who interviewed me got it all wrong, of course. The story made it sound like we were running a slipshod operation. And, now the Town Manager wants to know whether our insurance policy will cover the inevitable lawsuits.

I have been having second thoughts about this innovation - which seemed like a logical way to recycle unwanted humanity. It had worked for old toilets and mattresses. And the Roadkill section was well attended and quite popular. Why not a recycle area for people?
"That was a fucked-up idea from the get go," Lardass pronounced when he returned from his fencing chores. "Who the hell would want old feeble people who drool in their cereal, lay around all day watching CNBC and spend the rest of their time in doctors waiting rooms?"
"Well, I thought maybe some of those pro-life do-gooders might come by to save them," I said with a whiny defensive quality to my voice. "They are always talking about 'right-to-life' and stuff. Making a big fuss about abortions. I figured they would want to save real live people, but I guess not."

We keep the old people in the holding pen for up to a week. Then, every Saturday, we herd them all into a walk-in dumpster and run them through the shredder. We recycle the bits into compost and sell it. We call it Humanginite. Very popular. Makes the lawns shimmeringly green.

Organic Thoughts

Yesterday was another muggy Sunday morning. As is our habit, a bunch of us dump denizens were sitting inside the cob house munching on stale bakery goods and day-old coffee. It was too warm to stoke up the old Franklin stove, but not warm enough for the A/C.
Lefty - who is about to observe his 63rd birthday - had recently renewed his driver's license, and he was telling us that he had checked-off the organ donor card.
"Who the christ would want one of your corroded body parts?" I objected. "For fuck's sake, it's irresponsible to even offer them, knowing how you've abused your body."
"The stuff on the right side has hardly been used," Lefty sneered, lighting up an unfiltered Camel with a kitchen match.
"Hey no smoking in here," yelled Lardass. Lefty ignored him.
Lardass is accustomed to being ignored by nearly everyone. "Ok, but your just killing yourself with those things, those cancer sticks."
Lefty just blew a puff of smoke at him. Lardass got up and opened a window.
"Some poor shmuck waiting for a 'healthy' kidney gets one of your beseiged parts. It ain't right." Lardass has this empathetic streak that makes him weep for a world full of pain and disappointment. The rest of us have become numb to the feelings of others. We have out own problems. (Who weeps for my nagging rectal itch?)
"I want to keep all my body parts," I declared. "You never know, maybe that thing the terrorists say about the 76 virgins in the afterlife is true. I figure, you need to take all your parts with you, just in case...."
Rajid chuckled, "Why would anyone want virgins? Wouldn't it be more like paradise to have slutty, experienced whores? Getting on top with breasts the size of Bombay Mangoes..."
"Well, I just don't want people cutting stuff out of me after I'm dead."
Just then, we heard a horn honking outside. It was the Dalai Lama , an old friend of the dump. He stops by whenever he's in town. He was driving a rented Miata convertible.
"Hey dudes!" he greeted us cheerfully.
"Hello Dalai!" we sang "It's so nice to see you back ..."
"Can stay and chitchat, dudes. Busy, Busy. Just came by to drop off some old robes." he had a black plastic garbage bag which presumably contained used buddhist apparel. "Can you see that these get into the Goodwill dumpster?"
"Hey, no problemo, Big Dee." It was Lardass who once again asked the question that was on everyone's mind, "So, what does the Lama wear, under his robe?"

Major Policy Speech By DF Management

My fellow dumpfucks,
It was nearly two years ago that the evildoers and enemies of freedom launched the attack on the US. Our president retaliated with a successful campaign to eliminate the Taliban supremacy in Afghanistan. After we won that war, we left the country under the control of a hodgepodge of UN and nongovernment agencies. A year later, things seem to be drifting back to anarchy or control of local warlords. The poppy farms are as flourishing as ever. High grade opium will be once again flowing in the veins of America's addict population. In April, convinced that Saddam Hussein was helping or conspiring to help terrorists to launch deadly WMD attacks on US citizens and sites, President Bush ordered our forces to roll into Baghdad in what must be the most spectacular victory of all time. We watched it unfold in real time on tv. We were proud. Then as the looters, fundamentalists and unwashed masses gathered to protest US presence, we came to realize why these people need a harsh dictator - they cannot get along with each other, except under threat of a powerful and iron fisted fascist.

Now, we the taxpayers are asked by the president to pay an additional $87billion to "stabilize" Iraq and Afghanistan. (We know that if they are willing to admit to 87, the real number will be ten times that much).

I say NO. It is not our problem. If Iraqi oil cannot be produced to pay the costs of stabilization, then give them their guns backs and let them fight amongst themselves. (That was our strategy in the Iraq-Iran war: help them kill each other.)

It is a mistake to offer democracy to people who are unable to acknowledge the rights and beliefs of others. The dual pillars underpinning Democracy is the recognition of freedom and equality. Our leaders have made a fatal mistake in thinking our values would work in the arab-muslim world. Let's bring our troops back and let Allah's will be done.

We have many needs in this country which are not being met. If Bush wants to be re-elected he must withdraw the request for money to stabilize Iraq and instead get our citizens back to work, and help all the children to get an education, live in decent housing, free from gangs, criminals and crazoids who ought not to be out on the street. Our own cities are flaming hellholes. Put out those fires, Mr President. Bring the troops home and stabilize our inner city crime neighborhoods, will ya?
Thanks for your attention.

Dear Ms DF

Due to popular acclaim, we have revived a popular feature of the old blog that we call Ask Ms Dumpfucks. We get tons of mail (dumpsterguys@aol.com) asking us for advice on recycling and disposal. And lately we are getting questions on other subjects. So, we thought - why not give out advice on dating, stock market investing and social behavior also? Here is a sampling of recent Qs and As

Dear Ms Dumpf*ck:
Q: I have a nagging rectal itch. It seems to go away when I smear it with peanut butter and get the dog to lick it off. Do you think this is a deviant behavior? Should I seek professional help? signed : Itchy in Natick
A: Dear Itchy, Yes, you should be ashamed. Peanut butter is not good for dogs. You should smear your scabby ass with wet purina dog chow. The healing power of canine saliva is one of the smelly little secrets that Vets don't talk about.

Dear Ms DF:
I have a friend who has a get away place in Rhode Island. Recently when we planned to visit, one of the other friends asked for a ride, then at the last minuite said they needed to bring their dog. I declined and now they won't speak to me.
What should I do?
A: Fuck em. They are the evil ones. Enjoy the silence.

Dear Ms Dumpfuck,
My sons and nephew were shot and killed by american soldiers recently and my homes have been destroyed by weapons of total destruction, like Stealth Bombers, and bunker buster bombs. So, I am thinking career change. Do you think the best franchise opportunity in US is in Tire repair and auto lubrication or Teeth Whitening? I have a few K of american dinars oops I mean dollars. Thanks, I like your tits. SH

A: Take a picture it lasts longer, you pervert. Glad the evil spawn are dead. You should
take an ice pick and lunge it deep into your eye, so it gets into the brain. Your best occupational bet is tire repair and lubes. Or arabic coffee bars.

Three Day Weekend

Notice: The dump will be closed for the long weekend to honor all those hard workers who have made the dump what it is today. We came from a small incinerator and landfill to become the premier dump destination in North America. We get visitors from many nations (and perhaps even other planets) who come with cameras and notepads to see the miracle that is the wellesley dump - or as they like to call it downtown - the RDF.

Schedule of events for the Labor Day Weekend:

Saturday - The annual employee cookout and moose roast will be held near the back compost area. (The big pile of stinking debris near the refrigerator graveyard. ) BYOM

Sunday - The gay and lesbian couples beach party will be held at Morses Pond. [Men are requested not to wear Speedoo briefs this year, recalling the unfortunate incident last year when Bill did a cannonball off the high dive and revealed the place where the horse bit him. It was not pretty and we go a lot of nasty letters from mothers of small children who reported the nighmares and trauma went on for months.]

Monday - Labor Day is a day off. All Dumpfucks are encouraged to stay home, read a book, nap in the yard, think about your purpose in life - whatever.

See you next week, you Dumpfucks

Laborous Thoughts

Today was bring-your-cat-to-work day at the dump. Some of the members of the Planning Board thought this would be a good way to show our cats what we do all day. I guess the experience is supposed to give the felines a better appreciation of our human labors, and possibly explain why we come home smelling, well, so interesting.
Frankly, I don't think it is such a good idea for the cats to see us at work. Cats do not have a word in their vocabulary for work. To a cat everything can be described with three words: Food, sleep, Play. They sleep for 23 hours a day. All the rest of their existence takes place in one hour of wakefulness.

Research has shown that after a cat sees you cleaning the litter box, they lose respect for you. Of course! Do you respect the poor fuck who cleans up your shithouse? Sure, you may still have kind feelings for the cleaner as a person, and maybe even have sex with them, but you really don't put them on a pedestal of honor.

Anyhow, most of us boycotted the cat idea, except Rajid, the new guy. His house cat is a rare white Bengal Tiger. He had the huge beast on a leash and was beaming when he came into the cob house.
"Hey Sigfreid, what the fuck is that?" Lardass almost fell off his chair.
"This is my baby, Sindee. Say Hello Sindee."
The tiger took one look around and became tired. Her hour of activity must have expired. She laid down and started to purr. it sounded like an idling Mack Truck.
Lardass said what was on all of our minds, " How much it cost you for kitty litter?"

Too Many Homers

No, this is not an explanation for the recent Red Sox loss. This is a story of power and pathos. A blackout story. A chronicle of our times.

It was another sultry sunday morning. The electricity was back on and the usual gang of dumpfucks were sitting in the A/C induced coolness of the cobhouse, sipping yesterday's leftover coffee and stale donuts. Lardass has convinced the manager at Dunkin' Donuts (who speaks dubious English himself, yet was clearly chosen because he is the most literate and possibly the most un-tattooed employee at this location,) that he is collecting food for a homeless shelter.
Bill was rewrapping his knee, trying to get us to look at his scar and complaining about the lack of empathy in the world. "It's lonely when you are sitting home alone with your pain. It would be nice to have visitors once in a while."
"Pain is just a thought," intoned our newest member, Rajid. "Nothing more than imagination. You can control you thoughts. Banish your pain."
"Ok Depak, what if I whack you on the head with a golf club. Would the blood and headache be just your imagination? " Bill was not into transcendental thinking. He was looking for pity.
The single 60 watt bulb flickered off and on for a moment or two, and the rumble of the A/C motor seemed to change pitch. This offered a good excuse to change the subject.
"Anybody figured out why we had that power blackout? The news headlines called it the Great Blackout of 2003. Cripes, it's only August. How do they know it isn't the first in a series of even greater, more devastating blackouts?"
Lardass was first with his opinion: "Too many Homers!"
He is of course referring to Homer Simpson, that donut chomping sociopath who frequently falls asleep at the controls of the Springfield nuclear power plant, causing more than one meltdown in his tenure.
"Homer was always shutting off the warning alarms because they interrupted his naps. That explains what happened the other day."
"Maybe it was a gang of hackerists," I suggested, "Nobody can explain what happened. So how can they rule out hacker-terrorists? Switches that were supposed to be "On" were "Off." But nobody knows why. Sounds a lot like the kinds of things hackers do all the time. Maybe this was just a test."
Rajid shook his head. "No, No, that would be foolish because it would alert us to the threat. I think the problem is saturation."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, with all the wireless networks, cell phones, pagers, microwave transmissions, satellite dishes, lojack, GPS traffic, coupled with sunspots and earthbound lightning, the air is saturated with signals. There is a theory known as Harmonic Dissonance which explains it. Basically random signals are interferring with electronic programs, making processor- based appliances act funny. Interferring with whales' and dolphins' navigational systems. Crazy stuff. Making planes crash, trainwrecks, burnt toast, warm beer. "

We all pelted him with cheese balls. But it got us to thinking. (Hmm: beer.)

Blackout at the dump

A few of us were sitting inside the cob house enjoying the cool breeze coming from the Air Conditioner that Lardass had found at the Take and Leave area. It was 90 degrees outside and we were sipping icy Papst Blue Ribbons from 16 oz cans. Bill had his leg bandaged up from his knee surgery and had brought photos of the operation. He was still woozy from the anaesthetic and chugging the PBRs didn't clarify things very much.
"Nobody came to visit me in the hospital," he complained.
"You were only there for an hour you dump fuck." I reminded him, letting out a fine baritone belch.
"Nice one!" Lardass always complimented creative use of body gas eructions.
"I could have died. Nobody cares."
The sad fact is, despite his whining, Bill was right on the money. None of us really gave a fiddlers fart for other peoples' pain or even death. We were all wrapped up in our own petty lives. Our possessions. Our own knees. Our genitals. It was sad, but true. If Bill had never returned, we would have briefly wondered how come no one was whining, and then we would have moved on. I decided to pretend to care.
"Hey Bill, next time you need a miniscus transplant, call me. I'll send Lardass down. He has a surplus of everything."
Before he could answer, the power went off. All of a sudden it was dead quiet. The only sound you could hear was the caloric swish of a stopped air conditioner. The light was out. The radio which had been playing spanish music was dead.
For a moment we just looked at one another trying to deduce what was going on. Lardass was the quickest thinker among us.
"Power's out. No telling when they will get it fixed. Let's chug these beers before the ice melts!"

Life is too short

Lazy days like these when the weather is sultry, we don't feel like doing much of anything requiring more energy than popping the cap off a frosty brew. We just sit in the shady side of the cob house with our ratty re-caned chairs tilted against the wall, sipping our drinks and opining on the world situation.

Massive banks of clouds roll up from the southwest, laden with tropical moisture. Then, during the brief cataclysmic bursts of fury, we are driven indoors to huddle around the fan to dry off.

"Life is too short to be in the wrong job." Lardass declares.
"What the fuck are you talking about now?" I squinted at him.
"Well, don't you ever wonder if you were mean't for something better than working at the dump?"
"Hmmn. Like, what could be better than this?"
"Most anything." he mused.
"I should fire your ass for insubordination, and stupidity."
"You can't fire me. I'm quitting."
"Ok. Goodbye. Get the fuck out of here!" I had had enough of his crap.
"Wait until it stops raining. Then I am out of here, you ingrate." He popped another beer.
I pulled out my .44 Python and flipped the safety off. I aimed the gun at him.
"Put that beer back. Beer is for employees."
"And chicks with big mangoes?" lardass added.
"Yeah, just put it back."
"Ok. Never mind. I didn't really quit. I was just kidding. I love my job. " he swigged the beer. I put the gun away.
Life is too short to go to prison for shooting an idiot.

A rainy day at the RDF

Nothing smells worse than a rainy day at the dump. No matter how rotton and noisesome the garbage, everything stinks worse when it gets wet. Like a dog.

Lardass had been working the recycle diaper bin most of the morning. When the rain started he came into the cobhouse, reeking of shit.
"Hey, there's flies in here!" he complained, sitting on a stool near the A/C with a frosty bottle of Papst Blue Ribbon. He swatted at the buzzing insects with a week old WSJ.
"They cabe in wid you," I said, breathing through my mouth.
"Well, we need to put screens up."
"Screeds?"
"To keep the flies out. What's the matter with you? Are you coming down with a summer cold?" He scowled at me.
"No. Id just stinks id here." I reached into my desk drawer and came up with a spray can of Lysol. I sprayed a blast in his direction.
"I don't smell nuthin' " He covered his beer bottle with his filthy hand to protect it from the fumes of the disinfectant.
"That's why we led you work id the RD Bin."
"Well, after the rain, I'm going over to Take and Leave to see if I can find some old screens. These flies are driving me nuts."
"OK, bud lader I need you to take a load from the BDA (body dumping area) to North Compost."
"Ho. There weren't no bodies there earlier. What you saying?"
"Yah, that hummer guy was back. He had sub more cargo. Two this time."
"Did you get...?" Lardass rubbed his index finger with his thumb.
Grinning like a cheshire cat, I dug into my shirt pocket and waved the two crisp Benjamins I had taken as a gratuity from the driver of the black hummer.
"Oboy. Lobstas tonight!"

Tour de Dumpe

The annual Marquis de Sade dumpwide bicycle race always draws a large crowd. Some competitors travel from long distances to participate in this popular event. Two of our past favorites Uday and Qusay "Johnson" (hey, that's the name they used when they signed up!) will not be 'coming down for breakfast' as Howie Carr says, so it is with extreme regret that we announce that they have been scratched ( and from the pictures, burned and shot too.)
This leaves an all American field of racers, composed of gastroenterologists and TV news program directors and Rosie O'Donnell.

National Dumpfucks Secretary Appreciation Day

Hard to believe that another year has gone by. We gave the secretaries the day off today so they could go to the doctors for their annual "STD Free" certifications. It is a strict policy here at the Dump that all female workers get inspected and certified. We (guys) don't want to catch any diseases! Lardass wants to get all their teeth removed too, like Daisy.

Ok so I made a mistake -sue me!

I have been taking quite a bit of flack recently for an erroneous statement that I accidently forgot to delete from my "state of the dump" speech a few months ago.
The sentence that sounded like "We have documented proof that the evil empire of Natick is sending unstickered vehicles to our dump," should actually have said, "We haven't been checking stickers recently due to exessive abuse of the sick day policy by lazy assed staffers."

I just want to go on the record to say that as the Dump Fucks Leader, I take no responsibilty for the statements attributed to me. I have full confidence in myself and plan to continue to spew out all manner of inaccuracies because -after all - I am the duly self appointed Leader. If a Leader waited for all the facts to be checked and rechecked, he would never get anything done! We hardly get anything done as it is. Thanks you for your understanding and your continued confidence in the RDF to handle your trash needs.

Defecation

Lardass won the Most-Amazing-Shits contest this morning.
A bunch of us were congregated, as we are wont to do on Sunday mornings, when our significant bitches- are attending the religious services of their choice. George claims that they are actually going over to Medford to check out the new Krispy Kreme store.

We were recounting great shits we had had in our lives. We have stopped lying about our sexual exploits, and are into sharing true body experiences. I recalled the glorious sensation of total emptiness after taking that stuff they make you drink for your colonoscopy. It turns your bowels into liquid and expells the contents with such force that one almost experiences orgasm. Lardass talked about the time he had been on a cheese eating binge and he shat a turd so big that he had to cut it with a wire coat hanger to get it to flush down the toilet. George claims that he takes a huge crap at least three times a day, and that "dry farts don't smell bad."
Lefty said that "irregularity is in the mind of the beholder." We all pelted him with cheese balls.
Bill disclosed that while a student at BMU he had actually taken a college course in Scatology, but was flunked out because he "failed to turn-in his feces".
Next week we will be sharing our "Best Dwarf Fucks."

Dump Rules

> For your safety, no dogs are allowed at the dump at anytime. Leashed and muzzled dogs should be kept inside your SUV with the windows up so we cannot hear them barking.

> Ball Playing and Frizbees are not allowed

>Please help us to keep the dump clean. Use trash barrels.

> Alcoholic beverages are allowed, if shared with dump personnel.

> Radioactive substances should be recycled in the appropriate "take and Leave" bins. Weapons grade plutonium should be disposed in the "Fissionable" area and kept out of the "Kids Stuff" toy recycle area. We have had some recent unfortunate "accidents" recently. The USAF disaster control team might have labelled them "Broken Arrows", but we just call them "Un-necessary incidents resulting in hideous childhood deformities."

> Please park your SUV's in the spaces provided. The handicap spots are for cripples and blind people. Please be thoughtful. And would the Orientals in your stupid Hondas, please stay out of the Negro parking spots. A lot of pregnant women have been parking anywhere they choose. Your specially marked spots are clearly identified. Pay attention.

> The dump is at the disposal of all citizens; enjoy your visit. Obey the rules so your fellow dumpfucks can enjoy also.

Thank you
DF

Workplace Rage

There ought to be a law against people who get so uptight that they come to work and shoot coworkers to death. Folks, this is simply not good etiquette. I guard against the possibility that Lardass or one of the Armenian yard sweepers will take out their frustrations on me. I walk around with a loaded pistol stuck in my belt so no one will even think about f*cking with me.
Lardass noticed. "Ya'll are gonna shoot yer dick off with that." I could tell he was less intimidated than I had planned.
"Naw, his dick ain't big enough to catch a slug. More likely it'll hit him in the foot!" shouted Daisy, the midget dump harlot. She was a true gem 36" tall and a flat head, so you can set your beer down and it won't spill. She has no teeth and a tongue like an anteater's.
Ok, so my co-workers aren't perfect. At least we didn't have any massacres today.




.

Hot Day at the Dump

You'd be surprised at the things people bring to the dump. Things they want to get rid of. Ghosts that haunt them. Items that hold dark memories. Some people need to get rid of things that they have stolen. As if that will assuage their guilt and fear. No, my poor dumplings, it will not do. Redemption cannot be found at the dump, you need to go to a redemption center if you expect to get your deposit back.

Today a Wellesley citizen brought the carcass of a moose to the compost area.
"Sorry buddy, we can't compost animals." I said waving the black Hummer away from the bins.
"What the fuck am I supposed to do with this dead fucking moose?" he shouted.
"Take it back where you got it" I said.
"How long that thing been dead?" Lardass asked, looking as if he was thinking Bar-B-Que.
"Fuck if I know. Couple a days judging from the flies," said the Hummer driver. "I found it on my lawn this morning."
"Look, buddy," I said in a friendly, helpful tone "They don't let us handle this sort of thing...you know... normally. But, i'm thinking: if I could get a few bucks, I know a guy who..."
"How Much?" the hummer guy interrupted, jerking his wallet from his hip pocket. He opened it up and I could see a raft of twenties nestled and folded in the pure leather of his billfold, which was clearly not a Marshall's special value item from a 3rd world nation.
"Three Hundred." I began the bidding, willing to do it for a hundred.
"Done. Where can I put it?" He started counting out the bills. I mentally kicked myself for not asking for five hundred.
Lard ass was untying the fetid corpse. "Leave it right here - I'll go get the backhoe."
The hummer guy looked relieved. He handed me the bills. I stuffed them in my shirt pocket.
"Just one other thing..." he motioned for me to come over to look in the back of the hummer. it looked like the body of a young dead woman wrapped in a white sheet. Blood stains appeared around the torso as if she had been stabbed repeatedly.
"How much, do you think?"
"Another fifty should do it," I said cheerfully. "Your lucky day. We have to dig the hole for the moose anyway."

Declaration of Un-dependance

Despite what some people may think, I believe in the golden rule. This is why I do not go to public events if I can help it. We celebrated the Fourth of July from our living room. I could not help but feel sorry for the poor folks who traveled from places as far away as Malden to come to the mosquito infested Esplanade (a French word for "swamp") on the Charles to listen to some screeching black opera chick, an uninspiring, mumbling performance by Lee Ann Rhymes ("What's up Boston?"), and the mastaburtory slurpings of the local media. 600,000 bladders showed up and stood in 3mile long lines while swatting away those ubiquitous bearers of West Nile Virus (another reason to nuke the entire Arab continent)? But the most annoying thing must have been those perfect assholes who decided that their own lard-assed performances were more important than the view of the stage.

I guess diehard concert attendees are accustomed to that sort of inconsiderate behavior. They don't let me go to concerts anymore, since the incident where some people who blocked my view of the stage were mysteriously found dead with poisoned dart wounds on the back of their necks. This gave rise to the phrase "tough darts."

I was found innocent by a jury of my peers who also hate inconsiderate concert goers.

Happy Birthday America

To honor American values the dump will be open all day today. Bring us your garbage yearning to be dumpstered. Give us your stinking trash bags full of cat dung and baby diapers. Recycle your used condoms (we simply rinse them out and invert them to use both sides. We got the idea from Martha. Its such a good thing to conserve natural resources of latex).

We do not believe in holidays. We think you are lucky to have a job you whining, spoiled brats! In stead of a paid day off, you should go to the plant and work for free to show your appreciation. For christ sakes, your company is not some socialist experiment to make you happy. The company exists to line the pocketbooks of wealthy investors. Last time I checked, I counted 24 hours in each and every day, and 7 days in the week. Sure you need 8 hours of sleep every day, but that leaves 16 hours a day available for work.

We love what we do. We would do it for free. Working at the dump is considered a priviledge not a right. We have no affirmative action program, but we admittedly demonstrate a preference for attractive women with big breasts, regardless of nationality, religious affiliation or sexual orientation.

Not that anyone gives a sweet shit

But, I'm going fishing for a week or so. Get your blogfix somewhere else. Check back on July 1.

Dads Day at the Dump

We had a cookout today at the dump. The place was mobbed. I made the mistake of extending the invitation to all my illigitimate children. I had forgotton how many of the little bastards there were. Cripes I should bottle this stuff and sell it for big bucks.
I feel like kicking myself when I think of all of the unpaid squirts that have gone down the drain. At least during college, I made serious coin donating my love juice to the sperm bank.
The ATM down there is a pretty spooky thing too. You don't just stick your card in to do deposits, if you know what I mean.
We grilled those big italian sausages at the cookout, which I knew all of my former lovers would crave.

Recycle - It makes you feel good

Recycling a pile of cardboard boxes is more satisfying than anything you can sniff or inhale. The rush to the brain, knowing that you are saving the earth is heady stuff. I try to recycle 8 or 9 beer bottles each day in an effort to do my part. Lardass told me that he turns his condoms inside out to get an extra use before recycling them. I tod him that he should go unrotected since his main squeeze Sally Five Fingers is unlikely to get knocked-up. "It's to keep from getting STD's" he retorted.

Singular not plural

6/5/2003

Alas I am the last of the famed Dumpfucks. The other lice-infested creatures have cleaned out their lockers and have gone mincing off to pound their puds somewhere else. Good riddence. They all sucked anyway, like Monica Lewinsky only fatter and more bovine. My stuff was always the best, according to the Fan Mail.
So. I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round. I just had to let it go....
The Late Great DFM

Warning: This dump is subject to closing or evolving without warning. If you have seen the Tremors series, you know what I am talking about.
posted by Dennis at 4:15 PM




6/4/2003
Truth
I am sure Martha Stewart and Sammy Sosa are just the unwitting victims of people who have framed them. And Hillary - why would she lie?
So those nattering naybobs who want to throw merde on our national heroes are just mean spirited pricks.

"At the dump. we stand behind our leading members." I lectured to the group gathered around the TV in the cobhouse.
"Yah, so It's easier to stab them in the back"
"Shut up Lardass before I pop a cap in you ass." I aimed a loaded gun at him with malicious intent. The other dumpfucks scattered like cockroaches.
He shut up. But I pulled the trigger anyway. One. Two. Three. But the caulking gun misfired, and goo shot all over my shoes and pants. I spent the next 20 minutes cleaning sealant off the linolium floor. Veritas.

posted by Dennis at 8:45 PM




5/31/2003
Pococurantism
The denizens of this dump are becoming lazy and fat, if I may say so. There is mental litter everywhere you look. Airborne junk, flying in the brisk breezes of apathy. Plastic bags hooked on chain link fences wave like angry flags. Newspapers scuttle across the tarmac blowing nobody any good news. Aluminum cans and take-out trays clink and clash as they tumble before the east wind. Lordy, what a fucking dump. Someone needs to clean this all up before Jesus returns and condemns us all to perdition.