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.
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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
