The Night we Invented the GM Margarita

It was October of 1962. The place was Southeastern Wyoming. I was Pad Chief at missile site 13, located 40 miles North of Warren AFB which was situated on the outskirts of Cheyenne. The call came in around noon: Defcom 1. Full Alert!
We were all as skittish as cats. World War 3 was about to begin. In the truck as we headed for the secure bunkers to wait for armageddon, the crew began to talk about the things they would miss after global thermonuclear war.

It suddenly occurred to me that at age 19,  I might die a virgin. I had never been laid. The prospect of dying without ever knowing the pleasure that the other guys bragged about, was more disturbing to me than the prospect of a world on fire with everyone turned into steak tips.

To make a long story short, the war was won by about 10:30pm when the Ruskies blinked. No shots were fired, no missiles launched, no bombs exploded. Their ships did not confront the blockade and scuttled back to port with their rudders between their legs. We won. And I might yet know a woman before I died.

After the war was over, a bunch of us went back to town and stopped in at the Mayflower bar. We were off duty but still in uniform. We picked our usual table in the darkest corner away from the band. A plump, dark haired angel came out of the shadows and sat down next to me. Her skin was smooth and the color of ice tea. She had thick red lips that smiled at me with a glad-to-see-you honesty that turned my legs to rubber. She wore a low-cut maroon dress that struggled to contain a lusty pair of boobs.

I was drinking Grand Marnier on the rocks, my favorite relaxer. She ordered a Margarita with Jose Cuervo Gold. When the drink came, she took a big swig and then leaned forward, showing her ample bosoms, to whisper something to me but I intercepted the talking with a kiss. Our lips fused and her hot probing tongue was in my mouth. I could taste the Tequila and the salt. We tongue-wrestled for a minute before coming up for air. She looked at me with big inviting eyes and took a sip of my Grand Marnier.

"MMMMM," she closed her eyes and smiled. "Go ahead and drink some of mine. But don't swallow."
I did as she asked. She took another full drink from my glass. Then we were locked again in a wet embrace. The tastes melded in our open mouths, spilling onto our chins and necks. Rivulets of the liquid streamed into the cleft between her breasts. I chased them down with my hungry tongue. She was undoing my pants and we copulated right there on the table while the band played "Lonesome Cowboy."

It only took 30 seconds (She wasn't wearing underwear) to strip me of my virginity. She asked for $20. I only had $15, which she took, and then she was gone, leaving behind an empty glass and the damp scent of wet fur.

Afterwards, my buddies spoke often about the night the future DFM (they called me Mad Dog Eddie back then) got his first piece of ass. I never did get her name, but I had a long-term infection as a remembrance of the night we won World War 3 and the night we invented the GM Margarita.

These days, I just mix it in an old fashioned glass. Chilled. Not too much ice.

-

Not Shoplifting

Yesterday I stopped in at the local pharmacy to refill my Lithium and Oxycontin prescriptions. On the way out, a display of small notebooks in the office supplies section caught my eye. As a writer, I am, of course, always having brilliant thoughts. Often I have nothing handy upon which to write these gems of wit and wisdom. Thus, priceless moments of erudite observation and pansophy are relegated to disparate scraps of paper, backs of napkins, or even junk mail envelopes. Invariably, much of this agglomeration ends-up collected in dusty desk drawers, silent shoeboxes or unconsciously tossed out as trash.

Being organized may be one of the seven habits of highly successful people, but it is not one of my attributes. I am a habitual “To-Do” list maker, but unfortunately the list often becomes misplaced, or I forget to look at the list. My wife is also a To-Do list generator, and I often find yellow sticky notes on the refrigerator door or the bathroom mirror that say simply “Look at your To-Do list!” It’s not that I am absent minded, I just get distracted sometimes - especially if I am not dutiful about the meds.

So there I was at the pharmacy, looking at notebooks, thinking that if I started carrying a notebook around in my shirt pocket I would always have something to write on. I have attained the age where all my shirts – even the Tee & Polo shirts are ordered with pockets – so I have somewhere to put my reading glasses.

There were several choices: Top hinged like a stenographer’s notebook and side hinged like a regular book. I tested a few different sizes and types by seeing if they fit into my pocket.

I was approached by a pock-faced young man who I recognized as a store employee. He wore a name tag that identified him as Jerry. On past visits, I had noticed that he was always following customers around like a vulture, peering over the plinths to make sure that no one shoplifted the toothpaste, I guess. He addressed me in an un-necessarily stentorian voice.

“Ok pops, don’t make a move. We got you.” I could feel what seemed like a ball point pen with the cap on sticking into my back pretending to be a weapon. The kid must have thought I was a rube.

“Look kid, you’ve got two seconds to get that pen out of my back. I wasn’t trying to steal anything. I was just…” He interrupted my explanation (strike two, I thought.)

“Yeah, pops, I know exactly what you’re try’na pull! You geezers think you can get away with murder – you come in here – shoplifting and then when you get caught, you whine ‘The new meds made me do it!’ Well, not this time, chief. You’re going to the slammer.”

Turning to face him, I asked “Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic… Jerry?”, as I drew my Walther .38 from the underarm holster and pressed the pistol into his chest directly under his nametag and very close to the heart.

He had a startled look of surprise and fear which he tried to mask with a grin. It made him look silly and meaningless. “Come on, pops, you wouldn’t shoot me over a 79 cent notebook. That’s probably not even a real gun.” Strike three. I pulled the trigger.

As he lay on the linoleum floor in a spreading pool of blood, I hoped that the last words he heard on this earth were, “And, don’t call me ‘pops’.” I stepped over him and took my notebook to the cashier counter. She gave me a nice smile and asked if I had found what I was looking for.

“Yes, thank you. Sorry for the little mess over there. I was just checking to see if the notebook fit in my shirt pocket. He was very rude. How much is this one?”

The cashier scanned the bar code. That is 79 cents plus tax, sir. No problem about Jerry – he was a jerk anyway. Thank you. Have a nice day.”

As I emerged from the pharmacy to get in my car, the sun was warm and bright. The sky was clear and blue. A light wind blew from the south. I sat in the car and popped a few Oxy’s, waited a few minutes for the headache to recede and then headed for the nearest bar.

Non News

Did someone fart? Or, was that another North Korean "nuclear" weapon test?

I am unimpressed. The US government seems to be inadequately prepared - once again - for the goings-on within the axis of evil. President Bush has sternly issued warnings about how "unacceptable" the situation was and is. Now, what should we do?
I say, "Why do anything?"

Because this is a Monty Python movie, friends. This is the "Quest for the Holy Grail." Kim is the French Taunter and Bush is Arthur the Crusader. There are no horses; the sounds of horses hooves are made by people clapping coconuts together.
There are no WMD's. Kim has had his best scientists strap together 10,000 M-80's and blow them off in a cave.

We are safe. The Asians can take care of this "threat." Let's get back to the important stuff like finding out who knew what and when did they know it.

Pay No Attention to Idiot at the Podium

Even the dummest assed among us must have been annoyed at the response to the remarks of Mr Chavez at the UN yesterday.
Calling President Bush the Devil was laughable and so amateurish and indeed childish that one had to wonder if something had been lost in the translation. But after the repetition, it was clear that this buffoon was in fact saying those things in front of a world audience.

The thing that annoyed me was the applause he got at the end. Not polite applause from diplomats who wanted to encourage a dialogue, however rocky and halting the start. No, this was a jubulant, encouraging applause of appreciation from an audience that wanted to hear an encore.

So, in the spirit of diplomacy for which I am well known, the DFM hereby declares my new peace plan:

1) The UN Headquarters should be moved to Caracas. All Emmisaries who applauded the speech have three days to pack-up and leave.

2) The US is no longer contributing money or troops to UN causes or programs. Good by suckers!

3) The Pope must apologize for Chavez's remarks.

By the way, I have to credit Bill O'Reilly with the observation that If the USA is so bad how come millions of people from South America are trying to get in? How many people are trying to get into Venezuela?
Huh? HuH?

The Din

I was late getting to the doublewide that I call my office this morning. The (prescription) drugs that I am taking help me sleep later in the morning, even though the local landscape crews routinely violate the local noise ordinances - often starting their infernal noisemaking machines before 7am. Sometimes, you just want to go down there and grab the thirty-odd-six out of the hall closet and shoot the tires out of their truck, but I can tell you from experience, the so-called authorities frown on such nonverbal attempts at communication. You tell them, these mecacahs don't fucking speak English; they say, sir, you can't discharge a firearm within the city limits, especially to damage property. And on and on it goes. So, you might as well just stay in bed and pretend that the lawn machine noise is like the constant hum that the drugs make in your head anyhow.

There is no peace and quiet in the suburbs. On the 2 mile route that I walk every day, there are several tear-down sites. One about 200 yards up the hill from my house is just a big hole in the ground where they have completely removed all traces of the former small ranch house that dwelt on that lot. Pipes, concrete foundation, hydrangia plants - everything. There is a sign that offers to build to suit owner. Every time I walk by and look at the sign my head starts to ache thinking that I will be hearing them pounding and sawing for 4 months while they build a new mansion on the site.
The noise ordinance actually permits them to start banging and sawing at 7am on construction sites. There really ought to be a law against them playing rap music on their big boomboxes. The only positive aspect of this is that all construction sites are silent at 4pm when all the workers quit making noise, jump into their pickup trucks, and go to bars to get drunk.

So, there I was standing outside the doublewide at 9am this morning looking up at a clear blue sky - marked only by the vapor trails of jets careening through the stratosphere on their noisy arcs to their destinations. There is a certain echo of jet plane engines in a cool cloudless autumn sky that I never noticed before 9/11/2001.

I began to think of my upcoming vacation flight to London, the ephemeral nature of nature, the treasure of the present moment. The humming in my head seemed to go away, like someone somewhere had closed a window. The Ativan was kicking in. Finally. Good stuff that.

I opened the door to the new FEMA trailer and went inside. The crew, as usual, was on break. Nobody paid any attention to me. George was explaining how the junk scientists had just proven the existence of dark matter in the universe. Lardass thought it was suspicious that in the same month they also discovered three new planets and Jon benet Ramsey's murderer.

Out of Order

The creative genius that runs the dump has lately been playing a game of king of the hill with the Grim Reaper. So far the score is Grim Reaper nil and DFM 1.

My courageous fight for life might serve as a credible excuse for not updating the blog more often, if I had been more regular in my posting during the less perilous times, but I shall shamelesly play the card anyhow. If you don't like it, I suppose you know what you can do. Ironically, irregularity was one of the symptoms that I should have paid more attention to.

My main reason for this post is to go on record that I am Not watching the TV coverage of the biggest non-news event of the decade. For the hopelessly clueless, I am of course referring to the dramatic and successful global manhunt for the vicious killer of Jon Benet Ramsey ten years ago.

It took most of us 45 seconds to figure out that this guy is a poor sick fuck who needs shock therapy. None of the news people who are covering the story think he is guilty, but they cannot help but run after him like pack wolves after the scent of blood. It is embarrassing just to watch. I have to turn away.

If I was a news director, I would bring all of my reporters into the office and assign them to real news stories - shootings, tunnel cave-ins, airplane crashes, dogs eating their owners' faces - that sort of thing. Then I would have my prettiest and most buxom news reader make a statement: "We really have no facts in this case. Once we really know something for sure, we will be one of the first to report it to you."

Cold Spell

Today we are getting a break from the sweltering heat wave we have been getting in Metrowest. It's only 80 right now, but the humidity has backed off to a slightly uncomfortable range on the Richter dew point scale.

I was sitting at my desk in the new air conditioned doublewide that I call my office, wondering why A/C did not stand for "air cooling" rather than "air conditioning." The new clock that Lardass had found in a dumpster, indicated that it was noon. Actually, there weren't any numbers on the clock face, It was one of those modern designs where you just know what time it is because you know what the clock face is supposed to look like. There must be a word for that sort of artistic cheating, I mused. The owner had probably been having trouble with some of the mid quadrant times like 8:25. That would account for the fact that he or she threw a working time piece into the dumpster. A shrink once told me that throwing usable items in the dumpster instead of bringing them to the "Take and Leave" area was often an act of rage. He may have been projecting his own anger problems, however. He was always saying things like "Even a stopped clock is right twice a day."

At any rate, I found the numberless clock only slightly less annoying than the old clock that had com from an ancient schoolhouse and had Roman Numerals on it.
"Why the fuck can't they just standardize clockfaces," I asked to no one. The place was empty. The crew was out hauling and shredding and front-end-loading.

If the clock was indeed operating correctly, the lads would be in for lunch break any second. I needed to look busy, just in case. So I cranked-up the PC and brought up one of my "budget" spread sheets.

During the lunch break, the conversation covered the usual topics:
The Fighting in Lebanon - Lardass was wondering why the terrorists and their supporters were always crying crocodile tears over the terrible killing of women and children. Perhaps, he mused, if they did not shoot their rockets off from the schoolyards and hospital parking lots (while aiming at Israeli women and children), the Israelis would be bombing military targets. Perhaps the cowardly militants were crying because the bombs were cutting into their supply of future suicide bombers and the uteri that produce them. Lardass can be crude sometimes but often he is spot on.
Health Issues - Bill was wearing his flu mask and surgical gloves. He wanted me to turn the A/C down because he was afraid of catching a cold. I asked him if he was asking me to turn the thermostat on the A/C up to a higher temperature. He just called me a nitpicker and stomped out to eat his "lunch" in his truck. I think he prefers the smell of wet dog in the summer to the aroma of Lardass anyhow.
Global Warming - George refuses to acknowledge that it has been hotter than a mutherfucker for the past month. It's just a seasonal aberration, a wobble and a kink in the jet stream that is responsible for unseasonable warmth, he says. Lardass expressed gratitude that he did not have to drive through the big dig tunnels during rush hour traffic. Imagine sitting there wondering about the melting point of the epoxy that holds up those 3 ton concrete ceiling panels.

The Gift of Disappointment

It was one of those sultry mornings that you read about in a Faulkner novel. The air was heavy like a steambath at 7:30am and not a cloud in the sky to offer the hope of any relief from the scorching sun. But this is not Mississippi, I mused, this is Massachusetts. This global warming thing is real - and we need to find someone to blame.

The crew was already inside when I arrived at the new doublewide that I call my office. We had it shipped-in last week, compliments of FEMA. They had a lot of surplus trailers leftover from the Katrina affair, so I applied for one. No questions asked, they shipped it in by helicopter.

I love the spacious windows and of course the air conditioning will make these stifling dog days of summer almost bearable. The crew was also pleased to move-up from the old cobb shack. We dismantled it and stored it in the seasonal storage area, just in case some snoopy auditer figures-out where the doublewides went. Such oversight is highly unlikely, but you never know.

We had already used the Homeland Security grant to upgrade our dumpsters. We called in a design consultant who thought stainless steel would look really state of the art. This created a bit of a conundrum as no one knew how to dispose of used dumpsters. After some brainstorming we came up with a solution. We floated them down the Charles River out to the Boston harbor on barges, and then, well, splash.
We like to think of them as an "artificial reef".


This morning, the guys were buzzing this morning about the big dig. A section of ceiling in the tunnel crashed down on a car one morning last week, killing a woman. The newspapers and TV crews were delighted to have some real breaking news. They were all aflutter with interviews with experts, grieving relatives, and of course live video of workmen standing in front of a pile of rubble.

And of course there were the politicians. The Gov cancelled his vacation and traveling plans. He expressed some surprise that the big dig had actually been open and operational for several years. But he is a busy man and does not get into Boston that often since he has been running for President on 2008. The attourny General, who BTW is a candidate for Gov, called press conferences to announce that his office was investigating the entire Big Dig as a "crime scene." He immediately ordered 30,000,000 yards of yellow tape and closed the tunnels to traffic indefinitely. Everyone pointed fingers at the current Turnpike Authority Chairman, who declared that the tunnels are 96% safe. "A few cave-ins every now and then are to be expected." He noted that "hundreds of people die from bee stings every year and only one person has died in tunnel collapses . So what's the big friggin' deal?"

George was annoyed. "Getting to the Race track will be a pain in the ass of months."
"Not to mention the Airport," I added.

Lardass recalled Microsoft founder Bill Gates’ recent announcement that he wants to give most of his fortune away to help others. "How about giving some of the cash to fix the tunnels?"

George scowled "First maybe he should give some of it to Microsoft to get them to fix some of the security flaws in Windows."

Bill (not the Microsoft founder) was wearing wearing his anti-bird-flu mask. He looked like Japanese railway commuter. "Any one got any aspirin?" 

In the morning paper there was a letter asking about the protocol for giving lottery tickets as a gift. A mother had received some scratch tickets from her daughter as a birthday present. One of the tickets paid $10,000. The mother gave $2,000 of it to the daughter as a generous gesture of appreciation. The daughter was pissed. "You should give me half!" she demanded. "But I thought it was a gift," explained the mother. Now the daughter will not talk to the mother. And the mother wishes she had gotten a potholder or flowers instead of the scratch tickets.

There is an inherent problem with giving lottery tickets as gifts. Odds are you are giving disappointment. But in the unlikely event that the recipient hits it big, you are expecting a kickback, right? So really it is just a cynical, selfish way of making others as unhappy and disappointed as you are. You sorry cheap bastard.

Another Day Another Dollar

The sky was low and gray when I arrived at the dump this morning. The old schoolhouse clock said half past VIII. Most of the crew was already there. George was reading yesterday’s newspaper, scowling. Lardass was sorting through some discarded magazines, probably looking for whacking material. There was a pink message slip on my desk saying that Bill was sick and would not be in today.

I greeted the lads with my usual cheery exhortation. “Don’t you dumpfucks have any work to do?”
“Good afternoon to you,” said George looking up from his paper with an expression that said hey asshole we have been here since 7 o’clock where have you been? Lardass just grunted.

I poured some coffee from the recycled percolator into a mustard colored mug that had the inscription “I’d rather be having a beer” in blue letters. My sentiments exactly.

I sat down at the old metal desk and pretended to be working on the budget. The routine here at the dump is pretty dull. People bring trash and toss it into the dumpster and we haul the dumpsters away and dump the crap in landfills.

Occasionally, we get something interesting and unusual – like the other day when one of the researchers from MIT came by in a red pickup truck loaded with 30 five-gallon containers of liquid labeled Sin Nombre Virus. He was wearing a full hazmat suit and a respirator, which I could see was HEPA certified 100. This had to be some nasty stuff. The respirator gave him the appearance of a bankrobber trying to disguise his identity.
“What’s this?” I asked him pointing to the plastic containers of brownish liquid.
He teased a sheaf of bills out of his shirt pocket so I could see that there were more than a few crisp twenties. He and I had done business before, so we both knew the steps to the dance.
“Ah, just some laboratory waste. One of the undergraduate student experiments, you know.” He was perspiring even though it was not hot outside.
“Looks hazardous to me. What is it?” I asked, giving him that look that said, this is gonna cost you.
“Hanta”
“Hunta?” I had heard of this dreaded disease, which you can get from contact with rodent feces.
“You say Hunta; I say Hanta.” He smiled.
“And you say pajamas and I say ‘pajahmas’ “ We harmonized a few bars of the tune, enjoying the wordplay.
“Let’s call the whole thing off.” I offered.
“OK. Ok. Here.” He handed me the sheaf of bills in his shirt. I counted out ten twenties. Then I looked at the jugs of deadly virus. I handed the bills back as if to say “No Deal.”

As I figured, there was more to be had. Pretty soon I had 30 twenty dollar bills. The researcher unloaded the containers and stacked them into the bucket of a front-end loader. After he drove away, I gave Lardass fifty bucks to bury them over near the SEM. That’s what we call the body dumping site.
“What is it?” LA was looking suspiciously at the evil looking containers. “Smells like rat urine.”
“I don’t know,” I lied, “Just get it over there and cover it up. Pronto. Try not to break open any of the jugs”

In today’s paper there was an item reporting that the feds had given up the search for Jimmy Hoffa at some horse farm in Michigan. Christ, they wasted a quarter of a million dollars digging in the wrong spot for a phantom. I could have told them the exact location for half that amount.

We Endured

After six days of rain, the dump smells like a wet Labrador retriever.

They say that odor memories are the most vivid. This probably accounts for the fact that Lardass is one of the most memorable characters here at the dump. He always wears a filthy orange jumpsuit, filthy work gloves and his boots look like he has been strolling through New Orleans ninth ward. It is not his red gummed grin or his mottled skin that we recall. It is that faint aroma of shit that follows him around like a vapor trail behind a jet plane.

Locally, some areas have been deluged with the heaviest rainfall in 70 years. Lots of flooding. We have been busy here siphoning the water out of dumpsters, and sandbagging the HAZMAT pools of radioactive and medical waste. Damp cardboard and wet newspapers turn to mush in the shredder-bailer and play havoc with the staging mechanism.
The compost area turned into a muddy quagmire.

Most of the week, George had been out near the uranium dumpster with the shotgun, sitting on a white resin chair under a market umbrella both of which had been salvaged from the take-and-leave, keeping a sharp eye out for Iranian looters. Bill, of course, had called in sick. He said he has "a code in by dose." I think he was faking. LA had hooked up one of the big plows to the 5 ton and sloshed water out of the deeper puddles. So, we managed to keep the operation going despite the hardships. We endured this Faulknarian drama.

Due to bad fiscal planning the dump hours have been shortened recently. We are closed on Sundays and at noon on Monday thru Wednesday. I had to lay off some of the staff. Worst of all, nowadays I have to pitch-in and do actual work.

At closing time, I send the crew home, telling them that I will close up the place. They are anxious to leave and have the afternoon free. Then I drive the big front-end loader down the long driveway to the entrance gate. I use it to block the entrance lane to keep the late arriving citizens from sneaking in. They are often pissed-off; if they can't unload their crap, they just have to return home and put the crap back in their garage. Due to the sensitive nature of the situation, I cannot trust anyone else to handle these inter-actions properly, which is why I send the crew home and handle it myself.

Yesterday I was standing in front of the big yellow loader at the gate, waving the annoyed latecomers away.
"Sorry." I would say "We closed at noon." Shrugging my shoulders as if to say, hey, don't shoot the messenger.

The affluent citizens in this town had failed to vote "yes" on the recent referendum to fund the extension of dump hours. Most of them were understanding, if annoyed. But a few - mostly the well dressed divas driving new Mercedes would not be turned away. The conversation would go something like this:
Me: "Sorry ma'm we closed at noon."
Them: (Leaning forward to show me their cleavage) "Oh, please, I only have two bags of trash. It'll only take a minute."
Me: (Firmly) "I'm sorry. If I let you in I have to let all them in too." (pointing to the line of half-dozen or so latecomers in their new Mercedes and BMW's).
Them: (Opening their purse) "Can't we find a way...?
Me: "OK. Ten Bucks a bag. Two bags will cost you twenty."

Like a drug dealer, I palm the cash and stash it in my shirt pocket. She pops the trunk and I throw the trash bags into the loader shovel. This cycle is repeated until the line of latecomers peters-out. Then I lock the gate and drive the loader back to the dump area and unload the trash. I have about $200 in my shirt pocket. Not bad for 1/2 hour off the clock.

A Day Without Dumpfucks

There are no windows in the shack that I call my office, but I could tell that it was still raining hard outside. The background noise of drumming raindrops on the metal roof rose and fell as waves of the storm blew by. Occasionally the whole building shuddered under 40 knot wind gusts. A good day to be working, I thought.

Apparently, I was the only one who agreed with me. The rest of the crew had not shown up today, because they were staging a “day without dumpfucks” boycott. They had taken a cue from the recent pro-immigrant demonstrations, and had decided that somehow management would appreciate them more if they did not come to work. Strange logic; If I had the power I would dock them all a day’s pay.

I locked the entry gates and put up a sign that read, “Dump is closed. Workers on Strike ” Let the citizens know who to appreciate.

There was an article in yesterdays WSJ about how CEO salaries in big companies are something like 300 times the rate of the average worker. My salary is actually lower than some of the crew. The board justifies it by the basketball coach theory. The crew is a team. The crew members actually do all the work. They are the stars. I am just the coordinator – the coach. So they get the big bucks, and I should just shut up before someone notices how expendable I am. That’s why I do not dare to not show up.

Damn, I mused, I should have been a CEO instead. The more people you fire, the bigger bonus they give you.

Time For a Change

Sometimes the role of DFM can get to you. Nobody appreciates the work I do. My subordinates are an unruly and distinctly insubordinate lot. They regard me as a self-important poofta who spends most of the day sitting at the desk in the shack that I call my office making up stories. My boss thinks I am too soft on the crew and that “productivity should be higher.” What freaking productivity? We are a dump for crying out loud! The customers are never happy. They think we should be open longer. So that they can bring their trash here whenever it pleases them. Spoiled affluent fucks that they are. The take and leave areas are not organized enough. Some of the containers are full and need to be changed. The place smells funny. I hear it all. Being the one in charge can be a thankless burden.

So it is that I have been looking around for another job. Not openly, of course. No sense jeopardizing my current situation. But, you know, just shaking the bushes and seeing what flies out. So I decided to update my resume. Some of my accomplishments needed a bit of creative editing, and after a few outright lies, I had a document that would make your knees wobble in anticipation.

Not surprisingly, the other day I was called in for an interview for a position at a local Ivy League university. The job was at an outfit called Center For Meteorological Studies. The title was Manager of Global Warming Data. I was psyched. Especially when I arrived for the interview, when I was greeted by the department secretary - a tall thin (not skinny) blonde with skin like alabaster and admirable ta-tas. I thought this was looking quite promising, and was thinking nice tits, when she asked if I would like some coffee.
“Nice tits,” I answered. Oops.
“Excuse me?” she asked without a sign of humanity, or appreciation for the compliment.
“I meant yes please I’d like some coffee, black, no sugar. “ She gave me a look, like I was a large pile of smelly rhino dung, and then turned to fetch the java. This would require some finesse, I mused.
After a minute, she returned with a cup of coffee and placed it in front of me. Her manner was distinctly abrupt and cool. Most women find me charming. Perhaps she is a lesbian I thought. I looked at the coffee. It could have been my imagination but it looked like a glob of spit swirling in the center.

The interviewer turned out to be a big shot professor. Richard Dick, PHD. I sniggered a bit when I heard his name. I like to ease the tenseness of the interview situation with some light badinage.
“I bet that goes over well with the ladies, eh?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, at a bar – hi I’m doctor dick, professor of probes, VP of Vaginas. I bet it gets their attention…”
I could tell by the way he was glaring at me that he was not tuned into my ice breaking humor. I deftly changed tact.
“So tell me about this Global Warming job thingee. Is the world coming to an end?”
He regarded me quizzically and looked at my resume again.
“It says here that you have a ‘Master’s in Meteor studies’, is that a typo?”
Maybe he did not appreciate alliteration.
“Well, maybe I did embellish just a tad,” I admitted,” but I have read some articles of the subject, you know in Scientific American. Those meteor showers can get heavy. Thunder and lightning, too probably.”
“You are talking about meteors – falling objects?”
“Yes. So this job is to find out why they are causing global warming, right?” I grinned knowingly.

Later on, I was back at my desk in the cobb shack at the dump, reflecting on the experience. I really did not think Dr. Dick would have made a good boss anyhow. He seemed a bit on the pretentious side. And way too serious. It turned out they wanted a weather expert. No doubt, he would hire one of those babes on the 11 O’clock news with tits like Bombay mangoes.
Fine. I didn’t need the hassle. Besides who really gives a crap about global warming? I opened the paper to the Help Wanted section.
The ideal job for me must be out there – somewhere.

Knockin on Unfriendly Doors

I was sitting at my desk in the shack we call the office reading the paper this morning. The lads were sitting around the unlit Franklin on coffee break. Although the winter had not been bitter, it had seemed overly long. This week we had not needed the heat of the stove to warm our bones. The crew still arranged their chairs in a circle around the stove - out of habit, I guess.

Bill was worrying about catching Avian Flu. He was lecturing Lardass on personal hygiene. Talk about wasted words. Lardass just smiled and nodded. He was proud of his filth and his scent.

George was squinting at the head of a pin through a large magnifying glass, that made his nose monstrously large from where I was sitting.

Lefty was scanning the obituary page of yesterdays paper, probably looking for his own name.

As I said, I was reading the paper, wondering how come we did not get more illegal immigrants looking for work here at the dump. Bush says we need them to do the jobs Americans don't want to do. We used to have a Canadian immigrant, Rasheed, who worked here last year and was paid in Canadian Dollars. We had to let him go after he was mauled by his pet Bengal Tiger. A man with one arm isn't much use around the heavy equipment.

I was formulating a plan to save costs - fire the current crew, and get some guest workers in here at coolie wages - when someone knocked softly on the office door.

"Hey, what was that?" No one ever knocked on the door. We were surprised into silence.
Another knock.
"Come in," I yelled.

A nicely dressed white man with watery blue eyes entered carrying a brown briefcase and what looked like a bible. His companion was an attractive young Asian woman.
"Good Morning, eh, gentlemen." He greeted us as he scanned the room, eyes adjusting to the light. Evangelism had come to the dump.

"Hold on just a second mister." It was Bill, standing up and addressing the couple as they stood in front of the door. "You can't come in here!"
"Is there a problem?"
"Yes there is a problem," Bill shouted, pointing back toward the rest of us with his thumb "We are all in the Jehovah Witness Protection Program. You can't come in here."

After they left, Lardass summed up what the rest of us were thinking, "Brilliant!"

Trade Fever

A frigid dawn gave way to an icy bright blue sky this morning - the second day of Spring. Tuesdays are always slow at the dump. The crew looked like big orange wraiths bundled in their thermals, hoods and parkas as they came through the door for coffee break. Seated at my desk in the cobb shack that I call my office, I had to hold the papers down against the wind that blew in through the door as the lads surged through the door.

I was looking through a folder of documents that had been faxes over from the Dump Manager over at the Newton Upper Falls Landfill. He was interested in doing a deal. He was looking for a Class A Front End Loader operator. All my guys are expert at the heavy equipment, well almost all. (Lefty had to go back for re-training after the unfortunate fork -lift incident over in the HAZMAT tank. That little mistake caused three hundred gallons of radioactive liquid Pu239 to contaminate the soil; now, no one can go into that area for another 50 thousand years.)

The NUFL dump manager had sent brief resumes and photos of some of his offered “trades.” Wendy looked to be in her mid thirties, red headed and buxom. Good credentials so far, I mused. She had one of those slightly unfocused eyes (like Reba McIntyre) that I find tantalizingly sexy. But she had only been in the dump business for a few months (“…since I got laid off as a pole dancer when they closed down the Purple Banana Club.”) Hmmn. Maybe I could use some extra skilled help in the office… But, No, this would never work out especially if George was going to stay on the team. Among his weaknesses, redheads were at the top of the list in bold uppercase letters. He would be sniffing around the office like a randy Labrador retriever. No, the only workable deal here would be to trade George for Wendy. But then I would lose his inestimable value. Part of his assignment is to calculate the estimated fill-rate of the neutrino dumpster. He had spent the last week counting junk quarks and other discarded subatomic particles. And entering the totals into His PDA. He is the only one on my staff who can do arithmetic. I needed that skillset.

The next trade candidate was Melvin. His photo looked like a police mug shot except he was grinning broadly, showing a slight jutting jaw. He looked like your typical joe six pack with a malocclusion. His resume stated a work objective as: “To be associated with a work group that shares a belief in Scientology, being nice and creating an hygienic workspace.”

Next.

Richard Wanker looked like an interesting candidate, One of his references was quoted “Dick is a real heavy hitter who can be outstanding in the right field.” Crap. I don’t need a baseball hit dog, I need people who can keep the 900 horsepower shredder-bailer from jamming-up during peak load cycles.

I tossed the folder in the trash. I might as well just stick with the dumpfucks I know.

Pecking Order

When I returned to the office this morning after a week-long vacation, I was prepared for the pile of paperwork that would be awaiting me. No one else around here does any of the heavy lifting when it comes to administrative process. None of my staff seems to have an iota of initiative, or ambition to move up the organizational ladder of responsibility here at the Recycling and Disposal Facility.

During the last week, I spent a lot of time sitting on the beach soaking up the glorious rays of the sun and watching the endless variety of birds - seagulls, terns, shrikes, pelicans, sandpipers - working the shoreline. Groups of brown and white pelicans skimmed over the water surface on the hunt for hapless fish that schooled near the surface of the clear warm water of the Gulf of Mexico.

There was a constant cooling wind off the water. Flocks of birds would gather in small groups to rest on the sands, and also keeping a sharp eye out for an morsel of food dropped by beachgoers on the sand or left unattended on a blanket. Always facing windward, the gulls would hunker together in close gangs of 10 or 15 birds. Sometimes you could see that there were as many as three distinct species in a group - but always self-segregated. Orange beaks with Orange beaks; Grey heads with Grey Heads; White heads together also.

There was a constant jockeying around for position. With some birds acting aggressively, attacking another bird with no obvious provocation. Chasing them out of their positions. Squawking furiously. Somehow, the pecking order of the group was established without a lot of actual pecking.

My thoughts returned to reality as I drove up to the shack that I call my office. I was glad to be back home. Where everyone knows your name. Where you belong. The guys would be glad to see the old DFM back on the job. Very likely, they had been wandering around aimlessly all week. They know that I am the glue that binds them together as a team. The leader and mentor that they need. The peacemaker when they get into their petty squabbles. Without me, they are like the seagulls and crows over at the landfill.

When I walked into the office, Lardass and Lefty were sitting in front of the Franklin reading the paper. Bill was eating some Chinese food out of a carton even though it was not lunch time yet. George was sitting near the window looking out with a pair of binoculars and a thumb counter.
"Hi guys" I said cheerfully, "I'm back!"
No one looked up from what they were doing. Ok I thought, the old silent treatment. I thought of my cat and how annoyed she was that I had left her alone for the week. The crew was just being petulant. Like the cat, they would warm up after a bowl of tuna fish.

I sat down at the desk. The inbox was empty except for several phone message slips. A sheaf of invoices and bills of lading were stacked neatly in the "to be filed" box. Someone had been taking initiative. Someone who was probably after my job, I mused.

Dump Temporarily Closed

The dump will not be open again until March 13th.
I am travelling to far flung dumps in the Southern part of the US, so you can just come here to click on the naked pictures link, which is what most of you do anyhow.
DFM

Too Much Salt

It was frigid at the dump this morning. The motley crew had laid down a thick layer of rock salt on the access road to provide some traction on the black ice that coated every surface. Too much salt. I made a mental note to chastise the miscreants at the morning staff meeting.

I had been holding regular meetings since the minor uprising last week to ease tensions. You may have missed it, so let me recap. It started when I announced that I was outsourcing the cardboard recycle contract to a foreign-owned company. You'd have thought I had said I was selling Rockafeller plaza to the Japs, judging from the outcry of neo-patriotic histrionics.

"Your selling out your fellow Americans," yelled Bill "You're not playing fair."
"Hey, guys - remember we are a global dump playing in the real world," I explained patiently. "Sometimes you need to consider the economics of the situation. This is not a dumpfare state."
"Next you'll be importing cheap immigrant dumpstaff." It was George with his knowing smirk. Had he been reading my email? It was true that I was considering hiring some buxom Irish illegals, but how could he know that?
"Well, none of you guys wants to work in the HAZMAT Take and Leave area. I need people to do the work that you guys wont do."

That shut them up.

The Winter Olympics are over. I was encouraged by the picture in the newspaper of the closing ceremonies. I guess it's safe to watch NBC again. What a collosal yawn it is to watch some obsessed thin person on an ego trip down an icy mountain. Like America Idol, i cannot understand why people seem to like watching these reality shows? Reality is not fun, I mused, thinking of my recent lunch with the boys.

In an effort to raise morale I had come up with the idea of going out with the lads for friendly lunches. I figured that if they could see me as an ordinary person, not just the Boss, our communications would improve. But this scheme had not worked out either.

A couple of us had agreed to go offsite to try out the new Chinese restaurant for lunch. The plan was to meet at 12:00 noon precisely. When I got there exactly on time, I was astounded to see that Bill and George were already eating.

It was like a scene from Seinfeld. Picture Kramer and Elaine arriving at the restaurant early. Kramer never wears a watch and Elaine is always early or late. They find themselves seated at a table with menus and water 10 minutes early. Instead of engaging in polite conversation while waiting for the third party (George Costanza) to arrive, they just order and begin eating. Naturally, when George arrives, he throws a tantrum. ("What. You couldn't wait a few minutes?")
Finally, he gets his meal, but he cannot hide his bruised ego. Tears well up in his eye. He makes up an excuse that he had eye surgury that very morning. Everyone knows he is a liar and a grudge hoarder. The scene is funny because the characters are rude and outrageous. It's a sitcom script not reality.

What actually happened was even more bizarre. After the "lunch" was over, I mentioned to Bill that it is customary to wait until the scheduled time for all members of a party to appear. He said that he had decided to unilaterally change the time because he needed to be somewhere else. Besides, the waiter had pulled a gun when he asked them if they were ready to order and said, "Not right now, we have a third party coming in just a few minutes."
"You order now!" he had instructed them, waving his Glock Magnum at them.
Kramer thought I was being a little shrill in my expression of annoyance, and suggested that perhaps something was wrong with me for feeling insulted.

Thinking back on it, I confess it was a bit awkward. The noon time sun was dazzling and when I came in the restaurant, I hesitated, momentarily, letting my eyes adapt to the inside light. Then seeing them there, together, sitting side by side (instead of across, like guys usually do)smiling, gabbing and gobbling up their lunch just like no one else had been expected to join them; it almost seemed as though I had intruded on a brokeback mountain moment.

I made a note for the morning staff meeting. Reassign Bill to working with Lardass on dumpster duty instead of on George's compost crew. It wasn't payback; I just needed to get control of a dicey situation.

Secret Admirer?

This morning when I arrived at the office, there was a single long-stemmed rose on my desk. The crimson blossom reminded me of a tattoo I almost got one night in Tijuana when I was in the navy. (But that is another story. )

There was no note, or card or any hint about who had placed it there. I asked everyone on the crew who had left it, but no one seemed to know where it came from.

Was it a token of affection from a secretly admiring member of the staff? A closet poofta? Unlikely.
Or maybe one of the local desparate houswives hoping for a crumb of attention?
Nah.
Why would anyone leave such a token, with no note? An overblown sense of mystery? Romance? Anonymity is not romantic, it's spooky.
A psychopathic stalker killer?

Yeah. That sounds more like it.

I tossed the unwanted vegetation into the trash bucket. I hate fucking roses.

Friendly Woundings

It was one of those frigid cold mornings after a big storm where the sun was up but giving off no heat.
Lardass came through the door accompanied by the usual aroma of stink. He was in a growling fettle. "The battery on the loader is dead as a doornail!" he steamed disgustedly as he threw his dirty orange workgloves down on the floor and stood very close to the franklin stove with his hands spead out to receive the warmth of the coals. He noticed the box of stale bagels and jammed one into his red gummed maw.

Lefty, who had been scrutinizing one of George's old crossword puzzle looking for mistakes, remarked:
"Hah, misuse of the term!"
"Ma a fah you tahin ahout?" Lardass inquired chewingly.
"Dead as a doornail. It doesn't mean dead as in 'bereft of life' or 'inoperative."
We all looked at him.
" Dead as in 'unerringly accurate' . That's where the term comes from. Meaning flush, because a doornail cannot stick out."
"Oh. Well fucking shoot me." Lardass laughed.
Sometimes Lefty could take precision in language too far sometimes. He cocked his thumb and pointed his index finger at LA's enormous gut. Mouthing the word bang.

I quietly googled the phrase Dead as a Doornail. Just once, I wanted to catch Lefty in an error. The word Dead has 21 definitions. Lefty would be technically correct if LA was using this particular simile in an incorrect sense. But no. The general agreement of the meaning of this idiom has to do with the fact that pre-industrial nails were costly, and were often re-used. The doornails were bent or crimped and could not be re-used. So the term means useless. Just like the battery on the Loader.

I was about to announce my findings, when the office door burst open. Bill came charging through the doorway, yelling, "Quick where is the first aid kit!" George was right behind him, holding a bloody bandana to his head. There were bright red bloodstains on his orange worksuit. He was obviously in pain, but said nothing.
"What happened?" I shouted as I pulled the first aid kit out of the file cabinet.
"Bill shot me." George said, dabbing his cheek.
"Accident" said Bill. "I was shooting at birds." Bill often went out to the north forty with his .28 guage looking for wild turkeys. "George got in the line of fire."
"I was shooting at a flock of those Canadian Geese that slime up the place."
"Canada Geese," corrected George.
"Who the fuck cares. Maybe I should have aimed lower."

Crap. Now I would have a ream of paperwork to do. Accident reports, insurance docs, news reporters, interviews. After we got him cleaned-up it looked like only a few pellets had broken the skin. I picked one pellet out of his cheek and another form his hand with a tweezers.
As I wound the bandage around the wound in his hand, the word Homograph popped into my head.
"Ok guys, let's keep a lid on this. OK? Hot Krispy Kremes tomorrow."
The last thing I need is more negative publicity here at the dump."

Let The Games Begin

I was at my desk reading an article about the beginning of the Winter Olympic games in Italy when the lads came in for morning coffee break. There was an article about the American luge team. The prospect of winter olympics made me want to yawn.
It was bitter cold outside and the boys arrayed themselves around the old cast iron stove that heated the shack I call the office. Bundled-up in their Dumpfucks Orange winter work suits. Matching knit hats and scarves and heavy duty thinsulate gloves, they looked like a team that you might find on the slopes of Torino. Yeh, If they had an Olympic competitive eating team.

"No donuts? What happened to the donuts?" Lardass yelled at me.
"Mornin fellas" I called cheerfully.
Bill was supposed to bring the donuts on Fridays, but he had called in sick this morning. I should have known there would be trouble.
"You guys really should not be gorging yourselves on donuts anyway," I said.
George, whose cold shoulders were aimed at me, swiveled his head to make eye contact (with the good eye). I nodded and smiled. He turned back to the stove.
Ok I thought to myself - another employee uprising. Fuck them, if they want to tangle with me, it should be amusing. Being the owner of a metaphor gives you incalculable power.
"I'm having some hot Krispy Kremes delivered," I lied.
"Well where the fuck are they?"
"They will be here momentarily," I fibbed.
Lefty who had been silent until now was unzipping his coat. "So, you are saying that the donuts will be here for a fleeting second and then will disappear?"
"Huh?"
"Never mind."

I turned back to my newspaper. Hmmn. The American Luge Team - how the fuck does Luge get to be a sport? It must be some kind of inside Joke that I am just not getting. Getting sleepy.
Sleepy.

Announcement

As the Commander and Chief of this metaphor, I feel it necessary to apologize to loyal readers for the posts by the alter Ego (Bull Goose Clooney).

Apparently, he identifies with one or more of the characters whose behavior is documented here at the RDF, and takes personal affront.

Perhaps he is ticked off by the cartoons that Lardass posted on the bulletin board, depicting Clooney with melted cheese in his moustache, dancing like Elaine of Seinfeld fame.

Maybe he should get his own blog, so he can rant about the speed of mozzarella, or how many gravitons can dance on the crown of a bowling pin. Or, he could speculate on topics like where does wind go? Are dry farts really odorless? How do you edit these damned links?

To those of you who have asked for me to erase his postings and banish him to silence need to understand something: This is an American dump not some 3rd world metaphorical trash heap. We cherish free speech as long as it is funny.

The State Of The Dump 2006

I was sitting at my desk in the small shack that we call "the office" this morning when the dumpfucks came in for first break. I glanced up at the old schoolroom clock that Lardass had fished out of a dumpster. It was half past VII O'clock.

"Well lookie who's here?" said Bill. He was being sarcastic as usual because I generally do not arrive before VIII or sometimes even IX.
Hey, I am the fucking boss. So it's no one's business - I come and go when I please. The grunts (The Dumpfucks) have to come in early (VI -sharp) and open up the gates.
That's the way I run things. If you don't like it you can take your shit somewhere else.

I gave Bill a sharp, managerial look. "I'm doing performance reviews today, Skeezix. Got any more reasons for not giving you a bonus?" I smiled my most cheshire smile. He shut up, as I knew he would. He is such a brown nosing suck-up when money is involved.

George looked at me over his granny glasses and shouted, "I've got a few reasons why Bill should not get a bonus."

"Yah, I bet you do. But, guess what? No one is asking you."
" 'Smatter? You don't want any peer performance input?"
"Sure. That's what we need here: Democratically elected bonuses. " I intoned with some dramatic nuance. "While we are at it maybe we should start asking the rank and file how much you should get for being such a pedantic, dogmatic idealogue."
"No need to be hurling redundant insults."
"Huh!"
"Nevermind."
"Come on, let's ask them!" Me all smiling and nodding.
"I said Nevermind. Ok?" George frowning and pretending to be reading his paper.

The reason he suddenly wanted to drop the subject is because he remembers a few years back when he accidentally set fire to all the cash filled bonus envelopes (which I was hiding in the stovepipe because I didn't have a safe). No one spoke to him for a month.
The irony of the topic had suddenly dawned on him.

Soon the room was filled with crewmembers - all looking for their little envelopes. Since the holocaust incident, I have not been giving cash. Now it is Kohls gift cards. (Most of the crew are over 60, so they get an additional discount.)
==
Someone recently asked me "Who still works here [at the dump]. I replied, "Hardly any of them." No, seriously, here is the roster of current staff:
ME - the DFM. Owner and Manager. Searcher for Truth.
George - resident grouch and politically incorrect conservative.
Lardass - real name = Vernon. Doing the jobs no one wants and smells like it.
Bill - germophobic but won't go anywhere without his dog. Rehired a few months ago at half pay. Currently on probation.
Lefty - Also returned to the staff after an unsuccessful attempt at becoming a professional sleep disorder test subject. (Replacement for Rajeed who was mauled by a Bengal Tiger and has gone to Paris to have an ass and elbow transplant.)
Hobart Melancholy - Intern on sabbatical leave while he researches dumps in the middle east and North Africa for his PHD.
I am interviewing for a couple of open slots, if you know anyone who is looking for a lowpaying job where you can enjoy the outdoors and not work too hard.
==
After the envelopes were distributed, there was the usual muttering about the small size of the bonus Gift Cards($25). But each one of them knew in their hearts, that any bonus - however paltry - was more than they deserved.

A million pieces of crap

last week the newspaper carried a story about the author of the best seller “A Million Little Pieces.” Purportedly a “memoir” of his life as an addict, drunk, and criminal, the author, James Frey, is currently under fire for making-up stuff about how bad he was. In reality, they assert, he was just a lazy, lying sack of crap. In his defense Frey has said he had made up many of the details of his life and had created a bad-guy portrayal of himself as a "coping mechanism."

I have not read the book, and I do not plan to. Any book that makes Oprah’s “must-read” list automatically goes into the DF-do-not-read booklist which I post weekly on the corkboard bulletin board in the Cob shack foyer. If anyone leaves one of the Oprah selections at the book exchange, Lardass has standing orders to remove same and chuck it in the dumpster where we chuck anything that smacks of sentimentality, cuteness, Francophilia or phoniness.

At the dump, we are admittedly operating at a substratum of polite - or perhaps even impolite - society. We (falsely) claim to lie, cheat and take bribes. We assert that will do most anything for money, and we admit to drinking to excess. I know what you are thinking – “We must be politicians!”

But,no: we are just ordinary, prevaricating dumpfucks. (Still, you have a point. We probably could not be distinguished from a US senator either by a Polygraph or a police line-up.)

We say we are proud of the bribes that we have taken. We insist that we have no remorse for the dead bodies that decompose silently in the dust of the north forty (most of them are roadkill; the few souls that we have dispatched to their creator certainly deserved every whack.)

I was busy working at my desk when the crew came in for morning coffee break. When I looked up from my typing, Lardass was wolfing down leftover donuts which we get from the local Dunkin Donut shop. Lardass gets them for free by telling the manager that he is taking them to the Home for Wandering Orphans to feed the hungry little waifs.
Next to him George was sitting with his feet up on the stove rim, tilting back on his chair the way I tell him not to do. He was scowling at me.
“What?” I yelled.
“You are doing it again aren’t you? Making shit up about some guys who get together at some fictitious dump and act-out your stupid little jokes.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about. I’m working on the budget.”
“See! There you go! What budget! There is no budget. There is no Cob shack. We don’t have ‘jobs’. This is not even a dump. “
“Ok, then pray tell, what do you think it is?”
“This is just a dayroom at a mental hospital.”
“And I suppose I am merely the figment of my own imagination?”

Clean-up Part III

The next day, I was back in the office. It was business as usual. I was at the desk working some new signage. Lardass was out in the landfill area. He had finished up the major bulldozing job that he'd been working on all night, and now he was keeping an eye on some Feds with a warrant who were poking around the compost area.

George was on break, reading the paper. He looked up, "Hey you know that kid who took the video? His house burned down. Tragic - the whole family was reduced to cinders. Freakin' bad luck or what?" Shaking his head in pity.

I got the feeling he suspected something. He is suspicious of everything that happens. I was tempted to give him a hint about the goings-on, but decided to let it go. George didn't need to be dragged into this thing. He has his own problems.

The truth is, the kid and his family are living safely in Tucson, Arizona. Ok, I admit that it was my doing. I had called my old friend, Harvey, who I call the "Eradicator." Harvey runs what he calls a "Witness Dislocation Service." His clients pay for the subjects to be involuntarily moved to a place where they cannot testify against the client. Harvey is very convincing. Without actually harming them, he threatens the subjects into abject silence, provides them with a new identity and poof - they disappear. (At least that's how he explained it to me.)

I went outside to post the new "No Video Photography" signs. As I arrived at the compost area one of the Feds yelled "Lucy, you've got some 'splainin' to do!"

He was grinning like a Cheshire Cat, holding up what looked like a human femur.

"Hah. That's easy. This is where we dump all the road kill." I checked the bone carefully. "Yep, this here is a moose leg."
"Ah," said the young Fed. "That makes sense." He tossed the piece of bone back on the pile.

"Hey, you guys want some coffee? You know, I got Krispy Kremes in the office." I pointed in the direction of the Cobb shack that we call the office.
"Ok " said the old Fed, "This place looks clean. False alarm I guess. Let's get out off the fuckin' cold."
They started for the office, and I waved off LA, who was hidden in a nearby grassy knoll with his sniper rifle - ready to clean-up any problems that might arise.

Heavy Equip Part II of III

The video on the TV screen was stark and shocking. An un-armed man stands beside his damaged vehicle - one of those expensive, fruity-looking jeeps that people with too much money tend to buy. The back is all pushed-in. A bulldozer blade can be seen in the background.

The un-armed man seems upset. He is gesticulating wildly and yelling at two other men. One, a good-looking management type and the other, an obese guy wearing filthy cover-alls. There is no audio, but you can tell that the driver is pretty hot about something. Suddenly, the good looking one pulls out a pistol and points it at the un-armed assho - er, citizen. But, the fucker just will not shut up. Bang. The hand-held camera jitters as if the person holding it has started to shake involuntarily at the horror and brutality of the killing. But the video continues to record the scene unblinkingly.

The two men move quickly, as if acting out their roles in a play. The fat one loads the body back into the driver's seat of the jeep. The good-looking one gets a pail of sawdust or something like it from the small shack nearby, and spreads it on the ground where the dead guy was lying. The fat one disappears for a few minutes while this is going on. When he returns he is driving a large front-end loader. He scoops up the jeep with the dead guy inside and drives off to the left off-screen. The TV goes off.
I'm blinking and rubbing my eyes when the bright lights are turned on.
"So," says the detective, "What do you think about that little piece of footage?" He is looking at me like a snake, unblinking eyes focused intently, but he had a big toothy grin on his face.

I took a minute to compose my thoughts."Interesting. But, a bit amateurish, jiggley, no audio…."
"Yeah, high school kid, doing a video project about recycling at the dump. He took the video." He explained.
"What's this gonna cost me?" I asked.
"A lot." He smiled.

It seemed that someone important had some material that needed to go into a landfill. Several thousand fifty gallon drums of waterproofing agent that is supposed to be used to reinforce tunnel membranes when the tunnel is under a saltwater aquifer.

The detective - who happens to be a good friend of mine - has a brother-in-law who was in charge of the Big Dig tunnel work. Apparently, his Microsoft Project spreadsheet had mysteriously deleted the task that said "Pump water-proofing agent around tunnel membrane before filling in the ditch." The newspapers were full of Big Dig tunnel leaks. There were scandals in the wind and fingers were pointing wildly.

The long and short of it: Evidence needed to be lost. I was in an agreeable mood. I made a few calls and about the time it took to say "Hey Lardass, want to make a few extra bucks" the wheels were in motion to make the brother-in-law's problem go away.

Later, we shook hands and he handed over the video.
"It's the only copy." He assured me.

Heavy Equipment

===Another Favorite Recycled from November 2004===
We had the 5 ton plows out this morning laying down another layer of salt and sand to cover the black ice that had formed overnight. Can't have the citizens risking their precious lives, slipping and sliding as they come with their once treasured items to toss into the huge collective dustbin that we call the Recycling and Dosposal Facility, but which most people call "the dump".

I guess it is human nature to use high falootin terms when our identities are involved. No one wants to be called a dumpfuck, garbageman, or even trashdude. Even Lardass, who justifiably has few pretensions, seems to feel an odd sense of empowerment in his title of Disposal Specialist III.

As the Manager (DFM) I have tried to encourage an esprit de corps among the men and women who work here. Well, there used to be women, before the guidlines on sexual harrassment made normal co-ed workplace fooling-around into a crime. I think it is important for the workers to have a high level of self esteem. This engenders a sense of quality and teamwork in them that you don't find in the normal white collar office job.

Most office drones spend their days in small cubicles, sitting in front of a heartless computer screen. Heavy equipment to these geeks is trying to clear a jam in the copier. Figuring out how the fax machine works. Getting their personal data off the printer before the boss sees how they have wasted company time. Or, maybe they array themselves around the stuffy conference room table thinking about their nagging rectal itch while the Ego-in-charge holds court with his tedious Powerpoint slide show. If they are sitting next to an attractive young woman, they sneak glances at her tits. They hear the sound of cloth on nylon as she crosses her long slim legs. They start fantasizing about the soft supple tits, the legs, the thighs, the...well, you get the idea: meetings can be a bore and a distraction at the same time.

At the dump, we don't have any conference rooms. Although we have hundreds of copiers, fax machines and printers, none of them work. The only females in our workspace are the desparate housewives who live in the community, and of course the stripper-hookers who we call-in from time to time for stag parties and birthdays.

I give the guys a lot of latitude in the performance of their day to day jobs. I do not believe in micromanaging. I expect a high degree of personal accountability and pride in one's work. Heck, if you cannot trust the guy running a 12 ton front end loader to know what he is doing, you have big problems.

So it was that I was sitting at my desk in the cobb house this morning, musing on the nature of work, the benefits of instilling a sense of personal accountability in the Team and the goal of Total Quality, when I heard a terrific crash outside. I jumped up and rushed outside.

Lardass was standing next to his bulldozer which had rammed a citizen's brand new Hummer from behind. The Hummer had lost in the exchange, and looked like a metal turtle with a hunched back. The driver - a nerdy looking geek dressed in office casual - was waving his arms wound frantically and shouting obscenities at poor LA."This fucking car cost me $70,000! What are you gonna do about this - you asshole dumpfuck bastards!"

I looked around the lot. There were no other customers in the area. I had to move quickly.
"Sir, I know you are upset, but why don't you come with me and we can settle this, er accident, without calling names."
"Look. Do you know who I am?"
I had to admit that I did not recognize him."Sir, I see that you do not have a dump sticker. Please come with me." I was firm.
"No! I want this this creature fired and , and..."
He stopped mid-sentence when I pulled out my Walther P-32 pistol and aimed it at his forehead. Then he started in again, "What the fuck is that thing for? Rats? What are you gonna do, shoot me?"
"Yes." I pulled the trigger. He was dead as a doornail when he hit the pavement. "Come on, LA get him back into the Hummer and get this thing over to the crusher ASAP." Lardass was already moving. After years of teamwork, we had this drill down fairly smoothly. As I spread absorbant over the pool of blood on the pavement, I vaguely wondered about the origin of the expression "dead as a doornail." Another mystery to add to my collection.

Later, Lardass came into the office for coffee break. I was doing the next quarter's fiscal budget on the PC.
"Everything taken care of?" I inquired.
"Yep. Problem e-fucking-radicated." He smiled with the pride of a job well done.
"Good. You deserve an extra donut today. Help yourself. " I nodded to the table where I had laid out a half dozen Krispy Kremes. Some days, a manager can't find enough ways to say thanks.

Epiphany

Like a lot of radio talk show hosts, we have decided to take this time of year to "re-run" some gems from the past.

Over the holidays, I got a lot of feedback from our only known fan, Terry. He said that he liked the old format better - when the blog contained little stories about the infamous Dumpfuck crew and their hi jinks. Well, you decide: should we go back to the old format or do you want to read Cloony's Neocon rantings?

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Moose? What Moose?

The Local animal control officer Ginny Wilkins and two SPCA "Cops" were waiting for me as I arrived to open the gate at 6am. They were standing in front of a white box truck that was blocking the gate.
"What's up?" I greeted them, rolling down the window of the van. I could tell that something was up, because they were all looking nervous, hoping no one else arrived before they could get inside.
"Ah, we have an item that needs disposal," said the tall blak dude with a goatee. He was wearing sunglasses even though the sky was still grey with morning mist.
"Item?" I asked looking at the unmarked truck. "What sort of item?"
The ACO, Ginny, and I were well-acquainted. She held her hand out to me. "Just give me the keys to this padlock and stop fucking around, will you?. We got a situation here."
"Situation?" I was starting to sound like and echo. "What sort of..." But I was interrupted by the fat guy, who (I shit you not) had pulled-out what looked like a Glock pistal and aimed it at my face.
"Give her the keys, you piece of shit! Before I bust a cap in your ass!" he squeeked.

I've had a lot of guns aimed at me over the years, and I could see that the "gun" was a just a toy made of plastic painted to look like metal. The barrel opening was plugged with an orange plastic cork. I started to snicker. "Hey please don't Shoot me, fat boy. I'm opening the gate!" I yelled in mock fear, getting out of the van.

"Jiles, cut the shit. Put the fucking cap gun away." said the black dude to the fat guy. Jiles returned the toy to his belt. Then, looking at me the black dude says, "Look we need to get in and, ah, dispose of something, and we'd rather not see it made public. Know what I mean?" He was teasing what looked like a Franklin out of his jacket pocket. Ginny was nodding.

Suddenly, I knew what was up. The TV news at eleven last night had an item about a young female moose that had been roaming around the suburbs. Finally, the authorities had tranquilized the moose and taken her to New Hampshire for release in a safe environment.

"This would be the "released" moose," I said jerking my thimb toward the box truck.
"Yeah, said Ginny, "I used an elephant dart by mistake. My bad."
"We need a big hole and fast," she said, calmer now.

"It would be quite an embarrassment if the public found out..."
Said the black dude waving the Franklin like a flag. They chuckled nervously, as I took the Franklin and stashed it in my shirt pocket.
"No Problem," I said and unlocked the gate.

(This was a rerun from July 2004, no calls please)