To: All Dumpfucks
From: DFM
This is to remind you of the generous DumpFuck Employee Pacification (DFEP) benefit that is mandatory for all workers regardless of odor, girth or need for male enhancement. Nurse Rahshit will be on site tomorrow for a short-arm inspection and a brief counseling session with each of you. Where necessary, she will administer electronic shock treatments with her battery operated fully immersable Pacification apparatus.
Not to point anyone out, or cause undue embarrassment, it seems clear that George is laying inadvertant claim to the title of "Bull-Goose-Looney" and is obviously long overdue for his quarterly jolt. I see where he has posted a highly embellished version of his recurring nightmare about random acts of voting. Perhaps it was the meds talking, but we in management see this type of trash-talking graffiti as an act of lewd insubordination. You cannot run a dump with 5th columnists pushing feathers up the weather vane.
There will be an extra Krispy Kreme for the loyal employee who delivers George to Nurse Rahshit's dumpster first thing tomorrow morning. Hogtied and gagged gets you extra points and a large dark roast coffee in a pristine "good-as-new" decorative go-cup.
That is All,
The Manager
Monday, January 31, 2005
E Pluribus Union
When I tried to bring a trade union into the dump the Big Cheese hit the ceiling. He threatened to decapitate anyone who joined IHOP (International Hetero Offerers of Porno). His rantings spooked most of the dump employees I was recruiting into my cause. I had promised them that this union would campaign for a fair salary (at least the national minimum wage), bring us health care coverage (except for any precondition – proven or suspected), and guarantee us at most a 60 hour week. I had been making good progress with them until that rat, Vernon, blurted out my plans over his third martini, when he was lunching with the Big Cheese at the China Sky.
When he came back from lunch, smelling of tangarine beef, Cheesey took me out behind the toxic drop-off site and tore me a new sphincter. He screamed that I had been his protégé, that he had had great plans for my recycling career, that he had been planning to cut me in on the kickbacks, and that I was like a big brother to him. I smiled slyly and claimed that Lardass had no basis for his allegations. It was clear that Lardass had my union campaign statements confused with my attempt to get the deadbeats here at the dump to be more productive. I had been only talking in hypotheticals to them and that I had no intention of bringing a union into the dump. After about ten minutes of this type of mendacity, the Big Cheese walked away muttering to himself.
I knew then that, if were going to be successful, I would have to cause a union vote very, very quickly. I called the National Labor Relations Board to send in observers and passed out flyers to all the dump employees as they exited the dump gates that night. The vote was set for January 30th and the NLRB promised an overwhealming show of force so that Cheesy couldn’t drive the backhoe over our cars, or send Harvey out to threated our families. The day of the vote came and, dispite the fact that Cheesy and Harvey were wearing huge hogs for sidearms, over 60% of the employees voted. (The ones not voting were mainly the “sonnys,” those who were related by blood to Cheesy.) And, of those voting, over 95% chose to be represented by IHOP.
I was elated. The Big Cheese was dispondent. The day after the election I asked to talk to Cheesy to put forward our union demands. He refused, gesturing that he no longer could understand English and proceeded to talk to me in Klingon. According to the NLRB, I then had to get an official Klingon translator to proceed with negotations. After five hours of Googling the Internet, I could find no such licensed linguist. So we, here at the dump, fell back into our old ways. The Big Cheese does slip me a twenty now and then though.
When he came back from lunch, smelling of tangarine beef, Cheesey took me out behind the toxic drop-off site and tore me a new sphincter. He screamed that I had been his protégé, that he had had great plans for my recycling career, that he had been planning to cut me in on the kickbacks, and that I was like a big brother to him. I smiled slyly and claimed that Lardass had no basis for his allegations. It was clear that Lardass had my union campaign statements confused with my attempt to get the deadbeats here at the dump to be more productive. I had been only talking in hypotheticals to them and that I had no intention of bringing a union into the dump. After about ten minutes of this type of mendacity, the Big Cheese walked away muttering to himself.
I knew then that, if were going to be successful, I would have to cause a union vote very, very quickly. I called the National Labor Relations Board to send in observers and passed out flyers to all the dump employees as they exited the dump gates that night. The vote was set for January 30th and the NLRB promised an overwhealming show of force so that Cheesy couldn’t drive the backhoe over our cars, or send Harvey out to threated our families. The day of the vote came and, dispite the fact that Cheesy and Harvey were wearing huge hogs for sidearms, over 60% of the employees voted. (The ones not voting were mainly the “sonnys,” those who were related by blood to Cheesy.) And, of those voting, over 95% chose to be represented by IHOP.
I was elated. The Big Cheese was dispondent. The day after the election I asked to talk to Cheesy to put forward our union demands. He refused, gesturing that he no longer could understand English and proceeded to talk to me in Klingon. According to the NLRB, I then had to get an official Klingon translator to proceed with negotations. After five hours of Googling the Internet, I could find no such licensed linguist. So we, here at the dump, fell back into our old ways. The Big Cheese does slip me a twenty now and then though.
Monday, January 24, 2005
The Way We Was
When I rub elbows with the swells here in Metrowest and they ask me what I do, I respond that I am a “recycling engineer.” I used to say “sanitation engineer” but, when my back was turned, I often heard their derisive remarks … one of which invariably was “dumpfuck.” So I quickly learned that “recycling” was good and “sanitation” was bad. Now I can hold my head up whilst nibbling a cream cheese and watercress sandwich because I am now environmentally and appellatively correct. But the sweet irony of the matter is that the way we used to dispose of trash was considerably cheaper and certainly even friendlier to our cherished environment.
Twenty-five years ago most of the trash at our town’s dump was incinerated. The heat generated from this burning was used to produce steam to heat the High School, Junior High School, and eight of the nine grammar schools in town. AND the town had only two garbage trucks that collected the town’s trash on a rotating schedule that was fast, clean and efficient (if a little noisy). But, because of the protestations of a handful of tree huggers, this was edicted to be fiscally wasteful and dangerous to our environment. However, it doesn’t take Einstein to realize that two garbage trucks traveling around town for five days a week use about 1/10 of the gasoline that are consumed from every household in town sending an SUV to the recycling center on average 1.3 times a week.
To this fossil fuel squandering one must also add fiscal imprudence. We here at the dump (recycling center) recently spent five million dollars to install huge trash compactors and to destroy the old incinerator. Also, the cost of the “tipping fees” the town pays to send its trash to landfills around the state is now about twenty times what we used to pay to burry the ashes from our town’s incinerator. Add to this the fact that landfills are becoming fewer and further between. It is forecast that, by the year 2020, there will be no more land available for this “environmentally friendly” purpose. At this point tipping fees will be so prohibitive that another alternative will have to be found.
Now, environmentalists will argue that the segregation of trash into newspaper, cardboard, green glass, brown glass, clear glass, plastic, aluminum, etc. removes considerable bulk from the amount of trash actually tipped. However, there are two problems with this approach. First, because of the metastasis of this illogic, the amount of recycled material now far exceeds that which can be processed by the existing recycling centers. And that which is recycled no longer reaps the financial benefit to our town that it once did. In fact, some recycling centers now charge us to drop off newspaper, cardboard, green glass, etc. The second problem with this approach is that, because of the surfeit of recyclables, about half of such material that we get here at the dump is in fact serendipitously mixed with our unrecycled trash and sent to landfills anyway. (And think of all the wasted effort that all those tree-humping do-gooders around our “swell” town perform!)
One other unthought-through rationalism had been give by the environmentaltists to deep-six our old reliable incinerators. The effluents (from this burning of garbage), notably soot and carbon dioxide, were a clear and present danger to our state’s citizens. (This was before the “global warming” mania.) But, as it turns out, the fast growing legacy of noxious gases (methane, ethylene, etc.) vented from the vast acreage of landfills that this policy has created now threatens to match those savings which came from scrapping our incinerators. And, within a few short years, this annuity of miasma will clearly far surpass that which we thought we had eliminated. (Beware of unintended consequences!)
I do have a obvious solution for all this environmental loopyness … bring back the incinerators and trash pickup! The Big Cheese disagrees. He has gotten used to the kickbacks on the big tipping fees and from the recyclers.
Twenty-five years ago most of the trash at our town’s dump was incinerated. The heat generated from this burning was used to produce steam to heat the High School, Junior High School, and eight of the nine grammar schools in town. AND the town had only two garbage trucks that collected the town’s trash on a rotating schedule that was fast, clean and efficient (if a little noisy). But, because of the protestations of a handful of tree huggers, this was edicted to be fiscally wasteful and dangerous to our environment. However, it doesn’t take Einstein to realize that two garbage trucks traveling around town for five days a week use about 1/10 of the gasoline that are consumed from every household in town sending an SUV to the recycling center on average 1.3 times a week.
To this fossil fuel squandering one must also add fiscal imprudence. We here at the dump (recycling center) recently spent five million dollars to install huge trash compactors and to destroy the old incinerator. Also, the cost of the “tipping fees” the town pays to send its trash to landfills around the state is now about twenty times what we used to pay to burry the ashes from our town’s incinerator. Add to this the fact that landfills are becoming fewer and further between. It is forecast that, by the year 2020, there will be no more land available for this “environmentally friendly” purpose. At this point tipping fees will be so prohibitive that another alternative will have to be found.
Now, environmentalists will argue that the segregation of trash into newspaper, cardboard, green glass, brown glass, clear glass, plastic, aluminum, etc. removes considerable bulk from the amount of trash actually tipped. However, there are two problems with this approach. First, because of the metastasis of this illogic, the amount of recycled material now far exceeds that which can be processed by the existing recycling centers. And that which is recycled no longer reaps the financial benefit to our town that it once did. In fact, some recycling centers now charge us to drop off newspaper, cardboard, green glass, etc. The second problem with this approach is that, because of the surfeit of recyclables, about half of such material that we get here at the dump is in fact serendipitously mixed with our unrecycled trash and sent to landfills anyway. (And think of all the wasted effort that all those tree-humping do-gooders around our “swell” town perform!)
One other unthought-through rationalism had been give by the environmentaltists to deep-six our old reliable incinerators. The effluents (from this burning of garbage), notably soot and carbon dioxide, were a clear and present danger to our state’s citizens. (This was before the “global warming” mania.) But, as it turns out, the fast growing legacy of noxious gases (methane, ethylene, etc.) vented from the vast acreage of landfills that this policy has created now threatens to match those savings which came from scrapping our incinerators. And, within a few short years, this annuity of miasma will clearly far surpass that which we thought we had eliminated. (Beware of unintended consequences!)
I do have a obvious solution for all this environmental loopyness … bring back the incinerators and trash pickup! The Big Cheese disagrees. He has gotten used to the kickbacks on the big tipping fees and from the recyclers.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Niege Ouvrage
No rest for the weary. As I passed through the gates at 7:30am. I was please to see that the access road had been plowed down to the tarmack. Lardass, my ultra-reliable employee had come early to open-up. Sometimes I wonder what I would do if he ever decided to, well, you know, go somewhere else.
I parked the Minivan in the space with the sign that read: "Reserved for DFM." Walking to the cobb shack that I call my office, the snow squeeked underfoot. The sound went through me like a knife scraping on a dry china plate. This cold weather was getting tedious.
The scene was undeniably beautiful though - even here at the trash-heap of civilization. I had to stop and take it in. The sun was just breaching the eastern horizon with that strange slant of blue light that you only get at dawn in January. Four inches of fluffy snow from last night's storm had temporarily erased the harsh browns of the compost mountain (where many secrets lay buried offering mute witness to decomposition ... and, maybe a few potential witnesses slept silently... ); the rusting fleet of battleship gray dumpsters looked like a train of crystal treasure troves, draped with a ghostly sheet of icy lace, on a trackless void.
I went Inside, flapping my wings to warm up. In the corner the franklin stove had been cranked-up, and the iron glowed orangely. Lardass and George were sitting with their feet up on the edge of the stove getting warm. The scent of hot rubber permeated the crackling air. They were reading the morning papers from yesterday. Everything at the dump is used. Including us.
We exchanged the usual greetings - actually merely grunts of acknowledgement. We are after all, guys. We don't need to say "good morning" or "nice to see you, how's the family" or any of that wussy stuff.
Verbal Greetings are superfluous in our office, but as The Manager, I have learned that "Thanks" is always an appropriate motivator for the good behavior of underlings.
"Hey, Vernon. Thanks for Opening up and plowing the access road." I always use his given name when I am offering praise. He was busy prising a booger out of his nose, which he inspected carefully and then flicked at the stove. I could hear a faint hiss.
"Wasn't me, Boss." he grinned showing red rimmed gums. "George was the earlybird today. He did everything, even the stove."
George peered pedantically at me over his reading spectacles, waiting for my gratitude.
"Yah, well, you missed a spot near the Book Exchange." I frowned and stomped over to my desk. I sat down pretending to be very engrossed in some papers.
Management does not like surprises.
I parked the Minivan in the space with the sign that read: "Reserved for DFM." Walking to the cobb shack that I call my office, the snow squeeked underfoot. The sound went through me like a knife scraping on a dry china plate. This cold weather was getting tedious.
The scene was undeniably beautiful though - even here at the trash-heap of civilization. I had to stop and take it in. The sun was just breaching the eastern horizon with that strange slant of blue light that you only get at dawn in January. Four inches of fluffy snow from last night's storm had temporarily erased the harsh browns of the compost mountain (where many secrets lay buried offering mute witness to decomposition ... and, maybe a few potential witnesses slept silently... ); the rusting fleet of battleship gray dumpsters looked like a train of crystal treasure troves, draped with a ghostly sheet of icy lace, on a trackless void.
I went Inside, flapping my wings to warm up. In the corner the franklin stove had been cranked-up, and the iron glowed orangely. Lardass and George were sitting with their feet up on the edge of the stove getting warm. The scent of hot rubber permeated the crackling air. They were reading the morning papers from yesterday. Everything at the dump is used. Including us.
We exchanged the usual greetings - actually merely grunts of acknowledgement. We are after all, guys. We don't need to say "good morning" or "nice to see you, how's the family" or any of that wussy stuff.
Verbal Greetings are superfluous in our office, but as The Manager, I have learned that "Thanks" is always an appropriate motivator for the good behavior of underlings.
"Hey, Vernon. Thanks for Opening up and plowing the access road." I always use his given name when I am offering praise. He was busy prising a booger out of his nose, which he inspected carefully and then flicked at the stove. I could hear a faint hiss.
"Wasn't me, Boss." he grinned showing red rimmed gums. "George was the earlybird today. He did everything, even the stove."
George peered pedantically at me over his reading spectacles, waiting for my gratitude.
"Yah, well, you missed a spot near the Book Exchange." I frowned and stomped over to my desk. I sat down pretending to be very engrossed in some papers.
Management does not like surprises.
Back to the Future
There was going to be a celebration at the dump to honor 43’s second inauguration. Bill was bringing a pot of chicken soup. Lardass had signed up for pastrami sandwiches. Lefty was to bring Dr. Brown’s CelRay, Black Cherry, and Cream Soda tonics. Bob (from Dumptemps) had promised to bring his large projection TV … and Rajeed, copious quantities of tiny American flags. Richard (Dick) Head said he had some Jamaican kanja that would put us all in a jovial mood. And Lonny would bring her Victrola and collection of old left-wing songs (e.g. “Look for the Union Label”). The Big Cheese promised that he would let us all go home early … and I was charged with the potato salad, deviled eggs, salami, baked beans, cole slaw, ham salad, ten cases of beer, macaroni salad, and various and assorted breads.
We all got there early and toked up so that our appetites would be honed. By the time the Washington, DC festivities began at 11:30 PM, we had gone through all the stash, vittles and potables. And Hobart Melancholy, the intern, had been sent out twice for Sneeky Pete and Peppermint Schnapps (spending 485 dimes on “Not One Damn Dime Day”). By the time the president’s oath of office was in process we all were feeling no pain (as well as Susan and Lonny). On CNN we were shocked to see a great number of the crowd in front of the presidential box turn their backs on the proceedings to protest George Bush’s administration and re-election.
We all started laughing at this feeble attempt at civil disobedience. Waving our tiny Stars and Stripes we, to a man (and woman), then turned around and dropped trow … mooning the protestors. That is, all except Bill who was busy inspecting Susan’s and Lonny’s protestations.
We all got there early and toked up so that our appetites would be honed. By the time the Washington, DC festivities began at 11:30 PM, we had gone through all the stash, vittles and potables. And Hobart Melancholy, the intern, had been sent out twice for Sneeky Pete and Peppermint Schnapps (spending 485 dimes on “Not One Damn Dime Day”). By the time the president’s oath of office was in process we all were feeling no pain (as well as Susan and Lonny). On CNN we were shocked to see a great number of the crowd in front of the presidential box turn their backs on the proceedings to protest George Bush’s administration and re-election.
We all started laughing at this feeble attempt at civil disobedience. Waving our tiny Stars and Stripes we, to a man (and woman), then turned around and dropped trow … mooning the protestors. That is, all except Bill who was busy inspecting Susan’s and Lonny’s protestations.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
A Cold Day in Hell
It was cold enough to freeze the tits off of a brass witch. The temperature was at least 5 below when I arrived at the dump at 6:15. I say “at least” since the red alcohol had frozen at this number in the old Valvoline thermometer on my back porch. When I tried to open the lock on the gates of the dump, the key snapped off like Wayne Bobbit’s manhood. I retrieved the bolt cutters from atop the bikes piled in the bed of my pickup truck. (I had had a busy day at the high school yesterday. I planned to use the money from this score to pay for my planned lovehandles’s liposuction.) The chain around the gates of the dump succumbed to the bolt cutters with a loud “thwack” and I swung open the gates … leaving ski trails in the hoarfrost on the macadam.
I unlocked the office without further mishap and started up the old potbelly stove with some of Lardass’s porno magazines and the Big Cheese’s Vaseline hair tonic. In a few minutes I had a blazing inferno which I then sustained with some Hepplewhite chairs that I had previously retrieved from the Give and Take and broken-up. I glanced out the window to see a fireworks of sparks coming out of the shack’s stovepipe which, mixing with the light snow, created little steam puffs. I then tended to Mr. Coffee and checked the messages on our antique answering machine. As expected, the Big Cheese had left a message the night before saying he was “coming down with something and wouldn’t be in today.” He punctuated this with a fake cough and a beery burp. I sighed hoping that this would be the end to the staff malingering this morning. To my surprise, it was … as everyone else soon staggered in clapping their hands and stomping their feet to restore circulation.
I soon then remembered why the staff was so diligent this AM. This was the day that year-end bonuses were to be distributed. This task was normally performed by the Big Cheese and, his being absent, left me in a bit of a quandary. I had no idea who was to get what and where the envelopes stuffed with cash had been stored. I took my career in my shaky hands as I punched out the Big Cheese’s phone number. After about twenty rings, he finally came on in a squeaky falsetto trying to sound like his live-in Argentinean trollop. When he realized that this didn’t fool me, he angrily ask what the bleep I was doing calling him in his infirmary. I sheepishly reminded him about the bonus thing and asked him where the envelopes might be so that I could fend off a staff insurrection. He sneered and responded, “Like always, they are in the stovepipe, stupid!”
I unlocked the office without further mishap and started up the old potbelly stove with some of Lardass’s porno magazines and the Big Cheese’s Vaseline hair tonic. In a few minutes I had a blazing inferno which I then sustained with some Hepplewhite chairs that I had previously retrieved from the Give and Take and broken-up. I glanced out the window to see a fireworks of sparks coming out of the shack’s stovepipe which, mixing with the light snow, created little steam puffs. I then tended to Mr. Coffee and checked the messages on our antique answering machine. As expected, the Big Cheese had left a message the night before saying he was “coming down with something and wouldn’t be in today.” He punctuated this with a fake cough and a beery burp. I sighed hoping that this would be the end to the staff malingering this morning. To my surprise, it was … as everyone else soon staggered in clapping their hands and stomping their feet to restore circulation.
I soon then remembered why the staff was so diligent this AM. This was the day that year-end bonuses were to be distributed. This task was normally performed by the Big Cheese and, his being absent, left me in a bit of a quandary. I had no idea who was to get what and where the envelopes stuffed with cash had been stored. I took my career in my shaky hands as I punched out the Big Cheese’s phone number. After about twenty rings, he finally came on in a squeaky falsetto trying to sound like his live-in Argentinean trollop. When he realized that this didn’t fool me, he angrily ask what the bleep I was doing calling him in his infirmary. I sheepishly reminded him about the bonus thing and asked him where the envelopes might be so that I could fend off a staff insurrection. He sneered and responded, “Like always, they are in the stovepipe, stupid!”
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
I Have a Problem with Your Simile
As one who has attempted both acts -- calligraphy with a magic marker and dick-only love-making -- I say there is no comparison!
Here is another thing they say: "It is the poor workman who blames his tools." I am sick of hearing what anonymous experts, or studies, have found. Identify them!
Take the statement: "Whatever does not kill you only makes you stronger." Do you know who said that? Nietzsche! And I say it is arrant nonsense! Has no one ever heard of "the death of a thousand cuts"? Which phrase more accurately describes life, as we presently live it?
Here is another thing they say: "It is the poor workman who blames his tools." I am sick of hearing what anonymous experts, or studies, have found. Identify them!
Take the statement: "Whatever does not kill you only makes you stronger." Do you know who said that? Nietzsche! And I say it is arrant nonsense! Has no one ever heard of "the death of a thousand cuts"? Which phrase more accurately describes life, as we presently live it?
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Many are Cold but few are frozen
They say that making love to a woman using only your dick is like attempting calligraphy with a magic marker. Actually I read that in a so-called "Men's Health" magazine while I was waiting for my haircut tonight.
Ok, I know what you are thinking: You go to a salon for a haircut! (No decent barber shop would have anything to read besides out dated copies of the Boston Herald, Mad Magazine and Field and Stream.)
Go ahead and mock. I probably would have joined in to the derision and mockery too, back when I was puerile and self conscious. Judging from your coiffure, you probably get your wife to cut your hair. Anyway, that's how it looks.
But so not confuse my visit to the hairdresser as evidence of poofery. I simply need to look good, so I go to a trusted tonsoril artist, not some mere trimmer of nose hairs.
I try not to be too vain, but let's face it: I look like someone who ought to be in charge. A thick head of silver gray hair, a noble chin, the aroma of aqua velva, clothes that were obviously not bought at Burlington coat factory. The sight of myself in a mirror almost makes me want to genuflect.
Oh Yes, I do comprehend the effect I have on women. Many desperate housewives show up at the dump, pretending to be interested in part-time work, but I know they are really looking for my guided missile of love. I give them some test dick-tation, and afterwards send them back to their affluent mansions with a promise of a future intercourse - oops I mean interview.
I don't seem to be getting any complaints about my technique. I don't care what the Magazine articles say about the fact that wimmen prefer a firm tongue over a broomstick missile of love. You will not see me putting my face down around the "naughty bits". Shirley, God meant that unsightly and noisome area, located next to the poopshoot, as the province for the magic marker.
Now since this blog has opened up to the rabble, George Clooney has revived the names of a lot of former denizens of the dump. This is dangerous. As I remember it, most of them did not like him very much. Especially Vernon.
Ok, I know what you are thinking: You go to a salon for a haircut! (No decent barber shop would have anything to read besides out dated copies of the Boston Herald, Mad Magazine and Field and Stream.)
Go ahead and mock. I probably would have joined in to the derision and mockery too, back when I was puerile and self conscious. Judging from your coiffure, you probably get your wife to cut your hair. Anyway, that's how it looks.
But so not confuse my visit to the hairdresser as evidence of poofery. I simply need to look good, so I go to a trusted tonsoril artist, not some mere trimmer of nose hairs.
I try not to be too vain, but let's face it: I look like someone who ought to be in charge. A thick head of silver gray hair, a noble chin, the aroma of aqua velva, clothes that were obviously not bought at Burlington coat factory. The sight of myself in a mirror almost makes me want to genuflect.
Oh Yes, I do comprehend the effect I have on women. Many desperate housewives show up at the dump, pretending to be interested in part-time work, but I know they are really looking for my guided missile of love. I give them some test dick-tation, and afterwards send them back to their affluent mansions with a promise of a future intercourse - oops I mean interview.
I don't seem to be getting any complaints about my technique. I don't care what the Magazine articles say about the fact that wimmen prefer a firm tongue over a broomstick missile of love. You will not see me putting my face down around the "naughty bits". Shirley, God meant that unsightly and noisome area, located next to the poopshoot, as the province for the magic marker.
Now since this blog has opened up to the rabble, George Clooney has revived the names of a lot of former denizens of the dump. This is dangerous. As I remember it, most of them did not like him very much. Especially Vernon.
The Big Cheese
The big cheese (his real name is Russ Limberger) came strolling in at his usual time, around 10:30 AM. I know that, when he makes entries in this journal, he claims that he is often the first here at the dump, even before we open at 7 AM. This is balderdash. He never arrives before 10 … and even then he is most often disheveled and smelling of smegma. Anyhow, this morn he was even more surly than usual. I wrote this off to the fact that he didn’t smell of smegma. But he wore his usual mufti – pajama bottoms, partially open at the fly, a Vassar sweatshirt, and a cat hat. The latter was not the normal yellow visor cap with “Caterpillar” emblazed on the front … but the dried skin of an actual cat (Siamese perhaps?) worn Dan’l Boone style.
He immediately called us into a lineup for roll call. This was unusual since we had redundant attendance procedures: a sign-in sheet, an old IBM Tabulator punch-in clock with punched cards that we had gotten from Florida after the presidential election of 2000 (Bush, meant “here” … Gore, meant “gone”), and a bed check by Rajeed usually between 7 and 8 AM. Although these systems weren’t foolproof, they exceeded the OSHA standards that normally kept the town pols out of our hair. Any problems with these systems were glossed over with any solan with a gross of reconstituted condoms that Lardass salvaged from the dumpsters and soaked overnight in Clorox. (The fact that this made them very likely to fail under the slightest friction was somehow never discovered.)
Anyhow, after calling the roll, Russ discovered that we were at minimal staffing – 6 out of 18 FTEs. The Dumptemp, Bob, and Hobart Melancholy, the intern, were here along with myself, Susan, Lonny, and, of course, Russ. The rest were AWOL. Russ was livid. He pointed his finger at Susan shouting that she must know were Bill was. She responded nonchalantly that she hadn’t the slightest idea. In fact she said she barely knew Bill (or was it that she knew him barely?) and then suggested that he might have run off and joined a “Jews for Jesus” cult. Russ’s vein on his temple stood out like an interstate on a Smartroutes map. He screamed that this dump couldn’t function at 1/3rd strength … and besides he was tired of employees strolling in late. We all sniggered (can I still use this word?) At this, Russ shouted that those missing were summarily terminated and that, if they wanted their jobs back, they would have to paint his house, inside and out. He then added that they might also kickback ten percent of their salaries to him for the next six months. (As it was Lefty only took home 20% of his full paycheck … the rest keeping Russ in porn-site fees.)
After ranting on for another half hour, Russ looked at his watch. It was 11:30. If one looked closely, one could see the Pavlovian beer saliva form at the edges of Russ’s parched lips. With a flip of his hand, Russ twirled and started out the door. “I’ve got an off-site meeting that should last the rest of the day,” he intoned with an attempt at managerial seriousness. And he was gone in a flash.
The rest of us pulled out the poker table and stoked the wood stove.
He immediately called us into a lineup for roll call. This was unusual since we had redundant attendance procedures: a sign-in sheet, an old IBM Tabulator punch-in clock with punched cards that we had gotten from Florida after the presidential election of 2000 (Bush, meant “here” … Gore, meant “gone”), and a bed check by Rajeed usually between 7 and 8 AM. Although these systems weren’t foolproof, they exceeded the OSHA standards that normally kept the town pols out of our hair. Any problems with these systems were glossed over with any solan with a gross of reconstituted condoms that Lardass salvaged from the dumpsters and soaked overnight in Clorox. (The fact that this made them very likely to fail under the slightest friction was somehow never discovered.)
Anyhow, after calling the roll, Russ discovered that we were at minimal staffing – 6 out of 18 FTEs. The Dumptemp, Bob, and Hobart Melancholy, the intern, were here along with myself, Susan, Lonny, and, of course, Russ. The rest were AWOL. Russ was livid. He pointed his finger at Susan shouting that she must know were Bill was. She responded nonchalantly that she hadn’t the slightest idea. In fact she said she barely knew Bill (or was it that she knew him barely?) and then suggested that he might have run off and joined a “Jews for Jesus” cult. Russ’s vein on his temple stood out like an interstate on a Smartroutes map. He screamed that this dump couldn’t function at 1/3rd strength … and besides he was tired of employees strolling in late. We all sniggered (can I still use this word?) At this, Russ shouted that those missing were summarily terminated and that, if they wanted their jobs back, they would have to paint his house, inside and out. He then added that they might also kickback ten percent of their salaries to him for the next six months. (As it was Lefty only took home 20% of his full paycheck … the rest keeping Russ in porn-site fees.)
After ranting on for another half hour, Russ looked at his watch. It was 11:30. If one looked closely, one could see the Pavlovian beer saliva form at the edges of Russ’s parched lips. With a flip of his hand, Russ twirled and started out the door. “I’ve got an off-site meeting that should last the rest of the day,” he intoned with an attempt at managerial seriousness. And he was gone in a flash.
The rest of us pulled out the poker table and stoked the wood stove.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Noms de Guerre
For those who have been religiously following this exercise in recycling facility fantasy, I offer the following translations for the noms de guerre of those unfortunates mentioned in this bling-bling blog:
George –> George Clooney
Bill –> the cat from “Opus”
Vernon (aka Lardass) –> Ted Kennedy (who else?)
Lefty –> also Ted Kennedy (sometimes)
Hector (the dog) –> ditto
Harvey (the eradicator) –> Bo Ditle
Bob (from Dumptemps) –> Robert Dole
Hobart Melancholy (the intern) –> Jon Stewart
Susan Wornik --> herself
Lonny –> law professor, Lannie Guenier, in drag
Daisy, the midget dump harlot --> Hillary Clinton (without her prostheses)
Rajeed (the rookie) –> UBL
Richard (Dick) Head –> James Carvell (and sometimes Dan Rather)
Primary narrator (also The Big Cheese) –> Michael Moore
George –> George Clooney
Bill –> the cat from “Opus”
Vernon (aka Lardass) –> Ted Kennedy (who else?)
Lefty –> also Ted Kennedy (sometimes)
Hector (the dog) –> ditto
Harvey (the eradicator) –> Bo Ditle
Bob (from Dumptemps) –> Robert Dole
Hobart Melancholy (the intern) –> Jon Stewart
Susan Wornik --> herself
Lonny –> law professor, Lannie Guenier, in drag
Daisy, the midget dump harlot --> Hillary Clinton (without her prostheses)
Rajeed (the rookie) –> UBL
Richard (Dick) Head –> James Carvell (and sometimes Dan Rather)
Primary narrator (also The Big Cheese) –> Michael Moore
Shirley He Jests
Well, I was afraid this would happen. Bill tells us what he thinks is not a sense of humor. Unfortunately he fails to demonstrate an example of what a sense of humor looks like.
Here is an example of real humor:
"Knock Knock"
"Who's there?"
"Sue."
"Sue Wornick?"
"No. Tsu-nami."
(Then you splash a glass of water in the victim's face).
Here is an example of real humor:
"Knock Knock"
"Who's there?"
"Sue."
"Sue Wornick?"
"No. Tsu-nami."
(Then you splash a glass of water in the victim's face).
Saturday, January 08, 2005
The Unwashed, Unemployed and Unfunny
Now that I have again joined the great unwashed and unemployed I will able to regularly contribute to the bloganauts. However, I refuse to be the only one here with a sense of humor. A sense of humor doesn't come from putting people down. It doesn't come from writing words no one other than Webster can understand. It doesn't come from not having all of one's appendages. And it doesn't come from being too cheap to drive to someone else's house to have a meeting. So if their are any amongst you who can live up to these great expectations, let from come forthwith, but not into a napkin.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Post Holiday Glog
The Christmas season predictably involves an increase in workload here at the dump. The normal take and leave section is closed from November to April, so everything brought to the dump goes into dumpsters. The whole modern idea of gift giving has become perverted. Managers are supposed to show the workers that we really care about them. So we get our wives to go to one of those big box stores and buy some cheap shitty gift that was imported from China or some other sweat shop 3rd world country. Usually the wife gets a good deal on aromatic candles. So, you wrap them up and give them to your subordiinates. The disappontment on their faces is palpable, although they smile and say thank you, wondering who they can re-gift the stupid candle to. Mailman? Mother-in-law? Paperboy?
The dumpfucks who hang around the office have stopped the secret santa thing, since we all acknowledge that crappy gifts just piss people off. And we are to a man, too cheap to actually buy a good bottle of scotch or the like when the chances are your secret santa will just pick some crappy thing out of one of the dumpsters.
I notice that just after the holidays the Book Swap section of the dump gets very loaded up with discarded, practically new, mostly unread, self-help books that people got as gifts (or are they just subtle "hints" about how a person should reinvent themselves? )
Someone gave me the Dr Phil book, "Why are you still fat? Loser!" I just put it through the shredder so no one else would have to look at it. Isn't it amusing that Dr Phil, who clearly enjoys his meat and potatoes, has the enormous huevos to write a diet book, advising the "little people" how to do that which he himself cannot do? This is tantamount to Monica Lewinsky writing a book "How to clean anything." Or, George Bush as author of a new bestseller "Speaking Off the Cuff with Dubbya".
===== Group Blog??
Anyhoo, stay tuned. For the coming year, I am thinking about resuming the Group Blog feature. Longtime readers will recall that we started out as a group blog. But I had to fire the others: George - who only comes here to click on the Naked Pictures Link - could not manage to find the URL for updating the blog. Bill (who came up with the idea for Dumpfucks as a radio show, and who knows Susan Wornik, tended to add posts that were quixotic with no attempt at humor. Lardass, well he doesn't have a computer that works. Lefty, he's too busy to lay his pearls before swine. D2 was a no -show. And yours truly was the only one who regularly writes here.
Thoughts? Comments?
The dumpfucks who hang around the office have stopped the secret santa thing, since we all acknowledge that crappy gifts just piss people off. And we are to a man, too cheap to actually buy a good bottle of scotch or the like when the chances are your secret santa will just pick some crappy thing out of one of the dumpsters.
I notice that just after the holidays the Book Swap section of the dump gets very loaded up with discarded, practically new, mostly unread, self-help books that people got as gifts (or are they just subtle "hints" about how a person should reinvent themselves? )
Someone gave me the Dr Phil book, "Why are you still fat? Loser!" I just put it through the shredder so no one else would have to look at it. Isn't it amusing that Dr Phil, who clearly enjoys his meat and potatoes, has the enormous huevos to write a diet book, advising the "little people" how to do that which he himself cannot do? This is tantamount to Monica Lewinsky writing a book "How to clean anything." Or, George Bush as author of a new bestseller "Speaking Off the Cuff with Dubbya".
===== Group Blog??
Anyhoo, stay tuned. For the coming year, I am thinking about resuming the Group Blog feature. Longtime readers will recall that we started out as a group blog. But I had to fire the others: George - who only comes here to click on the Naked Pictures Link - could not manage to find the URL for updating the blog. Bill (who came up with the idea for Dumpfucks as a radio show, and who knows Susan Wornik, tended to add posts that were quixotic with no attempt at humor. Lardass, well he doesn't have a computer that works. Lefty, he's too busy to lay his pearls before swine. D2 was a no -show. And yours truly was the only one who regularly writes here.
Thoughts? Comments?
