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.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
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?
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.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
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."
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."
Friday, February 10, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Monday, February 06, 2006
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.
"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.
