I was sitting at my desk in the Cob shack that I call my office when the phone rang. R-Ring. From the caller-id display I could see it was the Board Chairman, Hudley Brinkley. He was probably calling me to fire my ass. After the Global Warming Chart fiasco, I had called-in sick for three days instead of reporting to him as ordered. I guess I had been hoping that things would blow over. But, I guess I should have known: at the dump, the longer you leave something above ground the more rotten it gets.
Now, it would all come crashing down. I was in no mood to take shit, however. Perhaps I should have exercised more due diligence over the research project. But that did not warrant the threat of termination. R-Ring.
Ok asshole, I'm thinking, Let's get it over with. I picked up the receiver. "Hello Hudley, what can I do for you, today?"
"Good morning. I won't beat around the bush. I'm hearing some disturbing news about goings-on over there..."
"I'm not sure I get you, Hudley," I replied, wondering where this was going. "Is this about the chart mix-up?"
Hudley hesitated for a moment. "No, No. Forget about that. This is important. It's about the Blowjobs."
"Blowjobs?" Surprise! Somehow, the news had leaked-out about the recent locker-room incident, where one of the young female interns had given blowjobs to 5 of the dump staff. "Ah, yeah. So, you know about that little incident?"
"Uh Huh. My phone has been buzzing!"
"Well, not to worry. I spoke with the young lady in question. She insists she was not pressured. She has no intentions of making charges." I responded in a tone that implied that the matter was settled.
"Not exactly," he shouted, "The feminazis in town have been on a warpath. They are all over my case. They want those men punished - maybe even suspended."
"I can't do that - I need these guys to get the work done. You're talking about my whole staff!"
"Even Vernon?" he asked querulously.
"Yeah, even good old Lardass," I chuckled. "His first time, I'm betting. Turns out the gal has this fetish for unusual smells. "
"You don't say?"
"Yup, she tells me that her favorite smell is... skunk. The guys said she has a tongue like an ant-eater."
"Wow. So, how are you planning to handle the matter?" He was less agitated now. The skunk factoid seemed to calm him.
"No Krispy Kremes for a week."
"Ooh, Harsh." he marveled at my toughness.
"They deserve it. It was a disgusting thing. Poor kid, she needs a lot of one-on-one counseling to, you know, help her deal with it."
"Where is she?"
"At my crib...Resting." Referring to the rented apartment I kept in town. Hudley knew of it, and had, on occasion, borrowed the key.
"Let me know if you need any help...." I could hear him breathing heavily now.
"Good idea. Why don't you come on over tonight. Bring some wine. She likes White Zin."
"Well let's hope between the two of us, we can get that poor kid straightened-out," he said and hung-up. Yeah, I thought, and maybe a good blush BJ will help the Chairman forget about tying a can to my tail.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Daisy Chain
Four months ago, when I was running for president of the local chapter of IHOP (Inveterate Haters Of the Prolotariat), I received a number of phone calls from Daisy Weed, the midget dump harlot. I found it curious that Daisy asked me a lot of questions about how I intended to win our union election. But then Daisy had always been a true friend (and sometimes favor grantor). Although I was already our union’s business agent, I thought being the local-chapter president would give me a great deal more negotion leverage with Cheesey. So I blabbed away without any self-censorship. I told her how Cheesey was slipping me hush money, how I didn’t want to bash non-recyclers, how I no longer smoked kanja in front of the dump interns, how my belief in compost had kept me grounded, and how I planned to appeal to the swing voters by campaigning with an orang-a-tang..
The strategies and tactics that I outlined to her worked … and I won in a walk. (Some said, after they saw me at the local gay bar, that I had a man date). However, I awoke yesterday to hear that Daisy had betrayed me. She had recorded all our telephone conversations and was playing them for anyone and everone on talk-TV in order to promote her new book, “My Life as a Dump Fuck.” I was mortified by this betrayal of trust.
So I called Daisy and, in a round-about way, reminded her of the video tapes that we had recorded in some of our drug-induced por-favor sessions. “Nuf said,” she responded … and quickly dropped out of the remainder of her book tour.
The strategies and tactics that I outlined to her worked … and I won in a walk. (Some said, after they saw me at the local gay bar, that I had a man date). However, I awoke yesterday to hear that Daisy had betrayed me. She had recorded all our telephone conversations and was playing them for anyone and everone on talk-TV in order to promote her new book, “My Life as a Dump Fuck.” I was mortified by this betrayal of trust.
So I called Daisy and, in a round-about way, reminded her of the video tapes that we had recorded in some of our drug-induced por-favor sessions. “Nuf said,” she responded … and quickly dropped out of the remainder of her book tour.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Broken Charts
The presentation to the Board was going pretty well. I had pasted my chart to the wall and had produced hand-out sheet summarizing my points in 14 point Trebuchet. I was arguing that the hockey-stick curve of the chart proved that a geometric increase in trash would soon deplete our resources.
We were worse off than the US Social Security system. I was advocating for a geometric rise in my budget - staffing, training programs, equipment upgrades, land acquisition, mergers with other municipalities - the works.
The chart data had been collected by a hired team of local College students who had spent last summer doing the research and creating the chart. I saw no reason to give them credit for the work, since I as the manager had actually comissioned the work. They were mere pawns doing my bidding and of no significance. No, sir, this was MY party and I was going to squeeze every drop of personal gain that was possible out of the triumph.
One of the Board members was staring at the chart, scowling.
"What's that?"
He was pointing to a corner where some paper was curling away from the chart. A strip of paper with The title of the chart had been pasted over what appeared to be another title. It was like a piece of wallpaper that has lost its stick.
I tried to divert attention. "Oh, no worries, just a presentation malfunction."
But the insistent board member strode up to the chart and peeled away the loose strip to reveal the original title "Historical Temperature Trends in North America"
"What the fuck's going on here?" he shouted accusingly, "You're trying to pawn-off a global warming propaganda chart as the results of your 'scientific study' of trash projections?" He looked around at the other board members who were staring at the chart, avoiding eye contact with me.
"Hold on. Wait a second. I can explain" I murmered. But they were already stuffing papers in their briefcases, getting ready to go. "Ah, Maybe the original title was a typo... or..." But no one was listening. On his way out, the Chairman stopped very close to me, looking at his shoes. "In my office, tomorrow morning. 8am sharp!"
So, tomorrow I am on the carpet. A victom of outsourcing gone bad. I wonder if this could be the end of a great and lucrative career as the DFM.
Time will tell. Meanwhile, hit me with another shot of Dewers, willya barkeep?
We were worse off than the US Social Security system. I was advocating for a geometric rise in my budget - staffing, training programs, equipment upgrades, land acquisition, mergers with other municipalities - the works.
The chart data had been collected by a hired team of local College students who had spent last summer doing the research and creating the chart. I saw no reason to give them credit for the work, since I as the manager had actually comissioned the work. They were mere pawns doing my bidding and of no significance. No, sir, this was MY party and I was going to squeeze every drop of personal gain that was possible out of the triumph.
One of the Board members was staring at the chart, scowling.
"What's that?"
He was pointing to a corner where some paper was curling away from the chart. A strip of paper with The title of the chart had been pasted over what appeared to be another title. It was like a piece of wallpaper that has lost its stick.
I tried to divert attention. "Oh, no worries, just a presentation malfunction."
But the insistent board member strode up to the chart and peeled away the loose strip to reveal the original title "Historical Temperature Trends in North America"
"What the fuck's going on here?" he shouted accusingly, "You're trying to pawn-off a global warming propaganda chart as the results of your 'scientific study' of trash projections?" He looked around at the other board members who were staring at the chart, avoiding eye contact with me.
"Hold on. Wait a second. I can explain" I murmered. But they were already stuffing papers in their briefcases, getting ready to go. "Ah, Maybe the original title was a typo... or..." But no one was listening. On his way out, the Chairman stopped very close to me, looking at his shoes. "In my office, tomorrow morning. 8am sharp!"
So, tomorrow I am on the carpet. A victom of outsourcing gone bad. I wonder if this could be the end of a great and lucrative career as the DFM.
Time will tell. Meanwhile, hit me with another shot of Dewers, willya barkeep?
Friday, February 18, 2005
Union Suited
Even though our dumpworkers’ union, IHOP (Idiot's Hive of Onanism and Pederasty), has been somewhat emasculated by Cheesey’s refusal to negotiate with us in other than Klingon; I nevertheless have been making steady progress in organizing the dumpworkers. My major activity has been collections. As the dumpworkers leave on Friday I hit them up (in cash) for their union dues (5% of their gross) and our birthday-cake fund ($5). Every month I also squeeze them for their pension contribution (up to 10%), our strike-fund contribution ($50), our political activism fund ($10), our apprentice education fund ($8), and our bookie’s vigorish ($25). All this money goes into a Vanguard money market fund opened by me as the only signer. Although it is against union policy, I also comingle these funds to maximize the interest return … which is then swept once a week into my own Vanguard retirement fund.
I find this arrangement very satisfying and will fight to the death to insure that our union grows bigger and stronger for the benefit of our workers.
I find this arrangement very satisfying and will fight to the death to insure that our union grows bigger and stronger for the benefit of our workers.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
End of an Error
It is my duty to announce that the law outlawing fox hunting at the dump with dogs takes effect at midnight. We are a humane dump that treats it's wildlife with respect and dignity.
Anyone who violates the new ordinance will be tazored, cuffed, hit with a baton, shot with non-lethal (most of the time) devices. Then they will be cuffed, stripped naked, deloused and then placed in a detention cell with a large unwashed fellow named Humper Downes. Most likely the sentence will be seven years in the pokey.
That is all,
DFM
Anyone who violates the new ordinance will be tazored, cuffed, hit with a baton, shot with non-lethal (most of the time) devices. Then they will be cuffed, stripped naked, deloused and then placed in a detention cell with a large unwashed fellow named Humper Downes. Most likely the sentence will be seven years in the pokey.
That is all,
DFM
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Broken Hearts
The chart I had been studying showed that there was a huge spike in trash volume at this time each year. Mainly from discarded heart-shaped Valentine Day candy boxes. I was contemplating the idea of salvaging and re-selling these containers to the third world when the phone rang. I could see from caller ID that it was Bill, calling in sick, as usual. I let the call go to voicemail. The DumpFuck; I had fired him months ago, but he refuses to accept my authority to terminate him on the grounds that he never showed up for work. I got tired of explaining it to him.
"It's discrimination against sick people," was his argument. It doesn't really matter that he refuses to accept the shitcan, since he is no longer on the payroll. I keep telling him to stop calling-in because no one gives a crap. He will not listen. The last time I took his call, he asked how many sick days he had left!
I am too busy for these distractions. I have trash to collect and hazardous waste to dispose of. I run a crew of malingering layabouts who must be constantly prodded to get their jobs done. This union thing had caused a lot of chaos among the troops and if there is anything I hate as a manager it is dissention.
As everyone knows, I am a teamwork type of Leader. Anyone who disagrees with me is wrong and I expect the team to shun those who are not with the program. As I often have said, "There is no 'U' in Team."
I got back to my chart analysis. The line representing dumpster usage showed a steady increase over the past decade. Blips and dips corresponded to various seasonal trashflows and documented events. Examples of predictable surges were reflected in the two dimensional format. Wrapping paper following Christmas. Empty Jameson bottles after St Patty's day, Cardboard heart boxes after Valentines day, hundreds of puppy carcasses just after Kill-a-puppy-with-your-bare-hands week, that sort of thing.
I had hired a small team of College students to do the research and create the presentation quality chart. They had done meticulous work. Each significant point of the chart was annotated with a reference number, with the full text explication published in a 200 page white paper. I was pleased with the work and was hoping to impress The Board of Directors at an upcoming meeting.
I heard the lads coming in for the afternoon coffee break, so I put the chart in the desk drawer. I picked up the phone and pretended I was on a call. I didn't need to worry. George and Rajeed, the new guy, were debating the proper design for birdhouses. George had started building them as a hobby and giving them to his friends in lieu of real gifts. Rajeed thought there should be a tiny hole in the top to let in more light. George thought that such a hole would also let in more water in a rainstorm.
Just then, Lardass came in with a big unopened heartshaped chocolate box. "For my Valentine," he explained. We knew he had probably gotten it for half-price at CVS. It didn't matter that Valentines Day was 2 days ago. We nodded and smiled, but even the new guy knew that the only valentine Lardass wooed was named Sally-five-fingers.
"It's discrimination against sick people," was his argument. It doesn't really matter that he refuses to accept the shitcan, since he is no longer on the payroll. I keep telling him to stop calling-in because no one gives a crap. He will not listen. The last time I took his call, he asked how many sick days he had left!
I am too busy for these distractions. I have trash to collect and hazardous waste to dispose of. I run a crew of malingering layabouts who must be constantly prodded to get their jobs done. This union thing had caused a lot of chaos among the troops and if there is anything I hate as a manager it is dissention.
As everyone knows, I am a teamwork type of Leader. Anyone who disagrees with me is wrong and I expect the team to shun those who are not with the program. As I often have said, "There is no 'U' in Team."
I got back to my chart analysis. The line representing dumpster usage showed a steady increase over the past decade. Blips and dips corresponded to various seasonal trashflows and documented events. Examples of predictable surges were reflected in the two dimensional format. Wrapping paper following Christmas. Empty Jameson bottles after St Patty's day, Cardboard heart boxes after Valentines day, hundreds of puppy carcasses just after Kill-a-puppy-with-your-bare-hands week, that sort of thing.
I had hired a small team of College students to do the research and create the presentation quality chart. They had done meticulous work. Each significant point of the chart was annotated with a reference number, with the full text explication published in a 200 page white paper. I was pleased with the work and was hoping to impress The Board of Directors at an upcoming meeting.
I heard the lads coming in for the afternoon coffee break, so I put the chart in the desk drawer. I picked up the phone and pretended I was on a call. I didn't need to worry. George and Rajeed, the new guy, were debating the proper design for birdhouses. George had started building them as a hobby and giving them to his friends in lieu of real gifts. Rajeed thought there should be a tiny hole in the top to let in more light. George thought that such a hole would also let in more water in a rainstorm.
Just then, Lardass came in with a big unopened heartshaped chocolate box. "For my Valentine," he explained. We knew he had probably gotten it for half-price at CVS. It didn't matter that Valentines Day was 2 days ago. We nodded and smiled, but even the new guy knew that the only valentine Lardass wooed was named Sally-five-fingers.
King Soloman
This morning we found a newborn baby by the green glass recycling bin. Rajeed brought it into the cob shack and asked the Big Cheese what we should do. Just then Susan came running in claiming that it was her baby and that this is why she had been on a leave of absence for the last 4 months. Gypsy Rose, the book exchange matron who had closely followed Susan in, shouted that no … it was her child! She had delivered it last night after her eighth pint of Sneaky Pete and had forgotten where she had put it. Both then started screaming at each other and grabbing at the poor waif. Cheesey shouted for them to go stand by the Exercycle. He then sat back stroking the gray stubble on his chin. After a few moments he sagely proposed that we take the machette and cut the baby in two … and then give each claimant one-half.
At this point Lardass, shaking his head and smiling slyly, proposed, “Why can’t we just do a DNA test?”
At this point Lardass, shaking his head and smiling slyly, proposed, “Why can’t we just do a DNA test?”
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Breaking the Golden Rule
Last week I did something really stupid. I broke a long standing, yet silent rule. I invited fellow workers from the dump over to my house to watch the stupid bowl. I had never even given them my home telephone number, let alone my address. And my worst fears came to be. They raped my refrigerator, emptied the dog, pussied the wife, broke the furntiture, lit the oriental rug on fire and finished the NY Times crossword puzzle - and all before the first half.
To make matters worse, they drank all of my beer and fine liquers, ate the dogfood from out of the bowl and pissed in the snowpeas. One of them was so drunk he bashed in my wife's brand new Mercedez - and he wasn't even driving.
Next year, we are having the party at the dump, where we usually have it, so if anything gets broken, eaten or fingered, no one will know the difference.
To make matters worse, they drank all of my beer and fine liquers, ate the dogfood from out of the bowl and pissed in the snowpeas. One of them was so drunk he bashed in my wife's brand new Mercedez - and he wasn't even driving.
Next year, we are having the party at the dump, where we usually have it, so if anything gets broken, eaten or fingered, no one will know the difference.
Monday, February 14, 2005
I heart the Dump
When the guys came in for their mid-morning coffee break, I was busy studying the chart on my desk. It was labeled "Projection of Dumpster Usage based on Historical Data." It predicted that the rate of increase in trash would soon outstrip our capabilities to haul it away.
"What's that you are looking at?" George demanded. He fancies himself quite the expert in analyzing and interpreting visual data.
"Nothing." I lied, folding up the paper so he could not see the chart. I am the boss and I don't need any know-it-all minions second guessing my analyses or decisions. Attention must be paid to authority.
"Come on, let's see it." He shouted. "What are you hiding?" He strode towards my desk. But I am not intimidated by bulk. I picked up the Taser gun that I kept nearby and pointed it at his chest. "Ha ha," he laughed, "That thing is just a cigarette lighter!"
I zapped him a good one. The tiny wires crackled. He slumped to the floor emitting a growl of pain.
Annoyed by the commotion, Lardass looked up from his paper. "Can't we all just get along?"
I didn't hear him. I was busy reloading the Taser, just in case.
"What's that you are looking at?" George demanded. He fancies himself quite the expert in analyzing and interpreting visual data.
"Nothing." I lied, folding up the paper so he could not see the chart. I am the boss and I don't need any know-it-all minions second guessing my analyses or decisions. Attention must be paid to authority.
"Come on, let's see it." He shouted. "What are you hiding?" He strode towards my desk. But I am not intimidated by bulk. I picked up the Taser gun that I kept nearby and pointed it at his chest. "Ha ha," he laughed, "That thing is just a cigarette lighter!"
I zapped him a good one. The tiny wires crackled. He slumped to the floor emitting a growl of pain.
Annoyed by the commotion, Lardass looked up from his paper. "Can't we all just get along?"
I didn't hear him. I was busy reloading the Taser, just in case.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Ha Ha
This morning, during our coffee break, the Big Cheese gave us all a stern lecture saying that everything we did, said or wrote had to be funny. In the afternoon, as Lonny was showing Mr. Funny how to operate our new compactor, I snuck up and hit him in the mush with a Boston cream pie.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Saturday, February 05, 2005
I give them books, they eat the covers
It has now become crystally clear to me that I am the only one who gets it.
People, I think I made a mistake opening this thing up. The fan mail has been jamming up the circuits with brickbats aimed at recent posters who are mere graffitists. Worse, it is painfully clear that none of you can write.
Dumpfucks this is your last chance to post something that makes sense at least, preferably funny and please make it interesting (ie, not a journal of your favorite farts). If you don't want to write here, go get your own blog.
The once and still DFM
911 for the Blog
Guess I've been away too long. The blog is getting ugly. (Like my dog) Like the way it is at the dump when I am not there supervising the beasties who run the joint. No there will no union. No there will be no funny stuff posted without DFM's permission and no there will be no rainbow parties behind the high school cafeteria where the dump employees go for lunch. Tomorrow I am having a superbowl party. Yes it is a party because it is at my house and wimmens are invited. We are serving stew and potatoes with lemonade. Yes there will be a lecture to the employees who show up to not post not funny stuff. We will drink and smoke our butts off and be ready for non-union work on Monday morning. Go Pets.
Friday, February 04, 2005
Keeping it Real
It gets cold here at the dump in February. That old Montreal Express keeps chugging down from the vast wasteland to our North, pushing carloads of sub-arctic frigidity smack into our weathervanes. I was sitting at my desk, thinking about recent train wrecks when the lads came in for their morning coffee break, cursing and stamping their boots. George, of course was the first one in the door with the ever-noisome Lardass bringing up the rear. (Bill, of course, had called-in sick, ignoring the fact that I had terminated him months ago.)
"Fuck it's cold." growled George as a greeting. He tossed his grimy gloves into the corner and took up his position near the Franklin stove where it was toasty warm. Icicles drooping from his moustache gave him the momentary visage of a great walrus. "I just checked with the wicked witch of the west and it's official."
"Huh?" I said, feigning interest. Sometimes George can be very oblique. He shook his head as though to pity my inability to parse his erudition. The fact is, I have been down that maze before. George has a mind that reminds me of a pile of wire coathangers. The thoughts were all hooked together by some mystical force that defied unraveling.
Lardass couldn't resist. "Hey it's so cold that I saw this flasher over at the book exchange would not open his raincoat. He just described himself to the women."
He grinned, showing us a half chewed donut that matched his brown teeth.
I decided to take charge of the conversation. "OK guys, enough already about the weather. I want to switch subjects and get something straight. Lately, one of you, under the nom de plume Clooney, has been writing some pretty inane shit on this blog. Not funny stuff, just a sort of nonsense list of words."
"I think it's funny and pithy!" interjected George.
"I think Clooney sucks," said Lardass, "It's not funny, it's just, well you know..."
"Yes," I agreed. "So here is the deal: Clooney needs to lose the stupid remarks about the big cheese and the prolix meanderings down some strange corridor of his mind..."
"Wait a fucking minute! YOU are the one writing about 'blowing feathers up the weathervane' for fucks sake! Why is that shit ok?"
"That's poetry." yelled Lardass.
"Whatever! Here is the deal: stick with the metaphor, keep it funny, well-written and concise.
"Or what?"
"Or, I start editing."
"Fuck you, you can't..."
"I did it once before and I'll do it again. I am the DFM."
George scowled back at me as he was going out the door. "Fucking fascist!" He muttered.
But, this is my blog. I always get the last word.
So I just grinned like a Cheshire cat.
"Fuck it's cold." growled George as a greeting. He tossed his grimy gloves into the corner and took up his position near the Franklin stove where it was toasty warm. Icicles drooping from his moustache gave him the momentary visage of a great walrus. "I just checked with the wicked witch of the west and it's official."
"Huh?" I said, feigning interest. Sometimes George can be very oblique. He shook his head as though to pity my inability to parse his erudition. The fact is, I have been down that maze before. George has a mind that reminds me of a pile of wire coathangers. The thoughts were all hooked together by some mystical force that defied unraveling.
Lardass couldn't resist. "Hey it's so cold that I saw this flasher over at the book exchange would not open his raincoat. He just described himself to the women."
He grinned, showing us a half chewed donut that matched his brown teeth.
I decided to take charge of the conversation. "OK guys, enough already about the weather. I want to switch subjects and get something straight. Lately, one of you, under the nom de plume Clooney, has been writing some pretty inane shit on this blog. Not funny stuff, just a sort of nonsense list of words."
"I think it's funny and pithy!" interjected George.
"I think Clooney sucks," said Lardass, "It's not funny, it's just, well you know..."
"Yes," I agreed. "So here is the deal: Clooney needs to lose the stupid remarks about the big cheese and the prolix meanderings down some strange corridor of his mind..."
"Wait a fucking minute! YOU are the one writing about 'blowing feathers up the weathervane' for fucks sake! Why is that shit ok?"
"That's poetry." yelled Lardass.
"Whatever! Here is the deal: stick with the metaphor, keep it funny, well-written and concise.
"Or what?"
"Or, I start editing."
"Fuck you, you can't..."
"I did it once before and I'll do it again. I am the DFM."
George scowled back at me as he was going out the door. "Fucking fascist!" He muttered.
But, this is my blog. I always get the last word.
So I just grinned like a Cheshire cat.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Notice of Job Action
As your business agent for our union, IHOP (Interracial Haulers of Putridity), I am obliged to call a job action in response to Russ Limberger (AKA, the Big Cheese) and his manic attempt to cause electrodes to be attached to some of our family jewels. His abhorrent actions signify his panicked state of mind and his waxing alchoholic dementia. As a consequence of this documented misfeasance, I have been authorized by our cherished union to demand that we members of IHOP:
1) Refuse to report to work here at the dump before 10 AM each day
2) Refuse to wear, under our overalls, the lace panties and fish-net stockings that Cheesey has edicted
3) Refuse to chant Gragorian paeans in front of Cheesey’s desk every Friday afternoon
4) Refuse to perform gratis any more work on Cheesey’s house or his Hummer
5) Refuse to give the “sieg heil” salute anytime Cheesey enters a room
Your union will back you (and I) in these actions and will bring the full force of the haulers of putridity union down of our boss’s headbone if he tries to break our resolve in this matter.
Signed,
George C.
Business Agent, IHOP
1) Refuse to report to work here at the dump before 10 AM each day
2) Refuse to wear, under our overalls, the lace panties and fish-net stockings that Cheesey has edicted
3) Refuse to chant Gragorian paeans in front of Cheesey’s desk every Friday afternoon
4) Refuse to perform gratis any more work on Cheesey’s house or his Hummer
5) Refuse to give the “sieg heil” salute anytime Cheesey enters a room
Your union will back you (and I) in these actions and will bring the full force of the haulers of putridity union down of our boss’s headbone if he tries to break our resolve in this matter.
Signed,
George C.
Business Agent, IHOP
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
State Of The Dump
Mr. Speaker, Invited Guests, Citizens with Stickers, Employees
Tonight I am pleased to report that I am still in charge. (applause)
Thank you.
The state if the dump is residue.
Thanks for coming.
(Applause)
Thank you.
Tonight I am pleased to report that I am still in charge. (applause)
Thank you.
The state if the dump is residue.
Thanks for coming.
(Applause)
Thank you.
