Cheesey (the DFM) was beside himself. Virtually all the dump workers had been glued to the cobb hut’s TV watching the coverage of Pope John Paul’s death, funeral preparations, and his many life retrospectives. Nothing was getting done. The recycle area was overflowing with exurban detritus – old storm windows, out-of-fashion baby strollers, rusty charcoal grills, broken lawn furniture, etc. … to the point that it was becoming dangerous. Already one grandmother had had a stack of tires fall on her. Half of the trash compactors were broken and the lines of SUVs trying to use the remaining ones were twenty deep.
No number of threats or cajoling seem to incent the staff to get off their duffs and perform their dumply duties. Obviously, knowing that the Pope, in his youth, liked to ski and hike … and that he forgave the College of Cardinals for electing him Vicar of Christ … was far more important. Cheesey finally was reduced to doing many of the daily dump chores himself, generally poorly. After two days of this humiliation, he snapped. The Big Cheese took the TV and threw it into the brown-glass recycling bin. Whilst doing this, he was screaming anti-Catholic obscenities and flashing, with the fingers on both hands, the devil horns often seen at heavy metal concerts.
The next day he awoke with a clubfoot.
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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
