Batman Smells

Most of us who work here at the dump are Unbelievers. We don't call ourselves Atheists, because we believe that there probably is a higher power - we just don't think It gives a rat's patooty about the affairs of human beings on this planet. We call ourselves Unbelievers because we don't believe any of the religious bullshit we hear from preachers, mullas and evangelical know-it-alls.

We were reminded of the irony of belief last night watching the news about a fishing boat that sank. 4 drowned, including the captain. The brother of the surviving crewman was being interviewed on camera. He explained the recovery of his brother as "The Grace of God." This is typical of what passes for faith in our modern culture. You see it all the time in sports: the home run hitter crosses home plate puts a fist to his heart and then points to God in thanks for his grace. Winning Boxers almost always thank God for the victory.

So if you think this makes sense, then you believe that God cares whether the Yankees or the Red Sox win a stupid baseball game? God, in his infinite (i.e., incomprehesible) wisdom flipped the boat and drowned 4 seamen to punish them for ...well I guess we will never know.

There is a magical trick people of faith play on themselves. When something good happens, they say it is God's blessing. When stuff goes wrong, well it must be the devil, or a punishment. They are entirely oblivious to the absurdity of this position. Many people of faith think that it is immoral for a mother to get an abortion because God says Thou Shalt Not Kill.
They have decided that this particular form of killing is bad - some think its bad enough to kill the doctors who perform abortions. Yet these same people stand idly by while people are being slain by the millions around the world. I looked up the ten commandments, and there is no fine print. It is one of those absolute statements that you cannot weasel around with, even if you are a used car dealer.

But people of faith are intellectually dishonest, most of them. They preach absolute obedience for others and practice situational ethics for themselves. The scandals in the churches and in the lives of many evangelists are ample evidence that people of faith are following the wrong leaders and fooling themselves with their inane chanting and praying. By the way isn't praying just an arrogant attempt to change God's Plan?

So, enjoy the Christmas Holiday for what it is: A secular celebration of friendship, family and and excuse to drink too much. Oh yeah, and gifts...

(Ah, a matching pen and pencil, just the thing I need, how nice."

Seasonal Salt

Some of us in the office have begun to suspect that Lardass is on steroids. In the past several years he has been bulking-up. Some of the guys recalled the other day that his real name is Vernon, but no one has referred to him by his real name since Hector was a pup. Hector is the name of the old black Labrador Retriever that has been spending the most of week sprawled on the floor in front of the Franklin stove catnapping and wheezing. Normally, I don't like dogs - or any other animals -in the office but George insists that Hector creates chi in the office. If chi smells like a fart, I'd have to agree with him. Anyway, George claims that it's it's bring-your-dog-to-work week. Over my protests, he leaves the animal in my office instead of taking him outside. It's too cold,

Intra-office conflict is my bread and butter. I have studied every negotiating guide from "Getting to Yes" to "Feed them crap and make them love it." I am proud of my record as a tough negotiator and an obstacle buster. First you acknowledge the conflict and define the points of disagreement. Then you pull rank.
"What the fuck is that dog still doing here?" I ask pointedly.
"What dog? I don't see any dog"
"That big black animal lying like a beached moose in front of the stove, pumping methane into our atmosphere" I am getting testy, but still in charge.
"Oh, that. That's not a dog. That's Hector"
George was doing his usual steaming-up-the-mirror tactic. He is an atrocious fabricator.
"And I suppose he isn't blowing pizza-crust farts either." Holding my nose, nodding to the empty pizza boxes piled on the floor. The lads had sent out to Dominos for lunch.
"You know Hector has a congenital problem digesting carbohydrates." George was stubborn and insubordinate.

I was mulling whether to pull rank, when Lardass lumbered into the office.
"Cripes. What a stench!" This was a surprise. I always thought that LA did not have a normal sense of smell. He once confided to me that he was intrigued with the odor of skunk. "Somebody light a match."

Lardass was excited because he had read in the news that a local DPW outfit was adding beer tailings to rock salt on the roadways during snow storms. Beer apparently makes a Super Melt Salt that keeps the snowmelt from freezing at the normal freezing point. A scientist invented the product after he noticed that the pool of fetid beer mash behind the Budweiser plant never froze.

Lardass had an idea. "Hey, we have the same situation. Did you ever notice that our tank of radioactive liquid waste never freezes?"

The idea hung like a giant fart cloud in the room.

Plastic Lies

We were open during the long holiday weekend, but I did not expect much action on Friday or Saturday. Most of the citizens would be be enjoying an extended Thanksgiving holiday. They were not thinking about the RDF. They would either stay in their homes picking on leftovers or would join the throngs on the highways and byways to get to the mall or wherever.

Here at the RDF it was like a morgue. The regulars choose to take this post-Thanksgiving holiday in lieu of veterans day, so I had only a skeleton staff.
As I made my early morning rounds, there was an eery silence, the scent of decay was heavy in the pre-dawn miasma, and the muffled voices of ghosts seemed to whisper from the giant piles of recycled leaves and earth.

It put me in a philosophic frame of mind.

I have been thinking about wood lately. This is not such an odd topic for thoughtful consideration by someone who works at (and, if I may add, Manages) a dump. If you think about it, 99% of trash arrives here in several basic forms: Wood, Metal, paper, plastic and garbage.
Wood waste is the most plentiful. Broken wooden furniture and toys, brush and tree limbs, stumps, falling down fences, odd pieces of lumber, construction debris - these occupy most of our landfill dumpsters. Next most voluminous is paper products - newspaper, cardboard containers, boxboard, office paper, magazines. By the way, these are also wood derivative products. So I get to see wood in many forms, and here is the thing about wood: Wood is a metaphor for Truth.

There are many shades and grains and shapes of Truth. You can round the edges of it, and pound nails through it. You can build a house with it or build a weapon of war . You can stain it, cover it with paint or bury it. You can bend it into hoops and even burn it. Perhaps the Ultimate and final Truth is in the ashes. But maybe ". . . Sometimes, it's just a piece of wood," as Freud might have said.

Mopping Up - part 3

The next day, I was back in the office. It was business as usual. I was at the desk working some new signage. Lardass was out in the landfill area. He had finished up the major bulldozing job that he'd been working on all night, and now he was keeping an eye on some Feds with a warrant who were poking around the compost area.

George was on break, reading the paper. He looked up, "Hey you know that kid who took the video? His house burned down. Tragic - the whole family was reduced to cinders. Freakin' bad luck or what?" Shaking his head in pity. I got the feeling he suspected something. He is suspicious of everything that happens. I was tempted to give him a hint about the goings-on, but decided to let it go. George didn't need to be dragged into this thing. He has his own problems.

The truth is, the kid and his family are living safely in Tucson, Arizona. Ok, I admit that it was my doing. I had called my old friend, Harvey, who I call the "Eradicator." Harvey runs what he calls a "Witness Dislocation Service." His clients pay for the subjects to be involuntarily moved to a place where they cannot testify against the client. Harvey is very convincing. Without actually harming them, he threatens the subjects into abject silence, provides them with a new identity and poof - they disappear. (At least that's how he explained it to me.)

I went outside to post the new "No Video Photography" signs. As I arrived at the compost area one of the Feds yelled "Lucy, you've got some 'splainin' to do!" He was grinning like a Cheshire Cat, holding up what looked like a human femur.
"Hah. That's easy. This is where we dump all the road kill." I checked the bone carefully. "Yep, this here is a moose leg."
"Ah," said the young Fed. "That makes sense." He tossed the piece of bone back on the pile.

"Hey, you guys want some coffee? You know, I got Krispy Kremes in the office." I pointed in the direction of the Cobb shack that we call the office.
"Ok " said the old Fed, "This place looks clean. False alarm I guess. Let's get out off the fuckin' cold." They started for the office, and I waved off LA, who was hidden in a nearby grassy knoll with his sniper rifle - ready to clean-up any problems that might arise.

Leak Justice

The video on the TV screen was stark and shocking. An un-armed man stands beside his damaged vehicle - one of those expensive, fruity-looking jeeps that people with too much money tend to buy. The back is all pushed-in. A bulldozer blade can be seen in the background. The un-armed man seems upset. He is gesticulating wildly and yelling at two other men. One, a good-looking management type and the other, an obese guy wearing filthy cover-alls. There is no audio, but you can tell that the driver is pretty hot about something.
Suddenly, the good looking one pulls out a pistol and points it at the un-armed assho - er, citizen. But, the fucker just will not shut up. Bang.
The hand-held camera jitters as if the person holding it has started to shake involuntarily at the horror and brutality of the killing. But the video continues to record the scene unblinkingly.
The two men move quickly, as if acting out their roles in a play. The fat one loads the body back into the driver's seat of the jeep. The good-looking one gets a pail of sawdust or something like it from the small shack nearby, and spreads it on the ground where the dead guy was lying. The fat one disappears for a few minutes while this is going on. When he returns he is driving a large front-end loader. He scoops up the jeep with the dead guy inside and drives off to the left off-screen.
The TV goes off. I'm blinking and rubbing my eyes when the bright lights are turned on.
"So," says the detective, "What do you think about that little piece of footage?" He is looking at me like a snake, eyes focused intently, but he had a big toothy grin on his face.
I took a minute to compose my thoughts.
"Interesting. But, a bit amateurish, jiggley, no audio…."
"Yeah, high school kid, doing a video project about recycling at the dump. He took the video." He explained.
"What's this gonna cost me?" I asked.
"A lot." He smiled

It seemed that someone important had some material that needed to go into a landfill. Several thousand fifty gallon drums of waterproofing agent that is supposed to be used to reinforce tunnel membranes when the tunnel is under a saltwater aquifer. The detective - a good friend of mine - has a brother-in-law who was in charge of the Big Dig tunnel work. Apparently, his Microsoft Project spreadsheet had mysteriously deleted the task that said "Pump water-proofing agent around tunnel membrane before filling in the ditch." The newspapers were full of Big Dig tunnel leaks. There were scandals in the wind and fingers were pointing wildly.

The long and short of it: Evidence needed to be lost. I was in an agreeable mood.

Later, we shook hands and he handed over the video.
"It's the only copy." He assured me."

Heavy Equipment

We had the 5 ton plows out this morning laying down another layer of salt and sand to cover the black ice that had formed overnight. Can't have the citizens risking their precious lives, slipping and sliding as they come with their once treasured items to toss into the huge collective dustbin that we call the Recycling and Dosposal Facility, but which most people call "the dump".

I guess it is human nature touse high falootin terms when our identities are involved. No one wants to be called a dumpfuck, garbageman, or even trashdude. Even Lardass, who justifiably has few pretensions, seems to feel an odd sense of empowerment in his title of Disposal Specialist III.

As the Manager (DFM) I have tried to encourage an esprit de corps among the men and women who work here. Well, there used to be women, before the guidlines on sexual harrassment made normal co-ed workplace fooling-around into a crime. I think it is important for the workers to have a high level of self esteem. This engenders a sense of quality and teamwork in them that you don't find in the normal white collar office job.

Most office drones spend their days in small cubicles, sitting in front of a heartless computer screen. Heavy equipment to these geeks is trying to clear a jam in the copier. Figuring out how the fax machine works. Getting their personal data off the printer before the boss sees how they have wasted company time. Or, maybe they array themselves around the stuffy conference room table thinking about their nagging rectal itch while the Ego-in-charge holds court with his tedious Powerpoint slide show. If they are sitting next to an attractive young woman, they sneak glances at her tits. They hear the sound of cloth on nylon as she crosses her long slim legs. They start fantasizing about the soft supple tits, the legs, the thighs, the...well, you get the idea: meetings can be a bore and a distraction at the same time.

At the dump, we don't have any conference rooms. Although we have hundreds of copiers, fax machines and printers, none of them work. The only females in our workspace are the desparate housewives who live in the community, and of course the stripper-hookers who we call-in from time to time for stag parties and birthdays.

I give the guys a lot of latitude in the performance of their day to day jobs. I do not believe in micromanaging. I expect a high degree of personal accountability and pride in one's work. Heck, if you cannot trust the guy running a 12 ton front end loader to know what he is doing, you have big problems.

So it was that I was sitting at my desk in the cobb house this morning, musing on the nature of work, the benefits of instilling a sense of personal accountability in the Team and the goal of Total Quality, when I heard a terrific crash outside. I jumped up and rushed outside.

Lardass was standing next to his bulldozer which had rammed a citizen's brand new Hummer from behind. The Hummer had lost in the exchange, and looked like a metal turtle with a hunched back. The driver - a nerdy looking geek dressed in office casual - was waving his arms wound frantically and shouting obscenities at poor LA.
"This fucking car cost me $70,000! What are you gonna do about this - you asshole dumpfuck bastards!"
I looked around the lot. There were no other customers in the area. I had to move quickly.
"Sir, I know you are upset, but why don't you come with me and we can settle this, er accident, without calling names."
"Look. Do you know who I am?" I had to admit that I did not recognize him.
"Sir, I see that you do not have a dump sticker. Please come with me." I was firm.
"No! I want this this creature fired and , and..." He stopped mid-sentence when I pulled out my Walther P-32 pistol and aimed it at his forehead. Then he started in again, "What the fuck is that thing for? Rats? What are you gonna do, shoot me?"
"Yes." I pulled the trigger. He was dead as a doornail when he hit the pavement. "Come on, LA get him back into the Hummer and get this thing over to the crusher ASAP." Lardass was already moving. After years of teamwork, we had this drill down fairly smoothly. As I spread aabsorbant over the pool of blood on the pavement, I vaguely wondered about the origin of the expression "dead as a doornail." Another mystery to add to my collection.

Later, Lardass came into the office for coffee break. I was doing the next quarter's fiscal budget on the PC.
"Everything taken care of?" I inquired.
"Yep. Problem e-fucking-radicated." He smiled with the pride of a job well done.
"Good. You deserve an extra donut today. Help yourself. " I nodded to the table where I had laid out a half dozen Krispy Kremes. Some days, a manager can't find enough ways to say thanks.

Sour Notes

It was cold and breezy at the RDF. An Arctic air mass had moved in over night and was sitting directly overhead. The spinning high pressure system created a swirling maelstrom of paper, plastic bags and leaves in a virtual trash storm. Lord knows when the cold wind blows it'll turn your head around.

The sun was just breaking the horizon to the east as I drove the access road to the shack that I presumptuously refer to as my office. The James Taylor tune was rattling around in my head like a loose lugnut in a hubcap. I've seen lonely days when I could not find a friend.

I was thinking about the futility of working here at the dump. Most jobs have a point where you can say, "I'm done." The product is shipped. The service is delivered. The wall is painted. The patient is dead. The fire is out. The miscreant is unconscious in a holding cell. The campaign is over.

But, working at the dump is much like being a US senator. You can work thirty years and never get anything done. Rust never sleeps. The flow of junk is ceaseless. You can never measure success because there is only the eternal pipeline of offal

Sure, We go home at the end of the day, and tell our inappreciative desperate housewives how hard we worked, and how many tons of garbage we processed. But we never feel the satisfaction of "done." It's like shoveling sand against the tide. Split beams and sewing machines in pieces on the ground.

I guess I was subconsciously thinking about the recent election. The results were disappointing. Another 4 years of slipping backward into the pit of evil conservatism. 4 more years of yapping about the sanctity of marriage by politicians who cheat on their opposite sex spouses, more wasting US treasure in a futile effort to democratize a people who will never accept the concepts of tolerance and equality, more tax cuts for the obscenely wealthy, more empty rhetoric about the importance of life - specifically between conception and birth, more homeless and hopeless wandering the streets. I heard a rumor that Bush will nominate Ashcroft to the Supreme Court and it turned my bowels to acid. Fire and rain - I have a feeling that we haven't seen anything yet.

Games

George and I were discussing the edgy public debate between the nominated first ladies that would decide the next election, when Lardass came into the office. He was wet, dripping dirty rainwater on the floor from his mud caked orange slicker. As usual, an aroma of shit pervaded the area where he stood. He carried a large brown paper bag.

"Hey guys, what's up?"
"What's up, my ass. Where have you been?"
He ignored my question, and went to the table whereupon he began taking items out of the bag. Coffee and donuts. Yumm, donuts.

"Where the fuck have you been?" I repeated. "You are supposed to open up, not stroll in like an invited lunch guest."
Lardass glanced over to George. "I figured George could get it opened up today, for a change. I slept late."
"Watching the game? Hey, we were up late too. We got here on time." I yawned.
"I wasn't watching baseball. Professional spectator sports are a waste of time. What kind of dufus sits and watches two groups of overpaid entertainers going through the motions as if they enjoyed 'playing' the sport? The games are dictated by Big TV money. That's why they are playing a summer game in October. It's all bullshit. You might as well be jerking off." Larass stuffed a boston kreme into his unshaven puss.
"If you weren't up late watching the game, then just what were you doing?" George wondered.
"Playing poker."
"Poker, you mean that you drove down to the casino last night? Foxwoods?"
"Naw, I play poker online. Texas Hold'em. It's addictive. You don't play for money, just bonus points."
"So you can't lose?" George twiddled his thumbs as he lined up for the killshot. "Talk about the ultimate jerk off!"

Suddenly, Lardass seemed to comprehend the emptiness and meaningless of his existence. He dropped like a heap into a chair and stayed staring at the floor as if he was watching a preview of a trash strewn future, devoid of hope or escape. I felt sorry for him. Even George realized that he had scored a deep wound, but could not bring himself to show compassion for the vanquished foe. He strode over to the table and grabbed one of the coffees that Lardass had brought.
"Didn't you get any bagels?" he demanded.

Pressure Cooker

It was a dark and stormy morning when I got to the dump this morning. At 7:20 the gates were still locked. Where the fuck was everyone? I pay these guys to get in early and get things organized. I shouldn't have to do everything - especially on a nasty morning like this. I got out of the van and pulled the ring of jingling metal out of my slicker pocket. In the rain sparkled light from the headlights, the wet keys look momentarily like a handful of gemstones. But, they were just the keys to a huge yard full of junk, I mused. I found the key to the padlock after a few tries and pulled the gates back. The dump was supposed to be open for business at 7:30am sharp, and here I was the only one on the job.

I was sitting at my desk still dripping and fuming when George came through the office door. He was soaked. His handlebar moustache drooped like wet puppy tails around his jaw like that angry guy who builds custom choppers on the cable channel.
"Not fit for man nor beast," he intoned in his best WC Fields impression. I wasn't in the mood for levity.
"You're late, I had to open the fucking gates this morning."
"I noticed. Good job"
"Fuck you. Why weren't you here?"
'Man I slept late this morning. stayed up late to watch the game. Where's Lardass anyway? Isn't he supposed to be here early too?
"I'll deal with his fat hide when he gets in. Meanwhile you're on warning, mister."
"ooh. I'ma shakin' in me boots..." he is such a thesbian.

But I started wondering about Lardass. He's never late. He has no life, other than the dump. Maybe he had died in his sleep. Or been jumped by muggers and thrown in the river hogtied with duct tape. Or maybe his jeep had gone into a ditch on the way in. The roads were slick and it was dark at this time of the morning...I was playing out all the disasters that I recalled from the evening news when George interrupted my revery.
"Turn out the lights, the party's over," he sang as he held up the morning paper.
"You mean the Red Sox?" I asked. I had heard that they won game 6 on the news as I was driving in.
"No, clueless one. I am talking Election. That remark by Theresa about Laura. That cooks it!" he had a wide grin. "How can you be first lady when you don't even know if your husbands opponent's wife ever held a job? No one will want to vote for Kerry now!" He was pleased with that bit of pretzel logic.
"You mean the job she had working in a library?"
"Yes, and don't forget she was a teacher."
"Ahh." I was wondering how many times Laura had been laid off, or been yelled at by a stupid egotistic manager. "But I think the gist of Theresa's speech was that the Bush's were pretty isolated back in Texas, not global travelers with a developed weltanschauung. I think they had once gone to the International House of Pancakes for Belgian Waffles." I chuckled

George just glared at me.

Points of View

By the time I got into the office in the cobb house, George was already there going through the morning papers. He looked a bit wild eyed, as though his meds had worn off.
"Bush won the debate." he shouted as I swtched on my PC. I just smiled.
"Well, good morning to you too," my voice was syrupy with faux sympathy for a supporter of lost causes.
"Good morning. Bush won the debate." he repeated.
"He got his ass kicked." I pretended to be looking at some papers on my desk, but I guess my smirk of victory was infuriating.
"I judge a debate on substance not on style." Pompously, as if that settled it.
"Too bad you are the only one who sees a debate that way." I Said. "The proper scoring of a debate is on the best presentation of argument not necessarily the monotonous repetition of talking points."
"Kerry was weak on facts."
I just smiled at his pathetic defense of the president's inability to think on his feet.
"His record doesn't match his rhetoric." His voice more strident.
I yawned, wishing I had a cup of coffee.
"He's a tax and spend Liberal." George was shouting now. He has always believed that loudness trumps logic.

"Did you watch the baseball game?" I asked. Another losing debacle for the locals.
"I don't care what they say," He roared, "I thought the Red Sox won the game."

Ultimate Reality

At the dump we are the ultimate unedited reality show. \You can watch the apprentice or Cops or the Bachelor and you are actually seeing the cooked-up, edited story that the producers think will entertain or titillate you.

It always amazes me to realize that people are so eager to get on TV that they will sign-off on permission to use the video when they have been caught by the Cops, punked by Aston Kutcher, or scared shitless by their so-called friends. It doesn't matter how unflattering the images are, people just want that 15 minutes of fame.

Now, they've got people trading apartments and redecorating them, even trading spouses. Ugly ducklings getting makeovers, patients having babies and getting liver transplants and boob jobs on camera, going on dates, racing around the world, playing survivor on remote islands, picking a trophy wife for Dad, you name it.

The Osbornes, for the love of Pete. Could anything be less entertaining?

After some thought on the matter - not much I assure you - I have some New reality show ideas that I think might be boffo hits:

1) Trading Saviors: a Rabbi and a Muslim Imam swap temples with mirthful consequences, when the congregation realizes that they've been "punked.".

2) Cooking Bacon Chefs from around the world fry up pork fat in competitive and entertaining ways.

3) Does this bulkhead make me look fat? Queer Style advisors drive through suburban neighborhoods at random and confront homeowners of dwellings that look odd or need a paint job. Their catty and witty remarks bring guffaws from the laugh track.

4) Candid Port-a-John Cam - a secret digital camera is hidden inside an an outdoor toilet.

5) Granny and Zemo - A legless cripple and a 89 year old blind woman compete to see who can be the first one to climb Mt St Helens.

6) The Duel - Male Contestants fight with each other over a sexy redheaded teenager using real weapons. The survivor gets the red snapper.

OK maybe these aren't so great after all.

Can you do better?

Pressure From The Top

Memo to Files:

I got a call from the Head guy at the DPW to "sugarcoat" the unsatisfactory performance review I did for Bill - who I finally fired last month. I am reluctant to do that. It is not fair to the guys who actually showed-up for work and did their duty. But, I will do it, because dammit, I follow orders - right or wrong.

I was asked to "lose" the previous rating where I noted that Bill had refused a direct order to go and get a haircut. I had to suspend him for "egregious ponytail infractions." Cripes, he looked like a refugee from a Jimmy Buffet concert. This may be a dump, but we do have standards.

Bill would never have been hired in the first place if his rich daddy hadn't pulled strings to get him on the list. Then he never showed-up. And if he did show-up, he never did anything. And if he did do something, he'd do it wrong. That's why the guys started calling him Dubbya ("W" for wrong.)

The way things are going, they'll probably ship my ass out to the Gnome, Alaska recycleing facility, and Bill will end up getting my job.

This political crap is driving me to distraction.
Huh, what was I saying anyway? Never mind.

Olympic Musings

The guys were out in the yard processing garbage, so I had the office to myself for a while. A few minutes to think about things and to do my management paperwork. Being a manager at the dump is a lot like being an Olympic coach. Except at the dump the people working for you are out of shape and severely lacking in motivation. Still, they are very competitive. Especially when it comes to nationality. Thanks to a vigorous diversity pogrom, we have weeded out all the undesirable nationalities. (I think we all know which ones are in the undesirable category. )

I was reading about the Iraqi athletes participating in the Games. I'm surprised that they are not a bit more gushingly grateful to the USA for eliminating their former sadistic coach, Uday Hussein. (In the good old Saddam days, if they lost their event, they would feel lucky if they only had a toe amputated.) My team fails all the time, and I treat them mercifully.

A lot of "athletes" seem to be pussies. If they come in second they burst into tears. (Shades of hysterical Oksana Baiul. You remember - the skinny chick who won a gold medal in figure skating. She even cried when she won! Hey that reminds me - What ever happened to the bad girl of skating - Tanya Harding? - They say she would have won that competition if she hadn't kept falling down)

And how about those Israelis? Finally, A gold medal. Hmmn. Must be a typo - the Globe says it was windsurfing. Somehow, windsurfing seems too frivolous for an Israeli sport. Shouldn't their premium sport be shooting or wrestling?

Watching the games on TV is tedious if you just watch NBC. The tallies of national medals is boring and meaningless. The cold war is over. If we win more gold medals than China does that get us any more votes at the UN? Or do we get preferred seating at the Winter games?

The so-called expert announcers need to shut-up and let us watch the play, rather than bombarding us with detailed background information and useless trivia. I've been switching to the Hispanic channel, where they show a much wider variety of competition - not just USA involved events. And, the bonus is you can't understand the narration, so you can just enjoy watching the game/fight/event.

My musings were interrupted by the bumblings of my crew barging into the office for the morning coffee break. George was first through the door making directly for his corner chair near the air conditioner. Bob, the dumptemp, was next wearing his spotless coveralls and shined boots. Lardass was last. Fat, filthy and breathing heavily.
"Hey. Which of you pricks ate the last donut?" he yelled, looking in my direction.
"I don't know," I shrugged innocently, absently flicking crumbs off my desk. "Somebody must have come in and took it while I was in the can."

Something in the Air

The headline in the news today: Rare Red-Footed Falcon Sighted On Martha's Vineyard.
Now, you might be thinking to yourself, "Who gives a rat's patooty about a friggin' trespassing bird?"

Well dear reader, perhaps you have not been paying attention. It was here at the dump that you first read the theory that Terrorists were using the "birds sightings" column in the Boston Globe to encode manchurian instructions to activate secret cells of suicide bombers within these hallowed but poreous borders.

If you look up red-footed falcon, you will find that it is not justy "rare" but virtually impossible to find this species of raptor in North America. So, it had to sneak across the border, right? Or, maybe it is a code name for something else that was brought into the country.

So, let's add it up: Strange footed bird of prey, heightened threat level, undocumented entry. I supposed this explains the volume of traffic and "chatter" to Martha's Vinyard. Could these so-called birders actually be massing for an attack? Ask Tippi Hedrin if you think I'm an alarmist

Open For Business

Sorry, gentle readers. The dump has been closed lately due to a perverse condition known in the entropic zones as "metaphor fatigue." Normally, it is not very challenging to find inspiration in the day to day events of the world or to find something worth lampooning in the real conversations with my cohorts. But lately, it has been a desert. George went on vacation - without my permission. Bill has been permanently terminated for chronic absenteeism. Absolutely nothing of remote interest has been happening on the world stage.
There has been nothing to report.

So, I decided to appoint Lardass as the acting Dumpfuck Manager (DFM) while I sat on a metaphorical beach to recharge my literal batteries. He was supposed to update the blog, which of course he failed to do.

"I ain't the writer," was his excuse when I upbraided him this morning. "I had other stuff to do. The trash don't stop just cause you have writers block."
"It wasn't writers block."
"Ok, then what was it? A breakdown? I can see you've been in the sun." He was referring to my sunburned face and arms. "Fuck, that looks painful."
"I fell asleep."
"You look like a boiled crab." he grimaced at my blistered hide.
"You look like Jabba the Hut!" I countered testily, "And you smell like a bag of wet assholes."
He just grinned. He was a man who was proud both of his aroma and his obesity. He had more self esteem than anyone I could think of. So what if I thought he was in need of several baths? No one was better behind the wheel of a front-end loader. Once I saw him move a ten thousand cubic yard mountain of compost clear across the yard in three hours!
"Look, are you working today or are you just posing for a sex offender awareness poster?"
He grinned. "Good one." And headed out to unlock the gates.
It was time to open up and let the good citizens drive in to dispose of the refuse of their lives.
It felt good to be back on the job.

Traderous Cohorts

"Ok Guys, listen up." I yelled from my desk to the staff who had assembled for morning report. George in his gray work shorts and faded maroon shirt; Bob, from Dumptemps dressed in his impeccable orange jump suit; Lardass in his shit-stained jeans and a blue denim shirt with the collar ripped off; and the new intern, a kid named Hobart Melancholy. He was wearing a dark blue suit, neatly pressed clean white shirt and a prep school tie with diagonal stipes.
They were a boisterous rabble in the morning, jacked-up on Dunkin Donut Latte's and Starbucks dark roast, eager to start their day as trash processing specialists.

When the Yada yada decreased to a dull roar, I started reading announcements:

"Don't forget the annual dump moose bake and softball game will be held next thursday nite after work. Attendance is mandatory. Let's all have fun this year."

Everyone was thinking about the six inches of rain that fell last year from Hurricane Latisha, ruining the day. Then there was the problem with food poisoning.

"This year we will have a freshly killed moose." I assured them. Many of those who got sick last year had complained that the meat didn't seem fresh.
That was Lardasses dumb idea to use an inexpensive road-killed moose. It had apparently spent a few hot days in the back of the truck before they delivered it for our picnic.

"Also, we have been getting complaints from citizens about an unpleasant odor." I made direct eye contactwith Lardass and held it meaningfully until he looked away.

"Please, let's try to stay downwind from the citizens. And, oh yeah, from now on we will refer to them as "guests" the way they do at Disney world. And workers here will henceforth be referred to as "cast members." " I had heard of the amazing morale that the Disney people had acheived by simply changing the way you refer to employees and clients. We are in the forefront of new ideas here, too.

"Lastly, one of the cast members has been traded to the Natick Dump. Bill will not be back. Management wishes him well in his future endeavers."
Lardass regained eye contact and raised his hand to ask a question.
"Bill who?" he inquired.

Protest this!

We get a lot of protesters at the dump.  One group of rabid tree-huggers don't like the way we "recycle" plastic by dumping it in the outer harbor.  The PETA nutjobs like to harass citizens wearing fur coats, sometimes flinging fake blood on them.  Another  group objects to the used plutonium take-and-leave section.  They call it a hazard.     Former employees keep showing up brandishing "Unfair and Unsanitary" signs and yelling uncomplimentary personal epithets about my weight and hygiene on a bullhorn.   Ok, so what if we are sexist, discriminatory and out to get rich on the backs of slave labor?  We believe in hooters, beer, steamers and rock 'n roll.   Are we to blame if we hate kids, dogs, priests, and people who make loud and unnecessary noise?  

WE have a designated fenced in protest area, over on the Needham line, near the used diaper dumpster.  The protestants complain that the odor is noisome, and that no one can see or hear their protests. (Duh).   I tell them to go back to their homes and write letters to the Secretary of Trash in Washington, DC. 

Often, when they think we are distracted, like when we are on break, drinking Gin 'n Tonics in the office, cadres of them will sneak out of the Protest Pen and accost citizens as they drop-off their "trash".   (See below for philosophical musings on the nature of expired treasures.)

At the Dump, our  biggest beef is with  is people who make unnecessary noise or  who intentionally interfere with traffic.  We believe that civilization is about consideration for others.    We do not turn our boomboxes up, or ride down the street playing rap music on huge bass loudspeakers. We never  talk loudly on cell phones in public.  We turn off our diesel engines when we are not operating the machinery.  We seldom honk our automobile horns (the only two exceptions 1) an accident is imminent or 2) to celebrate the end of a war).

So, you can imagine how we feel about protesters wandering around the grounds unsupervised.  They tend to violate both of our chief annoyances.  They block traffic and make noise.  

That is, they used to - before Lardass came up with the  Protestor Attenuation Device (PAD).  
Actually, the PAD is nothing more fancy than  a front-end-loader with jagged spikes affixed to the front blade.   When the racket gets too much to take, I send LA out to the yard in the PAD with a snootful of gin 'n tonics in him.  

Once we get the noisy masses corralled into the protest area,  we bombard them with piss-bombs, fashioned from used condoms filled with cat urine.   This pretty much spoils their little party. 

 

Code Breaker

I have been reading the best seller "The Rule of Four,"  an engaging  tale about Ivy league roomates who spend their time trying to learn the mystery behind an ancient text whose title is unpronouncable.   They discovered that the key to reading the text was a riddle that could solve the code.    The answer to the riddle was always a number.  The number was the key to the text.  A message would be formed by capturing the nth word of the first sentence in every paragraph of the text.    
 
This was the sort of stuff that appeals to Math Nerds.  I am an idea guy - a problem solver but not a puzzle solver.   But, it was time to put my theory (about secret terrorist messages being encoded in the Bird sightings column of the Globe) to the test.   I got out Sunday's paper and found the Bird Sightings on page B12.  I scanned the page looking for a clue that would provide the riddle.     In This Day In History,  I noticed that July 18th is the anniversary of the infamous Chappaquiddick incident in 1969, where Sen Kennedy's car went off the bridge.  I have always regarded it as an unfortunate accident involving a drunk driver.  But, Kennedy haters (and there are a few here at the Dump) regard it as more than a wrongful death.   (They are either unaware or forgetful about the fact that the current First Lady was also involved in a fatal accident where she was deemed at fault in 1963 for running a stop sign and crashing into a car which was driven by her boyfriend.  Like the president's war record, few details have been made public.  But it does make you wonder.  Such a coincidence that it was her boyfriend that she hit....)
 
Mysteries.  I began to peruse the Bird Sightings column.   Letsee,  there were  purple headed finches seen in Framingham, hornbills in Havehill, lesser grebes in Gloucester, an immature scarlet tanninger roosting in Taunton , a flock of pig faced whores at Revere Beach,  suicide bombing quaidas spotted on  top deck of Prudential center, Ruby throated hummingbirds making a raquet in  Harwich.   No, nothing of interest here.   As I studied the timeless text of the Audubon notes, the urge to nap came over me so strongly that I simply fell asleep at my desk.   I was awakened by the lumbering Lardass coming in for afternoon break.
 
"You'll never guess what I saw at the North recycle area,"  He exclaimed.  I looked up, groggy from my dream.
"A pair of mature freckled Hooters?" I inquired hopefully.   
  
  
 

Replacements

I was sitting at the desk at my office reading the Al Franken blog.  It quotes sources who  say that the new leader in Iraq  - allawi - is nearly as bad as Saddam in terms of brutality.  He didn't humiliate a gang of captured prisoners recently.  Whe they wouldn't cooperate, he just pulled out his pistol and started shooting them in the head.  PS the others started talking like schoolgirls.    I don't know if it is true or not, but it seems believable, given our historical record of installing puppets. 
 
The phone rang.  It was Bill.
"Hey, I'm not feeling too well today.  I need a sick day."
"Bill, you don't need to call in.  You don't work here any more.  I fired you last week."
"You were just joking. "
"No I wasn't.  You never show up anyway. "
"Who is doing my job?"
"Bob,"  I lied. 
"Bob?"
"Yeah, Bob - the guy from DumpTemps."
"Where is he sitting?"
"On your backhoe.  The guys really like him."
"I'm coming in.  I feel a little better."
"No, don't go to any trouble.  We have Bob.  He's doing a great job."
"Look you fucker.  You can't just fire me like that.  Remember, I have those pictures..."
 
I thought for a minute about the trip to Las Vegas for that RDF convention, a few years ago.  Somehow, Bill had come into possession of some embarrassing photos.  Not the kind that they print in Southern Recycling, if you know what I mean.  He had been blackmailing me for over a year.
 
 I caved.  "OK, but you better get your ass in here by lunch time." 
Lardass came in just as I was hanging up the phone.
"Who was that?" he asked, noting the look on my face.
"Bill."  I answered flatly.
"Bill who?"  
 
 
 

Stylish Thoughts

Things are slow at the dump during the "dog days" of summer.    We try and get our work done early before the sun is high and hot.  Or late in the day when the sun has gone behind the Compost mountain on the west side.
 
During mid day we sit in the office, sipping Gin and Tonics, discussing the issues of the day.
"I think Martha got screwed," said Lardass.  He was of course referring to the 5-month prison sentence.  "She didn't do anything worse than any other invester who got a tip.  She got nailed because she is a successful woman.  Feds don't like that."
 
"You don't get it,"  said George, in that condescending know-it-all tone that he likes to use with Lardass, "She lied.  That's what the Feds don't like.  It's called 'Making false statements'.  She got caught in a lie.  Now she's going to pay the piper.  Personally, I think she should have gotton a heavier sentence."
 
I was thumbing through an old issue of Martha Stewart Living that I had fished out of a dumpster,  musing as to whether I should add some color to the office.  Maybe some chinz curtains.  Cobalt Blue counter tops.  A splash of lime and .... hey! What the heck am I doing anyway.  I tossed the magazine into the trash can before anyone noticed the dreamy look on my face.   I got an old Men's Health out of the drawer, and perused the dick enlargement ads. 
 
George was still complaining about the light sentence that they gave to Martha.  He was put off by her defiant  "I'll be back" speech on the courthouse steps.  He wanted her to be humiliated and to feel repentent.  The Bitch. 
  
"What about The Governator, Arnold calling the Dems Girlie-men?"  said Lardass, "wasn't that offensive?" 
"Good point, LA, " I joined in.  "What's wrong with a man who has a sense of style, maybe a bit of elan?   You can't dismiss every sensitive guy as a fruit."
 
George just glared at us shaking his head like we didn't understand. 
 
I couldn't help noticing that his outfit - A faded maroon tee shirt and gray-fat guy shorts - was outdated and drab.  His decrepit deck shoes had been new in 1969.
Also,  he could use a manicure and some exfoliation.
 
 

Kill Bill - The Sacking

I was in a sour mood this morning due to the Board kicking the crap out of me at last night's Budget Meeting. Expenses were too high, especially personnel costs. The Board Chairwoman openly criticized my management style, calling the Dump a "...country club for a cadre of pampered, unmotivated loiterers."

I defended the team hotly. "That depends on the definition of 'Pampered'" I had remarked. That gave them something to chew on.

Sure, we have a generous benefit and vacation package. But we are in the idea business. It's a competitive jungle. We work with foul and dangerous concepts. We operate heavy ideation equipment. We interact with the word dumping public, and as ambassadors of recycled metaphors, we are Professionals.

But the tiny minds of the board are focused on results. This concept of getting results has eluded me throughout my career, and now it has come back to bite me in the ass once again. What is the big friggin deal anyway? Isn't it enough to intend to do something? If you are going in the right direction, why should anyone care whether you actually accomplish a goal or not? To me, the magic is in doing the job, not getting it done. Done is just a detail to me.

The Board didn't agree. They think the DFM ought to be more results oriented. In fact, they implied that if I didn't cut staff costs, I would be transferred to the satellite dump in Baghdad. (There is a high turnover in that area, even though the Iraqis are running the country.)

So I was in a sour mood when I came in this morning. I had to shitcan somebody. I got out a sheet of paper and wrote the names of the full time staff: George, Bill, Lardass. Hmmn, who should go, I mused.

Lardass would be the last to go. He did 90% of the work anyhow, and he would do anything he was asked. Employee loyalty like that you cannot buy.

George was the memory and conscience of the organization, with his high-minded principles. Besides, we needed him at the holiday cook-outs. No one else had quite the same elan at the grill as George.

That left Bill, who did nothing but bitch and moan about everything. He had not showed up for a month, calling in sick.
Our insurance costs were the highest of any dump in the grid, because of his constant MRI's and CATscans. It had become glaringly obvious that he was not committed to dump excellence.

I circled Bill's name on my yellow pad. I dialed his home phone. When he answered, I gave him the news: "Your Fired." And hung-up the phone. It was a strangely satisfying Trump-like moment.

Moose? What Moose?

The Local animal control officer Ginny Wilkins and two SPCA "Cops" were waiting for me as I arrived to open the gate at 6am. They were standing in front of a white box truck that was blocking the gate.
"What's up?" I greeted them, rolling down the window of the van. I could tell that something was up, because they were all looking nervous, hoping no one else arrived before they could get inside.
"Ah, we have an item that needs disposal," said the tall blak dude with a goatee. He was wearing sunglasses even though the sky was still grey with morning mist.
"Item?" I asked looking at the unmarked truck. "What sort of item?"
The ACO, Ginny, and I were well-acquainted. She held her hand out to me. "Just give me the keys to this padlock and stop fucking around, will you?. We got a situation here."
"Situation?" I was starting to sound like and echo. "What sort of..." But I was interrupted by the fat guy, who (I shit you not) had pulled-out what looked like a Glock pistal and aimed it at my face.
"Give her the keys, you piece of shit! Before I bust a cap in your ass!" he squeeked.

I've had a lot of guns aimed at me over the years, and I could see that the "gun" was a just a toy made of plastic painted to look like metal. The barrel opening was plugged with an orange plastic cork. I started to snicker. "Hey please don't Shoot me, fat boy. I'm opening the gate!" I yelled in mock fear, getting out of the van.

"Jiles, cut the shit. Put the fucking cap gun away." said the black dude to the fat guy. Jiles returned the toy to his belt. Then, looking at me the black dude says, "Look we need to get in and, ah, dispose of something, and we'd rather not see it made public. Know what I mean?" He was teasing what looked like a Franklin out of his jacket pocket. Ginny was nodding.

Suddenly, I knew what was up. The TV news at eleven last night had an item about a young female moose that had been roaming around the suburbs. Finally, the authorities had tranquilized the moose and taken her to New Hampshire for release in a safe environment.

"This would be the "released" moose," I said jerking my thimb toward the box truck.
"Yeah, said Ginny, "I used an elephant dart by mistake. My bad."
"We need a big hole and fast," she said, calmer now.

"It would be quite an embarrassment if the public found out..."
Said the black dude waving the Franklin like a flag. They chuckled nervously, as I took the Franklin and stashed it in my shirt pocket.
"No Problem," I said and unlocked the gate.

Chotskies

Well, I am back from vacation. The dump looks pretty much the way I left it: crap everywhere.

The Cape beach house where we stayed was typically furnished with yard sale treasures: ugly-but-usable furniture. You could not find a comfortable chair unless you sat on the back deck. The beds were small and uncomfortable. The walls and every surface were festooned with pictures and nick-nacks of nautical subjects, especially lighthouses and seagulls. The owner apparently had a "thing" for clocks. The house contained at least thirty clocks of various size shape and design. The only one that actually worked tocked loudly in the living room, reminding us that precious seconds of our nasty brutish and short lives were ebbing away with desperate certitude.
Mercifully, the gong was broken, so when we went to bed we were not aroused from our boozy slumber, forced to acknowledge that another unreclaimable hour had slipped into eternity.

Chotskies, I have concluded, are truly nothing more than junk. They are useless, pervasive and they litter up people's lives. When you think of all the useless trinkets that we collect - and save - you begin to realize that keepsakes and worthless memorabilia are actually a sign of mental disorder.
Dust magnets that fog up our thinking, keeping us mired in the shadowy past when we should be striving to engage the here and now.

I was at my desk in the office pondering these immutable truths when Lardass came in for his morning coffee break. I told him that I decided to get rid of all the junk in my life. He surveyed the office slowly, noting the faded picture of Ty Cobb, the Dump Manager of the Year trophies, my "Biggest Pumpkin" award, and the various detritus of my life, and remarked, "So, where does the dump manager take his trash?"

On Vacation

Due to a lack of trash, the dump is closed until Bastille Day.

Lardass thinks we should have a French Day at the dump - sort of like the special Hazardous Materials day. On July 14th you should bring anything French to the dump as a way of showing contempt for their spinelss politics, incompetence as warriors and phony-assed culture.

Since I will not be here to remind you. The 4th of July is not just fireworks and sweaty drunken sex on a blanket behind the dunes. (although these are very good reasons to be happy)

It is also the observance of the anniversary our national Independence from those French Bastards.
DFM

New Ideas for a National Holiday

It was a desultory day at the dump. A hazy sun sporadically succeeded in shouldering its way through an otherwise murky cloud cover. The humidity was oppressive. It felt damp in my office even with the A/C clattering disappointingly in the window.

The lads came in for their afternoon break. As usual George was first through the door and after grunting a salutary "Boy it's fucking hot - even in here" as a greeting, he headed for "his" chair in the corner under the overhead lamp. Bill was right behind, using his elbows to keep the door from closing, and not touching the door knob. Lardass brought up the rear, yakking as usual.

"So, here's my idea. You know how the courts are clogged with cases where people are trying to get damages for wrongs done by others. Well, my idea is to have a national holiday called Payback Day.
On Payback Day you can get even with anyone who has done you wrong with immunity."

"I like it," said George, "only it should last a month, like Ramadan."

"You must have a lot of people to get even with." I conjectured.

"Only asshole bosses," he winked to the others, with that evil grin of his. I ignored this thinly veiled threat.

"I think we need a national day of quiet." I said. "People would be forbidden to use noisy machinery, or make any noise that disturbs others. Motorcycles would be grounded. Chainsaws silenced. Barking dogs would be slain by bow and arrow. Carping wives would be locked in a closet. Cement truck drivers would have to turn off their idling diesel motors. If your car alarm goes off, the car would be seized....

LA and George had dozed off.

"How come we don't have a holiday to honor our furry friends? Bill wondered. "We have Mothers Day and Fathers Day. How about Pets Day?"

The question hung like the rank miasma over a dung pile at dawn.

Hot

It's too friggin hot to write a blog today.

Haul your ashes somewhere else.

This Day in History

It was on the third of June on a hot and dusty delta day
that Billy Joe McAllister dropped something off the Tallahatchie Bridge into the swirling waters of the river below.

This was the first documented case of egregious lyrical littering.
Why couldn't Mr. McAllister have just brought his refuse to the dump? And why, in Heaven's name did he then climb the wooden railing and jump to his own death? Trying to impress Jody Foster? We just don't know.

Everyone had called in sick today, so I was left to ponder the meanings of things by myself.

Naturally, my thoughts got to wandering about the mysteries of the universe. George had recently been making everyone read his essay on dimensions. He posited that there were in fact thirteen dimensions. I agreed with the four we usually refer to (height, Width, Depth and Time), but the others seem theoretical and debatable. (Certainly too deep for the likes of this dump.)

Perhaps what we call dimensions are not truly intrinsic and objective but merely statements about perception. If I am color-blind, or in a coma, or insane, external reality does not matter. And we cannot rely on scientists to reveal the true nature of the universe. The history of science is nothing more than the revelation that previous understandings were wrong.

But it did get me to thinking about space and time, and led me to the startling conclusion about realty and reality.

Location is everything.
The parlance of real estate agents have certified this ageless statement of the value of property. But we must remember that Location is not merely a point of latitude and longitude on a map. Location also refers to a moment of time. So, location is a statement of value based on the context of the proximate environment. A parcel of land with a mountain view in Shit's Creek, Colorado is not of equitable value to a similarly sized parcel of land situated on the coast of Cape Cod. A lump of anthracite buried deep under an alluvial plain 200 million years ago South Africa is worth considerably less than the glittering diamonds that we mine today from the mountains located on that same spot.

We have previously observed that trash - much like beauty - is in the mind of the beholder at a point in time. Now, we see that the same can be said for the value of just about everything.
I read that global melting of the polar icecaps will eventually raise the level of the oceans to make that parcel of land in Cape Cod quite worthless.

Cravat Envy

The lads were on their afternoon coffee break. Lardass was catching a catnap, tilting his chair against the wall on the back legs just like I was always telling him not to do.
Bill was reading the morning paper. As usual he was wearing latex gloves to protect him from germs. He shouted. "As if we didn't already have enough to worry about, look at this! He held up his newspaper "I knew it! It says your doctor's neckties can harbor colonies of dangerous bacteria. They wash their hands but their ties collect and carry germs from patient to patient."

"Really?" said George, who was doing the Times crossword puzzle with an ink pen. "How many necktie related deaths have been documented?"

Bill did not detect the sarcasm of George's inquiry. "Yeah, countless people have probably contracted some dreaded disease just going in for a physical exam."

"Freudians believe that the tie is a phallic symbol." said George glancing in my direction. "A statement of size, I believe. Big tie, big unit. That's what they say, anyway. I have long ago given up the primitive practice of wearing a tie."

Suddenly, I was feeling uneasy about my uniform. Since I am management, I insist on a strict dress code for myself to discriminate me from the common workers. I usually wear clean clothes, a white shirt and, as a personal trademark I have a large collection of fashionable bow ties...

"Hey, it's getting warm in here!" I said, loosening my collar button and stuffing the tie in the top drawer.
"And, besides, break time is over."

Cogito Ergo Trash

At the dump, we consider ourselves in the idea business. We realize that the word “Trash” is merely a label indicating a subjective opinion of an item’s usability.

One of the plaques on the wall near my desk is a quote from Othello, "Who steals my purse, steals trash. . . . But he that filches from me my good name, robs me of what not enriches him and makes me poor indeed."

Lardass once remarked that The Bard must have been some pansy, carrying stuff in a purse. LA has some good points but no background in English Literature.

Since Trash is not absolute state, it must be relative. And all things relative are figments. So, what we are dealing with here at the dump is nothing less than perceptions of reality
It may be difficult for some to see this truth. They may well ask, “How can a fetid dumpster full of used disposable diapers have any practical value to anyone?” Well, that’s what they used to say about ancient peat bogs, friends, and look what happened after just a few eons.

Today, we have black gold worth zillions just lying just a few pipelengths below the surface of the desert. That most of it currently belongs to a few emirs and emperors is a temporal matter to be resolved via the ultimate modernization (ie, demolition) of the middle east and the transference of wealth to Texas. But let us not stray into the realm of politics. Remember, we are in the idea business.

We were puzzling on the nature of trash. As George is wont to say, “one can, with unlimited time, always find one's way out of any maze by picking one wall and holding to it until one reaches the end of the maze.” This may not be a practical solution, give the size of some mazes and the shortness of human mortality, but it states an absolute truth. This leads us to the ultimate conclusion: Given UNLIMITED time there is no such thing as trash.

Awed by this overwhelming fact of existence, we Dumpfucks must quietly accept our assigned roles as custodians of the ideas that others have refused, rejected, ejected, tossed overboard, shredded, bent, stapled, mutilated, rendered, shit, pissed, bled, ejaculated, spit, chewed, sweated, lost and broken. We realize that all ideas are not good ideas, but dammit, attention must be paid!.

George and I were musing about the decision to demolish the maze, which has caused several untimely deaths, multiple injuries, threatened litigation and many complaints from the citizens about it being unsafe, unsightly and possibly the dumbest idea we had ever had. Sometimes we mistakenly lay our pearls before swine.

Lardass lumbered noisily into the shack, as he always does, breathing heavily and bringing with him the everpresent aroma of shit.

“Ok, boss. I finished bulldozing that stupid maze. What do you want me to do now?”

George glared at him as if he were a mindless cretin. Before I could respond he yelled to Lardass “Why don’t you stab yourself in the eye with an icepick?” Whereupon he stomped out of the shack slamming the door behind him.

"Cripes, what's eating him?" Lardass said. I shrugged.
"Some ideas are hard to let go."

Amazing

When George came into the cobb shack at the end of his shift, I was sitting at my desk staring at the piles of memos and brochures, losing lottery tickets, half-used note pads, unread magazines, and assorted other detritus. I was trying to decide whether the clutter is a byproduct of being busy, or due to an obsessive compulsive disorder.

I had recently seen a program on TV dealing with obsessive hoarding, where people cannot throw things out. You read stories about reclusive people who are found dead in their apartment amid heaps of old newspapers and trash - sometimes with large numbers of pets. I did not want to become one of those stories.

It is mildly ironic that someone who works at a dump has trouble throwing stuff away. But, I like the fact that they have deemed it a disease, and thereby washed away the possibility that it is due to personal failings on my part.

George seemed in a good mood. He had been working all day on his new idea: a garbage maze. He thinks it could turn into a real attraction. Fun for the whole family. George loves puzzles.

Lardass was frowning as he came through the door of the shack. "What the hell is that pile of junk on the east fill area?" He wondered.

George looked at him with an air of scorn. "The new maze," he intoned, as if that settled it.

"New maze? I didn't even know there was an old maze. Hah! Looks like a pile of junk to me."

"Everything here looks like a pile of junk." Me, chiming again.

Bill arrived. He pushes the door open with his elbow, being careful not to touch the doorknob because of his morbid fear of germs. Another Irony, I thought. A guy who works at the dump afraid of a few microbes. Strange world we live in.

"You're late," I scolded him. He ignored me and said to George,
"Hey, Maze Genius, you better get over there. Theres a geezer lost in your fucking maze. I think he is having a heart attack."

I grabbed the defibs and we ran off in the direction of the East fill area.

Keeping Citizens in the Dark

George has been lobbying for months to stop the charade. He thinks we should come clean to the citizens and admit that we stopped baling and selling recycled plastics a long time ago. (Nowadays, we just take it into Boston under cover of darkness and dump it into the harbor with the other landfill and Hazmat.

Believe me, it's a lot cheaper than negotiating with recycling companies - trying to keep accounts straight. And, it's much easier than trucking the crap up to New Hampshire to dump in the wilderness, like we used to.

"It's a sham" George declared disapprovingly. "You have poor old widows in some tiny apartment trying to separate containers, even washing them out. The kitchen is filled with recycling bags. And what do we do? We just moosh all the garbage together. It's a sham."

"Hoarders." declared Bill. "They keep all kinds of worthless shit in their apartments. It's an obsesssive compulsive disorder! I saw it on TV"

"It's anti-dump." I chimed-in.

"What are you two dumpfucks talking about?" George said.

"Well, you seem to think that the little old ladies are They think they're doing something good for their grandkids."

"Hey, we still recycle cardboard and radioactive waste...." I offered. "Besides, it makes the citizens feel good to separate their trash. "

The way I look at it, recycling is a lot like going to church. It may be a waste of time, but it's a good idea. Here at the dump, we are in the idea business.

The Boston Marathon

One of the least desirable aspects of Spring is Patriots Day in the western suburbs. Instead of contemplating the meaning of patriotism, the sacrifices of brave freedom fighters or the fruits of liberty, we will be suffering the indignities of the Boston Marathon.

Now, I have nothing against people who want to run for exercise or even people who desire the competition of a race. And, there are those losers who will line the route to watch them. But, why does it have to be in our neighborhoods?

So-called Athletes tend to be a narcissistic lot. There are disgusting reports of the behavior of runners congregated at the starting point in Hopkinton, pissing and shitting on people's lawns and shrubs, salving their genitals with vaseline, and even women changing tampons in public. This is intolerable behavior.

Because of the race, which runs 26 miles or so into Boston. The route is blocked off for the better part of the day. Emergency vehicles cannot cross the route, so they must find long cuts and alternative routes. Let's hope there are no fires or heart attacks in the neighboring locale, because help may have to go miles out of the way to get to you.

Isn't it absurd that the state police will close the thruway and snarl-up traffic for hours, rather than drag an accident victim off the highway to let the innocent bystanders pass by - But they seem have no problem risking lives because of a stupid race?

About four miles of the race route runs through our town. The trash from the discarded drink cups and bottles from the runners, not to mention the garbage left behind by spectators forces us to stay open for an extra shift on Tuesday processing, baling and dumping in the harbor.
Humbug.

Every Dump needs a Fixman

“You mean THE WMD’s that our inspectors and troops have been looking for?”
“The crates have 'Made in USA' stenciled all over them.” That would prove they were from Saddam’s hidden bunkers, since we gave them to him in the first place.

“Ok. Let me think. I’ll get back to you in a minute.” I hung up.
My hands were shaking. How would this look on my record, on top of everything else? The Board would be shitting bricks if the news got out that our town dump was not only storing the most volatile and dangerous substances on earth, but that there existence here would mean that Bush might try to find a link to the terrorists and attack us! I could get fired. I needed an idea.

The best solution for all concerned was to get the materials back to Iraq where they could be discovered. That way they could prove that Saddam was planning foul deeds, and then Bush could swagger himself back into the White House. The recent rumors that Kerry might consider Hillary Clinton as a running mate was heinous yet believable. I have been thinking ABB but now it’s BIH.

I dialed Lardass.
“Yeah, boss, what’s the deal?”
“Ok here it is. We need a couple of - you know - black helicopters over here - stat, We gotta get this shit back to Iraq.
“ Ok, give me an hour.”
“Really?”
“Go home. It’s almost done.”
I must say that Lardass is the kind of friend and subordinate you need in this life. Loyal. Smart, Meticulous, totally lacking in scruples. There are too few of his ilk on the staff, I mused.

Against All Animus

I knew it was going to be another grueling day at the dump. My ass was on the grill again. A former dump staffer had gone public with a new book loaded with accusations and imputations regarding my priorities here at the RDF. I had enemies on the Board and they were - no doubt - salivating over the prospect of seeing me skewered, roasted and devoured by wolves. (Not a great metaphor, I must admit, but I am not in the mood for literary correctness at a time like this.)

I was at my desk munching a sandwich and reading the book entitled "What I saw: Wasted at the Dump." It was an unflattering indictment of me personally, and my management practices. It described me as "fat-faced Irishman"; Describing my appearance as "A body double for Ted Kennedy". Worse, the book, detailed many of my shortcomings as a recycling and disposal facility manager. It cited the briberies, the illegal body dumpings, the misuse of trash, and discriminatory hiring practices.

The author, a former yard man named Richard Head, had been laid-off several years ago (pre-blog). We had ramped-up our facility to handle the dot com boom. Citizens in this posh suburb of Boston were making money hand over fist, buying stuff to beat the band; which of course resulted in increased mounds of trash and re-usable discards. Hey, all boats rise with the tide, so we needed to hire more help.

Hiring Dick Head was a mistake from day one. He had a lean and hungry look about him. By contrast, most of us - Me, Lardass, George, Bill and Lonny - look very well-fed; and even our rookie Rajeed looks like he enjoys his beer and pasta.

But Dick Head did not fit in with our culture. He was all "Lets follow the rules." "Citizens should get first shot at take and leave items" , "Toxic waste should be trucked to New Hampshire and dumped in remote areas" (who has time to drive all the way to the Granite State?). He checked every vehicle for dump stickers. He wouldn't let non-residents in - even though they offered some tempting cash bribes. He was a bureaucrat. A rule-follower. (Many of the customers were calling him The Dump Nazi. ) He never told dirty jokes, he kept his political opinions private (his daddy had warned him not to argue about religion or politics) . He didn't fit in.

We had all agreed that he was the skunk at our lawn party. So, I decided to lay him off. He did not take it well. At the termination interview, he complained that it seemed strange that he - the best worker - was being let go, but Lardass and George who spent most of their time on break, and Bill who usually called-in sick, were allowed to remain on the staff. I tried to finesse that point, mumbling phrases like "Team player" , "Synergy", and "Flexibility" and finished reading him his rights. Finally, I took his badge and then escorted him silently to the gate. As we passed the work areas all the dumpfucks stood with their backs turned to him as if to ignore the shame of his existence.

That was nearly four years ago. Now, the kiss-and-tell Book. Dick Head was getting even.
The phone on my desk rang. I figured It was the board Chairman, probably calling to fire my ass. I have never shied from confrontation, and I picked up the phone.
"Yellow, " I growled.
"Hey man. It's me. Guess what I found?" The signal was weak, and the static sounded like a Geiger- counter. I recognized Lardass's voice, calling on his cheap refurb cell phone.
"Yeah. What do you want?" I didn't have time for chit chat games.
"I found them. You know - the peeshtx of peeshiz destrctphiz." The static was terrible.
"What the heck are you saying, I can't understand. You're breaking-up."
There was a pause that lasted a few minutes while all I could hear was Lardass panting as he moved to a higher place trying to get a stronger signal.
"Can you hear me now? .I'm on top of the 'dozer."
"Yup, I can hear you fine. What was it you found?"
"Well, I was poking around the Y250K area, where we stored all that arab plutonium a few years ago...."
I recalled the area. No one had worked over there for a long time. It was posted with Hazardous Warnings "Radioactive Material Do not enter until June, 248000" Some of the materials have a half life of 250,000 years. Now, I remember, we were experimenting with our HazMat Insourcing Program back then. We had handled a large secret shipment of waste from somewhere, maybe Syria - I could not remember exactly. We just stored the containers and forgot about them. No one was allowed to go near because of the radioactive hazard.
"You shouldn't be there."
"I know, but you'll never guess what I found..."
"What?"
"The fucking WMD's"

Polarization

It's getting uncomfortable in the cobb house these days. The political debate is getting heated and loud. Bill has borrowed George's favorite argumentative tool: shouting louder if the opponent doesnt yield to the obvious superiority of your logic and facts. Sometimes the yelling gets out of hand.

To those unfamiliar with conflict management it is disturbing. Rajeed, whose cultural training forbids him to argue with anyone who outranks him is very quiet. Everyone outranks him. (Actually, Lonny is the new guy, but he outranks Rajeed by dint of his previous experience at another dump.)
As the manager, I encourage the free expression of diverse opinions as long as they do not interfere with dump regulations. To me conflict is natural. Arguing provides a healthy outlet for passionate feeling and is probably the best way for guys to communicate with each other.

I suppose I could quote the actual arguments literally, and that might prove entertaining, but in the interests of brevity, let me just summarize the nature of the debate:

George: "All Republicans are Good. Democrats and whistleblowers are merely humping a book."
Everyone Else: "Why can't we be more like France?"

Wound Up

I am sitting at my desk in the cobb shack where my office is located, reading the morning Globe. This was the 15th anniversary of the Exxon Valdes disaster at Prince William Sound in Alaska. 11 Million gallons of crude wasted. I had filled the tank of my Van this morning, noting that gasoline prices were obscene. It makes you wonder how the world would be different if they could figure out how to use seawater for fuel.

Lardass and George were sitting near the stove taking a break. George was unable to talk about anything except politics. He has mellowed somewhat with regard to my recent apostasy on the righteousness of the war in Iraq. He is convinced that I am merely an intellectual weakling who can be swayed from one side to the other based on the most recent piece of culpatory information. He has begun to launch a series of preemptive factoid scuds to soften me up for the main attack.
“Do you know how long Kerry was in Viet Nam?” he smiled, cheshire-like.
“Yeah, I heard it was 4 months. He got wounded and sent home. Army rules. Three Purple hearts. A hero.” George tweaked the tips of his handlebar, his eyes brightened. The hook was set.
“And, do you know the nature of those wounds?” The word ‘wounds’ was drawn out like a Gershwin trombone aria – ebullient with doubt and mockery.
“No. But, I am sure the military would not give out a purple heart for minor scrapes or cuts. You have to be wounded in battle. And it has to be bleeding. You know, something more serious than a cut in a hockey game…” I was sure that I’d have heard about it if the Kerry War Hero legend had these kinds of holes in it. Purple Hearts were not political. They were awarded for real damages, suffering, incapacitating injuries when the bullets were flying.
“Well, “ he intoned with sonorous purpose. “you might want to check it out. I heard that he never even spent a night in the infirmary for those wounds. “ Again the gliding, questioning trombone on the word wounds.

It was time for them to get back to work. “Ok guys. Enough of this rank speculation and innuendo. You guys need to move that compost pile into the North forty before dark. Let’s go!”

As soon as they were gone, I googled “John Kerry purple hearts.”

Kerry - just for kicks

As usual we were arguing about politics today at the Dump. George is now alone as the conservative ideologue among us. Bill and Lardass have always been "Left-leaning commies" - according to Geo - but now he is calling me "Flipper." He believes that a person should come to an position and then stick with it regardless of new enlightening information.

He is annoyed that I have changed my stance and am now speaking out against the war in Iraq, and have withdrawn my support for our reactionary administration in Washington. These guys are scary. They cannot simply admit that they fucked-up, and then fire the people who lied or made up intelligence data.

I am among the millions who felt that we needed to act on the WMD threat. I am also among the many who were surprised last year when they named the operation "Iraqi Freedom." That was the first time we were told that the agenda was to free masses of people from the brutal dictator, and to superimpose western democracy on a bunch of people who never have (and never will ) believe in the core democratic principles of equality, freedom and tolerance.

Well, Saddam is gone. That is a good thing as Martha would say. I want to support our troops with equipment and a strategy that keeps them from becoming sitting ducks for the bomb throwers. But I do not want us to stay there. And I fear that a continued Bush presidency will just lead us to more Iraqs and higher oil prices. I don't believe them anymore - and without Trust of the people they are ineffective.

So, I am off the fence and in bed with the socialists. So be it.

I kind of like John Kerry. Man of the people. War Hero. Good driving record. Rasheed reminded me that all presidents in recent memory ran while holding elective office, so my criticism of Kerry as a no-show senator is dulled by the fact that they all do it.

I asked Lonny where he stood. He just scratched his head and mumbled, "I don't vote. It just encourages them."

Searing Truths

Yesterday was a mild day in March here in New England. At lunchtime George hauled out the old gas grill from the shed near the Cobb house. He had several large fresh T-bone steaks - a bribe from a non-resident who we had allowed to illegally drop off some white goods at the appliance disposal area. We like to get rid of the evidence of our graft as soon as possible so I declared free steak lunch for the dumpfucks.

George had slathered the steaks in bacon grease and turned the heat up to full blast. The steaks went on the grill with a flash of flames, steam, sizzle and smoke.

"Watch it, there. Don't burn the meat!" I warned him.
He just looked at me with undisguised pity, as he turned the meat over with tongs. The flames leaped up, as if to consume his eyebrows.
He leaned back expertly. Only a few moustache ends seemed to have been singed.
"You know, DFM, one must cook with *elan*" he remarked pedantically as the smoke and flames flared dangerously.

I ran into the cobb house to look up the word in my American Heritage dictionary. It define elan as "enthusiasm and flair." Now I understood. I went back to the growing conflagration.
"Stop burning the meat!" I yelled. There was so much smoke I could barely see George. He looked like a ghost in the confederate mist, but I could see that he was becoming impatient with me.

"Searing. It locks the juices in." His eyes were watering from the smoke and heat.

"Bull Shit!" I yelled. " You are cooking the juices. That's why the meat is steaming and sizzling, you are cooking the juices OUT of the meat. It's a scientific fact."

"Shut the fuck up or I'll throw these fucking steaks in the compost pile!"

Sometimes as the manager you have to stop micromanaging. I let him cook the juices out of the steaks. Somehow, they were delicious. Science can bite my ass.

Marching to The Polls

Today is "Super Tuesday" to the presidential hopefuls and hangers-on, because there are so many delegates on the line in the big-state primaries. Here at the dump, located in the western suburbs of Boston, there is little doubt about the presidential fave.

The assumptive winner John Kerry continues to point to his 4 months in Viet Nam as the qualifications to be president. But, I cannot help thinking about his voting record on the big issues of our times. And his attendance at the job he is currently sworn to do is pitiful. I am unsure what he stands for. He has missed hundreds of roll call votes this session.

Edwards, that weasel trial lawyer would look good, if it weren't for the fact that I suspect he is a phony bastard just like the rest of them. Sharpton? Naw, he might make a good animal control officer, but not President of the Free World. I forget the other guy's name - Kucinitch.

Some of The Dumpfucks were sitting around the Cobb house enjoying a well-earned coffee break.
Lardass, Bill and Rajeed were reading the paper.
Rajeed said, "Let's go to vote on our lunch hour."
"Screw it," I said. "What's the point in actually voting? It's a waste of time. Kerry will win his home state. No Point in it."
Lardass agreed, "Like Utah Phillips said, 'If God had wanted us to vote, he'd have given us decent candidates'."
Bill said, "I don't vote. Do you know how many germs collect in those voting booths. And the people who work the polls - they look sick!" Bill was our resident bacteriaphobe.
Lardass retorted, "Ok Detective Monk, let the democratic ideals be sabotaged by OCD."
Just then, George came in. We told him of our general apathy about voting.
"I see." he mused, "But what about the special state senatorial race?" He reminded us that there was a vote on candidates to replace the outgoing senator who had resigned her sworn dutues to become more active in Lesbian affairs. Apparently, gender issues were more important than her vow to uphold democracy.

"Did you dumpfucks know that one of the candidates is very upset that the state refuses to pay for trans-gender operations for prison inmates?" George sat back and let that thought sink in.

Suddenly civic duty hit us like a lightning bolt. We all rushed out and jumped in the van. Lardass left a 25 foot strip of rubber in our haste to get to the polls and vote for the other guy.

Macadamy Awards

Why should Hollywood have all the fun?
Here at the Dump, we have a tradition of recognizing the best and cleanest among us for performance that rises above the bubble and scum of the "merely acceptable" job. We are a competitive dump team. We work hard, we play hard. And when the dust clears at the end of the day, we go home. Get drunk. Get laid. Eat dinner. (although not always in that order) Just like you.

I happen to be the sole arbitor and chairman of the awards committee. Congratulations to the winners:

Best Musical Score - Rajeed, who found a crate containing 6 brand new Tubas at the take and leave. We traded them for a refurbished Bose Home theater which we installed in the Cobb house. Rajeed also receives points for Best Pet at the Take your pet to work competition. Cindee his white Bengal tiger had to be put down as a maneater (technically a child-devourer, but who wants to split hairs at a time like this?) last month. Rajeed had Cindee preserved as a rug.

Best Actor - Bill, who called in sick three hundred and ten times last year, and he sounded sick each and every time.

Best Picture - Ty Cobb. Pretty good pitcher too.

Most Anti Gay Marriage - George, who defines sodomy as "a crime too heinous to define."

Worst Case of Anal Warts - Lonny. There were no other nominees.

Good nite and thanks for watching.

The Dump Apprentice

After watching the popular "Reality" program on TV where Donald Trump pits would-be employees against each other in a cut-throat competition, I decided that we needed some new blood at the dump.

I advertised in the local paper: "Wanted: eager apprentice(s) to join the Dumpfucks Team. Must possess a instinct and aptitude for disposal. Masters Degree in rubbish desireable, ability to operate heavy machinery a plus. You will work for zero compensation for several years, and be subject to our liberal discrimination policies. If female must look good in thong underwear. Must be proficient in sorting recyleables. We will show preference for Six Sigma black belts who are quality and customer service driven. Experience with set-up, operatation and cleaning of traffic marking machine is a definite plus. Please send resume and references to DFM c/o dumpsterguys@aol.com "

I haven't had any applicants yet. E-mail is really slow around these parts during ice-fishing season.

Holiday Closings

The dump will be closed for a long weekend in honor of Presidents day. We will be hard at work behind the scenes working to make this a better dump.

Two Many Boobs

I had the Frankin Stove cranked up to hot by the time the dumpfucks reported for duty. Typical of the day after the Big Game, they came shambling in for the morning eye-opener. A few days ago, Lardass had found a 50lb bag of Starbucks Christmas Blend that had exceeded its sell-by date, and we were brewing strong coffee in the ancient dented aluminum percolator.

As usual George was the first one through the door. He was scowling. Under his arm was a copy of last week's Times crossword puzzle. "Where were you last night?" he said by way of a greeting.

I had watched the big game at home instead of going to the big superbowl party at his house.
I just shrugged. "Aw, you know - I took some of that Cialis and I didn't want to waste it. This stuff is good. You can bet a boner within twenty minutes and it lasts for thirty six hours."
"You get a boner that lasts for thirty six hours?"
"Yeah but you have to stay in a bathtub."

I was lying of course. I was just making an excuse so as not to seem antisocial. I always stay home to watch the superbowl alone. The game starts too late and runs too long to go out and party on a Sunday night. Besides I like to watch the game.

Every year, George hosts a goat-rodeo event, including wives, other disinterested people, and their dogs. It would have been a nightmare, trying to watch the game, with someone's wife yakking about her root canal, one dog crotching you while another is slobbering on the cheese dip. Someone is always one-upping the others with stories of vacations and construction projects. Yakking is incessent and loud - unfair assessments, threatened library closings, political rantings and let me tell you about my grandchildren. Shut the fuck up already.

Inevitably, one finds oneself enticed into drinking too much, eventually becoming thick tongued and ultimately passed out in a drunken stupor, bruising ones ribs falling down the stairs, lying unconscious in a pool of one's own vomit.

So I stay home these days to watch the game alone. Two beers and two cups of coffee. I like the company just fine. The wife is trained to stay upstairs, mending socks or whatever. Maybe she went over to the Party. I didn't notice.

It was a strange experience watching the Super spectacle on TV. Hype is the word of the day. The images and promotions are full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. The much vaunted advertisement slots cost millions. But the question that kept popping into my head was - who did they think was watching? They had the muscle car ads, and the chopper boys and Budweiser commercials to appeal to young white guys. Then they had old people fighting over a bag of fritos, and old guys hawking boner aids for old guys. Then they have a halftime show for teenyboppers.
I was thinking of that boob-a-rama with Janet Jackson, Justin Timberlake and the other boobs on the stage. I remember thinking "who is this aimed at? And, why would football fans want to watch "entertainers" like Kid Rock and Snoop Frog. The only commercial I liked the NFL ad featuring the playoff losers singing "Tomorrow" from Annie.
The AOL ads were stupid, and again how many people recognized the Xtreme Chopper Dad with the full face moustache who constantly yells at and beats on his boob sons. (I've seen the show on cable - it's pretty funny)

In the end The Patriots had won another Superbowl after a pretty exciting game.

Bill came into the cobb house humming, "I've got you" the ancient Sonny and Cher tune, now an anthem for Groundhog Day. The sun was shining outside. Six more weeks of winter, according to the scientologists.
"Hey Bill," I greeted him with a dramatic look at the clock, subtly indicating that he was late, "Did you enjoy the game at George's?" He looked awful. He seemed to be in pain, and it looked like there was a patch of dried puke on the sleeve of his jacket. He limped over to pour himself some coffee. "Tell you the truth, I didn't see much of the game. There was a lot going on... Where the fuck were you?"

Super Sunday

Today was George's birthday and he was in a cranky mood. Most of the guys had forgotten to acknowledge the anniversary of his nativity because they were gabbing about the big game. I could see that he would start to sulk if something wasn't done, so I clinked on my coffee cup with a spoon to get their attention.
"Guys. Attention." I yelled, standing up with my cup raised. "I would like to propose a toast."
Bill farted loudly. Rajeed, who still thinks farts are funny, giggled. Lonny put down his paper.
"To George. Happy Birthday. Many Happy returns." Everyone raised their beverage container in salute. This seemed to please him. He was rising, about to speak when Lardass barrelled in form the freezing outdoors with a cake someone had left at the bakery recycle area. The inscription said, "Get Well Soon, Buzzy"
Lardass was proud of his find. "Hey guys, look at this." He brought the cake over to George. "Come on Birthday Boy, cut the cake!"
"But don't cut the cheese," giggle Rajeed. We all stared at him sharply and he shut-up.
"You guys shouldn't have gone to all this trouble," George said with a twinkle. "But, thank you, anyway."
I got out the paper plates and some plastic forks. George took out his Bowie and wiped the blade on the knee of his jeans as he prepared to cut the cake. Bill was humming "Someone left the cake out in the rain...and I'll never be the same... " McArther's Park. Lardass chided him, "Hey quit that fagola singing, willya?"

As George sliced the cake, I thought I detected a tear in the corner of his wizened eye. Maybe it was for Buzzy, the sick guy who never lived to eat his cake, or for the years that we all had wasted at the dump. Or maybe it was just a mote of dust.

Incompetent Meteorologists

On the list of things you want your kid to acheive in his life, "working at the dump" is probably slightly higher than "becoming a Judy Garland impersonator."

We do not get a huge pile of respect here at the ash heap of civilization. Nor do we expect respect. We are contemptuous of respect, to tell you the truth.

Our jobs consist of tasks that many illegal immigrants would refuse to do. Sweeping up. Hauling rubbish. Sorting cardboard. Hiding cadavers. Trucking refuse. Recycling batteries. Cleansing metaphors.

But today I came in early because of the big storm. I wanted to get my snowplow crew set up so we could knock down the snow early. The forecast was up tp 12 inches in the Boston area. I activated the notification transponder. This sent a signal to the drivers to come in early and report for duty. Throughout the metro area, beepers were going off, waking up the slumbering plowers of snow.

Then the phone calls started coming. Nearly all the dumpfucks were calling in sick. George was feeling "croupy". Bill refused to come in to work if anyone else was sick. Rajeed was recovering from his vasectomy. Lonny's anal warts were acting up. And Melvin had died during the night - choking on a ham sandwich, according to his mother. Only Lardass, that faithful, noisome piece of work came in on time.
"Hey Chief!" he greeted me when he arrived. I was never more happy to see him. "I heard on the radio that the storm was cancelled."
"Huh?"
"Yeah, it went out to sea. We're getting a dusting. Where do you want me to start?"
Management shows it's mettle during these types of crises.
"Get that shithouse cleaned up, LA. It's an ungodly mess."