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?”
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
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?
=========================
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)
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?
=========================
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)
