How Much Wood?

On the way into the dump this morning I ran over a woodchuck. Thinking that it was done for, I threw it into the back of my pickup expecting to make some purloo for lunch (a few onions, some potatoes, carrots, thyme, salt, and pepper … and of course the critter). As I was preparing to skin the bugger, it started moving. Now, unfortunately, the local PETA organizer, entering the cob shack for a hazardous material permit, saw this episode … and stepped between myself and the groundhog with arms akimbo, shouting. “Let this poor creature live!!” I sighed and retired to my rocking chair resigned to have a tuna on rye for my midday repast.

Within minutes Mr. PETA was on his cell phone rallying the local celery chompers to come to the rescue of the woodchuck. He also summoned a veternarian, the local media and sympethetic politicians to throw up the curtain of public opinion against we heathens who treated life and death so cavaleerly. A vet was the first to respond. He came into the cob shack and requisitioned Cheesey’s desk as an operating table. He performed a tracheotomy and inserted a feeding tube into this poor animals stomach. Within an hour the woodchuck had rallied and was moving its eyes following the vets finger movements. Now reporters were swarming around our small, personal space … knocking over our bong-pipes and dog-earing our Hustler magazines.

Pretty soon TV talk shows were also involved, setting up satellite dishes, and doing talking-heads remotes from in front of the recycling area. Pro and anti-woodchuck groups gradually gathered around … with belligerant signs such as “Up chuck the woodchuck” and “Preserve the right to lie.” Cheesy was getting more and more agitated at these intrusions. Finally, when the PETA people were distracted by their interview with Larry King, he picked up a compost shovel and gave one upside the head to this poor animal. Needless to say, the circus that was our day quickly ended … with both a bang and a wimper.

GateGate

Lardass came stomping through the door of the cobb shack that we call the office. George and Rajeed, the new guy, were already on break snuggled up to the Franklin for warmth.
George was doing yesterday's Times Puzzle humming The Pensylvania Polka. Rajeed had scoffed down the last Krispy Kreme; he wiped the donut crumbs off his beard with a guilty look, not making eye contact with his Lardness.
"Hey you fucks!" yelled Lardass. "You ate all the donuts."
George didn't look up. "You were late. We thought you were skipping break for a change."
Rajeed stammered. "I am very sorry to eat your donut, Sahib. DFM made me eat it."
Lardass scowled at me, then he broke into a wide grin.
"Well, on a different day, I might be pissed. But come out here and I'll show you why I was late."
We followed him out. The sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky but the cold north wind was enough to turn your head around. We squinted at the sight that LA was pointing to - a huge orange pile of cloth and metal. A mountain of orange.
It had been dark when I and the others arrived and we never noticed it. Except George.
"I saw it when I came in. I figured you knew..."
"No I didn't see it. Where did all this stuff come from?" I wondered.
Then it hit me. New Yawk!
It was that dumpfuck Christo trying to get rid of 7500 useless pieces of orange cloth and metal frames. And that bastard didn't even have a dump sticker.