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.