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.
Sunday, February 29, 2004
Saturday, February 28, 2004
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.
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.
Sunday, February 15, 2004
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.
Monday, February 02, 2004
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?"
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?"
Sunday, February 01, 2004
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.
"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.
