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."
Friday, August 27, 2004
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
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
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
Monday, August 16, 2004
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.
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.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
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.
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.
