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.
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Bring us your soggy crackers and crumpled paper yearning to be composted, your old cardboard and plastic bottles huddling in your garage. This is the dump; its not just our job, it is who we are: Dumpsterguys
