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
Thursday, August 28, 2003
Tuesday, August 26, 2003
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?"
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?"
Monday, August 18, 2003
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.)
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.)
Friday, August 15, 2003
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!"
"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!"
Saturday, August 09, 2003
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.
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.
Sunday, August 03, 2003
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!"
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!"
