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