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.
Friday, November 28, 2003
Thursday, November 27, 2003
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 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
Monday, November 24, 2003
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.
"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.
Friday, November 14, 2003
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
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?
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?
Friday, November 07, 2003
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.
"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."
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."
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
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."
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."
Monday, November 03, 2003
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 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.
