It Takes a Village

Hillary Clinton wrote the book entitled “It takes a Village.” Like the majority of people who feel free to comment on its contents I did not read it, nor do I plan to. But, according to consensus, it is apparently a blueprint for global socialism. Guys like Clooney go ballistic when you use words like 'global' (unless you are talking about tits) because they think you are trying to level the playing field by syphoning their gas tank. Yet, when the so-called welfare handouts (like the recent cost-of-living increases in social security payments) and free cheese programs are being extended to them, you don't hear a peep. This is just one of the wonderful and amazing connections (and blockings) that the intelligent human brain devises in order to justify a strongly-held belief.
But elitist political leanings are a topic for another day. We need to stay on point.

My topic today is "The Origins of Community Based Recycling Efforts and Global Warming"

Anyone who is interested in this topic should definitely not read Hillary's book. Frankly, while Clooney asserts that she has an intimate knowledge of "white trash", in fact, she knows very little about landfills and recycling.

Better you should read The recent article published by the MIT Environmental Programs Task Force entitled, "MIT thinks Globally, acts Locally to combat Global Warming." They say, "While skeptics still exist, a consensus around climate change issues continues to grow."

Cloony shouts, "Bah! MIT - what do those numbnuts know about science? Read my Blogs if you want the Truth!"

I say, Show me a gathering of humans - however small - where they did not leave a pile of trash behind. Dum dum dum de dum - I'm waiting.... Hah! See, you cannot!
So, let me now reveal the most exciting news item of the day. I, your esteemed DFM am writing my memoir entitled: "It Takes a Village to Make a Dump."

Here is an exciting excerpt:
"Once primitive man invented the campfire, the idea spread like wildfire (or was it the plague?) Coming home from a night of tacking, killing and dragging-home the family dinner, it just seemed natural to sit around singing and drinking beer, making popcorn and toasting marshmallows. Having warm and crackling fire became a popular fad for migrating herds of humans and eventually someone thought to bring the fire into the cave. This caught-on because it appealed to the innate human desire to spend time looking at something. Humans, unlike most competitive social species, seemed to have a need to gather in groups to form an audience. "

And in the chapter titled "The Search for Paradise"
"The convergence of on-demand warmth plus something to look at gave momentum for the indoor outhouse (or as some people refer to it – the library). When you combine having a warm place in which to relax during the morning squat, together with comfortable shoes and a warm blooded mammal willing to have sex with you - and you have right there pretty much described “heaven” for most of the human species."

The fact that people gathering into audiences created the need for Theater. In the old days people went to the Bijou or the Paramount to sit enthralled while Betty Davis or Frankenstein charmed or horrified the villagers. Come to think of it, In the end she rather resembled him didn’t she? But that is another story.



The innate desire to watch others doing things (playing sports, having sex, answering questions for prizes, even eating) is probably rooted in the DNA strand that allows humans to enjoy vicarious pleasures. Research has shown that ants and other social creatures do not have devices for viewing images or listening to noise. Yet, visit any ant hill and you will see that it is actually a dump.

OK, sometimes the strands of thought are like threads in a broken loom. Tying it all together takes patience and dexterity. You be Patience and I'll be Dexter. .... Oops I just notice from the old schoolhouse clock on the wall that it is III (yawn)- past the time for the DFM's nap.

Stay tuned for Next time when I describe my bold new idea for a New Reality Show - The Amazing Global Village Dump Race.

The Strike has Ended

I am pleased to announce that the writers strike here at the dump has finally ended. The DFM and his staff of writers were successful in wresting a fraction of the revenues from Internet sales of their work. The management and staff thank you for your loyalty and patience during these trying times. Even though they concede that most of you come here mainly because of the Naked Pictures link.

Tis the Season (Rewind)

I was looking through my desk drawer this morning, searching for stamps. And I found this old piece that was dictated to me in a dream. 1) I think it is appropriate for the season and 2) The DFM has been too busy lately to record his activities. So, no hate mail please.

How to write a Christmas Letter

The Christmas letter is a modern American tradition. It is the annual celebration of your family - mainly to assure others that you are NOT dysfunctional. Here are my tried and true secrets of a successful Christmas Letter:

While composing your Holiday Opus, remember chief objective is to make other people wish they were you. The problem is you are not Julia Roberts or Brad Pitt, so you will have to pretend that your existence is worthy of envy. Just remember how flawed your friends and relatives are. That makes the task much easier.

Rule number one. Talk about your kids as if they were the most attractive and accomplished over-achievers one could hope for. During the holiday season, one must put away the feelings of disappointment and pain that your kids have caused you. A good approach is to avoid using the words prison, and alleged rapist - even though they may have been convicted of a felony - you should refer to any incarceration like this: "Junior is Traveling in Mexico. We get letters all the time regaling us with his exploits." (omit the part about him being raped in the shower by a tough lifer who refers to junior as "his bitch.")

2 . Do not reveal any feelings about the meaningless of your real existence. People would love to think that you are doing worse than they are, but they do not want to hear about your financial difficulties or your nagging rectal itch. It is ok to mention fear of upcoming recession, but do not reveal that you have applied for a job bagging groceries at the local supermarket so you can qualify for health benefits. If you do mention your hourly job, disguise it as "Volunteer work to share some of the blessings which we - the Cratchet Family - have enjoyed."

3. Admiration for your spouse's hobbies. No doubt your mate has a really stupid hobby, but that is not what people want to know. You need to extol the fact that Biff is the anchor for the plant bowling team. You can omit that Biff's main interest is drinking beer with the gang from work, and that he often comes home very late after the game not wearing underwear and smelling of vomit.
If the missus is taking a Tai Chi course, describe her graceful posture and calm demeanor, rather than observing that “her ass is still bigger than Nebraska.”

4. Mention any family Illnesses - or god forbid, deaths - briefly and move on. Cancer and other lingering illnesses are a tremendous "downer" especially at this time of year. None of your readers wants to know the gory details of their suffering - or your heroic devotion during the last days. "Dad succumbed after a valiant fight against his disease last summer." Is sufficient. Nobody wants to hear: "We lost Tiny Tim after his agonizing battle against gangrene. The last days were full of blood and screaming but we managed - because we Crachets don't give up. Even if it means schlepping pails of stinking black bodily fluids from the deathbed to the outhouse"

5. If you traveled during the year, this is the moment to wax creatively. Everyone is jealous of other people who travel. Remember, your job is to make them wish they were you. Rave about the charming canals and the romantic gondola rides. Don't admit that you were robbed in Venice and spent most of the trip sitting in the damp American Express office. Certainly you should not mention that your late summer Key West mini-vacation was ruined by forced evacuation because of Hurricane Wendy. Instead, declare that you "decided to explore the northern regions of the state." And don't forget to stress how wonderfully everyone treated you.
This is a monologue. You can say anything you want. Forget about the endless waiting in lines, rip-offs and assorted discomfort of your travels. The American myth is that travel is fun, and anyone who complains should just stay home in Shit's Creek where they belong. Tell your readers that you danced and partied everywhere you went and that all the natives thought you were marvelous fun.

6. Pet anecdotes are a staple of holiday greetings. Your readers will literally be on the edge of their chairs marveling at Fluffy's adorable exploits. If you have a dog, pretend that he or she is not just a big crotch-sniffing annoyance and has a habit of drooling of the hors d'ourves tray. Don't mention that you usually feed your pets at the table as many of your potential guests may find this practice revolting, and will not wish they were you even for a moment.

7.. Do not get anyone –especially your spouse - to proofread your letter, it might constrain your creativity.

Hardly Working

When I arrived at work this morning, I paused outside the FEMA trailer that I call my office to enjoy the ambiance of September in New England. It was a fine autumn day The air was crisp and the sky was bright blue. The morning sun cast a glow on the wisps of steam rising from north forty compost pile. I thought of a huge golden volcano about to explode.

Reluctantly, I went inside. The usual crew was already there. Lardass, in his filthy orange work suit, sat in the recycled folding chair drinking from a large Dunkin Donuts coffee cup. He was animatedly arguing with Clooney, who had, as usual, bogarted the lazy-boy recliner so he could sit back with his feet up[1].

Clooney, who has recovered from his recent medical crisis, had reverted to dressing in his former dump-chic outfit: Faded navy blue tee shirt, olive work shorts, black socks and decrepit brown dock shoes.

Achmed, the new guy, was reading the paper, seated on the teak bench that he had salvaged from the take-and-leave section.[2] I couldn't’t help noticing that his outfit – recently laundered blue Levi’s jeans and denim shirt and Rockport work boots made the others look, well, shabby. He had a good haircut, too. Some of the other guys look like their wives cut their hair with pinking shears.

“Hey guys,” I said, giving it my best cheerful and friendly tone. Counting heads, I looked around. “Where’s Bill?”

Achmed was the only one who responded. “Ah Good morning, Boss. Can I get you a coffee?”
I nodded paternally. I was beginning to like this kid.

Clooney finally acknowledged my presence. As he usually does, he squinted over his black framed granny glasses, glanced toward the wall clock, then back to me, “Well, well, good afternoon. Glad you could make it.“

I just gave him the I-happen-to-be-the-boss-and-I-don’t-give-a-fuck-what-you-think look.

“Where’s Bill?” I repeated.
“Bill Who?” Lardass said instead of good morning, boss.


Achmed came back with my coffee. “Ah, here you go, Boss. Um, Bill called-in a while ago. “
“Oh, he’s out sick again?” I was getting tired of his frequent absences.
“No, not exactly.”
“Well, is he coming in or not?” Exasperation was shoving its nose into the tent of my composure.
“He called to see if anyone else had a cold or anything. He didn’t want to come in if anyone else was sick. He was waiting to make sure you were feeling ok.”

“Yes I’m fine,” I yelled, “Call him and get him in here right away!”
He punched in Bill’s number and related the message. Bill said something and Achmed told him to wait a sec. He held out the phone to me.
“Boss, he says he can’t go anywhere without his new puppy.”
-------------------------------------------


[1] I have on several occasions reminded Clooney that in some Eastern cultures, it is an insult to force another person to look at the soles of your shoes. He invariably gives me the annoyed look that he usually reserved for the parents of noisy kids in restaurants. If he is invited to your house for dinner and you do not let him put his feet up on your coffee table, he will leave right after desert.

[2]. Achmed has a finely wrought sense of humor. He has a distinct middle eastern appearance and has a fake suicide vest that he wears to costume parties and sometimes to scare people. As he was dragging the bench onto the dolly, he was accosted by two burly residents who thought they had seen the bench first. He opened his jacket so they could see the fake sticks of TNT and the wires. “Shall we let Allah settle it?” he asked in his best crazy Arab accent. The two jumped into their Lexus SUV and peeled-out.

The New Guy

I was sitting at my desk in the FEMA trailer that I call my office when Clooney came in the door. I was reading the death notices in the local paper. I noticed that a lot of them tell you to send a donation to some research or religious outfit in lieu of flowers. If I was a florist, I'd be annoyed.


I started composing the last few lines of my own obituary:
"....The DFM hopes all his grieving friends and relatives will remember how much he loved flowers. Now that he is dead, there is no point in sending any more money to the incompetent researchers who couldn't find a cure in time to save him. So, in lieu of wasted contributions, he requests big expensive bouquets of brightly colored, fragrant flowers."


When Clooney came through the door I glanced up to see who it was coming in too late for morning report but too early for morning break. He looked like hell. He was pale and was limping like he always does when his 'rhoids are acting-up. He was carrying a small container or something under his coat. It was late summer and 85 degrees WTF was he wearing a coat for?


"Where the fuck have you been?" I yelled, referring to the past three weeks.


He gave me one of his raised eyebrow looks that is usually reserved for meddlesome strangers. He selected one of the chairs in the break area across the room, but facing my desk. He took his time answering. Always the thespian, he let my question dangle in the wind for a bit, picked up a magazine, rattled it open in front of him, scanned it momentarily and intoned, "I was in the hospital. Being operated on. I couldn't work. You need a note from my doctor?"


"You look like hell." I said. I was trying to show that I believed him and we would not be needing a doctors excuse. Then I thought, crap! What if he had been having plastic surgery? No one needs to hear that they looked worse after the chin tuck or whatever. Hmn, his ears did look smaller. Maybe it was my imagination.


"What's with the coat? It's fucking 90 degrees out!" I said to change the subject. He grinned; it was what he had been waiting for. He held open the coat to reveal a quart size plastic bag attached tothe inside of the coat. There was a small tube that went from the bag through a small slit his pants. There was about pint of yellowish fluid in the bag.


"That's not what I think it is, right?"

"Oh, yes. It is indeed."

I sighed. I was trying to think of a nice way to tell him that his job had been taken by an undocumented citizen - on the grounds of job abandonment - he had not called in sick nor had he made any attempt to keep me informed.

Just then the new guy, Achmed, came in for morning break.

"Hey boss, it's hotter than Kabul out there." He strode over to the fridge and got himself a frosty Sierra Nevada, eyeing Clooney. He popped the bottle cap with his thumb, took a long swig and sat down a few chairs from Clooney.

"Hey dude," he said. "What's with the coat?"

The Twenty Dollar Rule

We had a bit of trouble the other day over at the Human Organ take-and-leave area. We are very strict about checking dump stickers to ensure that only town residents are allowed to wander the bins containing various body parts - amputated limbs, kidneys, meniscus, and internal organs (which Clooney refers to as the "sweetmeats.")

Anyhow, as I've noted in past entries, we get a lot of non-residents trying to gain access to this area looking for the "right" tissue for an experiment or other recycling project. The drug companies are always looking for healthy organs that they can use to substitute for the ones that were actually exposed to the new drug being tested. And I hate to think about what the chef from the Cannibal Club does with his "treasures."

So we were just being vigilant the other day when I had to kick out some guy who had no resident sticker on his white Jeep. It turned out He lived in a bordering town and had snuck into the area looking for a liver for his 8 year old daughter, who was dying.

"Hey, I'm sorry," I lied. "But, if I let you in I have to let in every parent of every dying kid... Rules are rules, and I just have to draw the line."
"I have money."
"Its not a question of money," I lied.
(This is usually the point in the discussion when the supplicant shows me a crisp twenty or fifty dollar bill, which I reluctantly stash in my shirt pocket and then look the other way for a few minutes.) But this guy just turns his jeep around and drives off, growling, "I'll be baack!"

The next day, to my surprise, the guy drives up to the trailer, honking the horn and hollering for me.

"Ok, I'm a resident now. See!" He thrusts a deed of ownership paper for me to see. I looked it over carefully. It seemed in order. Something about the address of the property was familiar. But now he was a legal resident, so I let him have access to the organ area. He found a fairly decent pig liver and went around high fiving the other residents before placing the organ in a cooler full of ice on the passengers seat. Then he drove off - giving me a middle-finger salute as he passed the FEMA Trailer.

I went inside. Lardass was sitting in the break area smoking a cigar and counting a wad of cash.

"Where'd you get the money?" I asked.
"Some guy. He said he needed a house."
"You sold your house?"
"Yah. He offered to buy it for twice what it was worth."

I went to my desk to work, but it bothered me that the guy had made it personal. I was just doing my job, enforcing the rules. They guy could have slipped me a $20 and he would have been in like Flynn. But no. In his rage and passion over a dying child, he had decided that he would show me who was in charge. The f*cker. The more I thought about it, the more aggravated I became. If this guy could go around buying up employee houses just to gain access to resident areas, where would it stop? Maybe he would start cheating on his taxes, or start posing as a senior in order to get the 5% discount on coffee at Mickee Dees... Where it would end is anyone's guess.

I got into my unmarked RDF Escalade and drove around, looking for the white Jeep. There is a pub not too far down the road, and sure enough, the white Jeep was parked there. I parked my SUV around back and entered the pub through the rear door. No one noticed me.

I could see the guy at the bar; he had an empty glass in front of him and was ordering another double scotch. One of the hookers was just coming out of the ladies room. I gave her a tenspot to "keep the guy at the bar busy" for 15 minutes. She did not ask why. She took the proffered ten with two fingers and stuffed it into her cleavage and nodded to me with a slight smile that said see you later.

I went outside and found the white Jeep with the cooler sitting on the passenger side in the hot sun. A slight odor of putrefaction was coming from the cooler. I am not sure what mischief I had in mind, my sullen rage had dulled my thought process and I was operating on unconscious reflexes as I opened the cooler.

"Hey you! Get away from there!" I turned around. It was the Jeep guy coming toward me looking bigger than I had remembered. He grabbed me roughly by the arm like a cop would and pinned me face down over the hood of the jeep, just long enough to show me that he was a lot stronger than I was. I could see the hooker standing in the doorway of the pub, watching.

"Um. I was just..." I had no idea what to say next.

"Yeah, I think you were up to no good." Then he let me up and called me a few unpleasant names. Then he looked at his watch, and said, "You're lucky. I"m in a hurry right now. We can finish this later." Then he looked toward the hooker who was still standing in the pub doorway.

"Thanks Doris," He said. "Let me know if this creep gives you any trouble."

After the white Jeep roared away, I turned to Doris with a quizzical look. She gave me that slight mysterious smile and said, "He gave me twenty to watch the Jeep."

Visitation part 3

So here I was, sitting in the FEMA trailer that I call my office with the Queen of England drinking beer. She wants me to dispose of some embarrassing evidence: Bodies of uncooperative interrogatees.

I’m thinking, you can’t make this stuff up, it’s so weird.

I have no problem with the disposal request: after all, this is my job – I don’t let thoughts of morality or justice cloud my thinking. Something needs to be transitioned into another state of matter. I am like the wind: I just do what I am supposed to do. Like the scorpion, whose nature it is to sting, It is my nature bury things that need to be out-of-sight.

Mrs. Windsor, as she called herself, was on her third beer, when the door to the trailer opened. One of her bodyguards stuck his head in the opening.

“Sorry Mrs. W, I got some guys out here say they work here,” he pointed with his thumb. “Want us to keep them out here till you're done?”

“Oh dear, no, no, no. I want to meet them.” She took a last pull on her beer and swish-shotted the empty into the waste can.

“Hey!” I yelled. “We recycle those!” I pointed to the blue recycle bin, clearly labeled “Bottles and Cans.”

“Oops, sorry dude, “ she gave me a brief little smile to acknowledge the validity of my reproof. Then she went to the waste can retrieved the empty bottle and placed it ceremoniously in the blue bin as she let out a fair and regal belch.. She’s tipsy, I thought to myself.

As usual, Clooney was first in the door. “What the f*ck’s going on here?” he demanded, “Limo’s, body guards, they searched me, and, took my gun. “ He was scowling at the bodyguard. The guard shrugged. “Don’t worry mate, you’ll get it back.”

The queen approached to greet him, “And this must be Vernon – the one you call Lardass (hee hee) in the blog. I’m so pleased to meet you.”

“No this is Clooney.” I smiled at Clooney’s annoyance about the identity mixup.

“Clooney, meet the queen.”

Being from New York, Clooney takes nothing at face value. He looked her over with the eye of a skeptic. “I’m not sure what is going on here,” he said to me, “but it feels like some type of Bill-inspired practical joke..”

Bill was now entering the office looking considerably less annoyed. (Bill once confided to me that he loves being searched by strangers. He often goes to the airport with a silver quarter secreted in his ass crack, just so he will set off the metal detector. Thus, he is inevitably subjected to a more 'personal' inspection.....But I digress.)

Bill looked at the queen, and then the empties in the recycle bin. “You guys are drinking beer! No one told me about the party,” he said with overtones of whine.

“No, Clooney it’s not a joke. It’s the real deal.” I smiled at him with Cheshire undertones.

“She has a job for us.” I explained the salient features of the deal.

“How do you know it’s the real queen? Did you check her ID?” he eyed her suspiciously. “She could be one of those celebrity look-a-likes you know.”

She was amused.. "Allow me to settle the issue. " She had her cell phone in her hand and pressed a button. “Rodney, would you be so kind as to bring our credentials into the trailer?” Then she clicked off, and spoke to Clooney. “I believe that this will convince you of our authenticity.”

As I pondered whether she was she was employing the royal “our” – my reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a tall man, whom I assumed to be Rodney, carrying a bulky lawyer's briefcase.

“Over there..” she pointed to the reclaimed dining room table at the far end of the room that holds the coffee machine. Rodney went to the table and dumped the contents – packets of crisp greenback $100 notes – in a large pile in the center of the table.

No one spoke for a while. Then one by one, each of the dumpf*cks took turns going to the table, fanning the stacks of bills and nodding that the currency was real.

When it was his turn, Clooney turned sharply to face the queen, Clicked his heels like a Prussian military officer and bowed from the waist. “Your majesty.” He acknowledged.

================================================

The Visitation

Several days ago, I received a phone call on the office line from a guy with a noble English accent, telling me that he was calling to arrange a visit by Her Majesty, the Queen of England. As he explained it, her Royal Highness had been surfing the net and had found my blog. She was interested to see the place for herself and to meet the DFM. Would I be so kind as to entertain a non-state visit on Friday? Oh, and could we keep this among our selves – no media, please? She would be traveling under the name “Mrs. Windsor.”

“Sure. Come by anytime between 8am to 4:30pm. I’m usually in the FEMA trailer.”

As I put the phone back in it's cradle, I was convinced someone was playing a joke on me. thought, “F*cking Bill and his st*pid pranks!” And promptly forgot about it.

It was not until Rajid buzzed me on the squawk box that it occurred to me that maybe it had not been one of Bill’s stupid pranks. The Queen and her entourage were at the gate, being detained by the new intern who was checking for valid dump stickers.

I shouted into the intercom, “It’s OK Raj, let them in.”

The crew, as usual was sitting around the break area. Lardass was eating the last of the day-old donuts and like a Labrador retriever was blissfully licking jelly off his filthy paw.

Bill, who had actually shown up for work today was dressed in his huntsman garb, which he often wore when working at the saddle and bridle recycle area.  Bill, ever the equestrian, was earnestly trying to persuade an uninterested Clooney that they should use Llamas instead of horses to make Glue. Clooney who was working on the daily crossword pretended to be half listening. Every few minutes he would look up and say, “Really?”

I need to get them out of the trailer fast. “Hey Dumpf*cks” I shouted to get their attention. “I need a volunteer…”

Within thirty seconds the room was cleared and I was sitting alone at my desk, awaiting my distinguished visitor’s arrival. Shortly I heard the opening and closing of car doors and a firm knock knock knock on the door of the trailer.

Ordinarily I would have shouted “It’s open.” But I felt like I should be more mannerly, so I got up and went to the door. I opened it to see a big secret service type, grim of face and wide eyes. He brushed past me to check out the room and yelled “OK” back to the limo.
A guy in a black suit and wearing dark sunglasses who was standing protectively by the door of the limo, opened the car door. A likeness of Helen Mirren - the British actress - emerged, wearing a head scarf and brand new blue jeans. She had a broad grin as she looked around, apparently satisfied that the surroundings were just as she expected.

“Mister DFM, I presume.” She held out her hand. I don’t hold much with bowing to royals or politicians, so I just grabbed her hand and shook it vigorously. Her bodyguard, clearly uneasy with this level of personal contact with his charge, put his hand on my shoulder, about to push me away.
“It’s OK Henry,” she said to him without breaking eye contact with me, still broadcasting that practiced queenly smile, “…when in Rome…don't you know.” He withdrew his protective hand.

I wasn’t sure how to address her. I certainly was not going to go around calling her your majesty.

“Welcome to the dump, Mrs. Windsor. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” I can trot out a few affectations of my own when needed. I bade her sit in the best guest chair and offered a cup of tea.

“Do you have any - beer?” She whispered the word beer.

“I went to the cooler and got a couple of Sierra Nevada's.” You guys can help yourselves, I said to the body guards. They nodded but made no other movement. On duty, I figured.

As we swigged our beers from the bottle (Mrs. Windsor declined my offer of a chilled glass from the freezer) she revealed the purpose of her secret visit.

“Tony requested that I help him out on a bit of bother. It seems we have some need of a recycle expert who has demonstrated a high degree of discretion.”

Tony? Soprano? Jesus I thought, This is getting weird.

She gave me that regal smile again, and pointed the top of her bottle at me to ensure that there was no doubt about whom we she was speaking when she used the term ‘recycle expert.’

“It seems that we have some…well – may I be frank?” She assumed a conspiratorial demeanor, scooting her chair closer and speaking in a whisper, as if she did not want the bodyguards to hear.

“By all means.” I suppressed the old retort – you be Frank and I’ll be Earnest -- and nodded.

“ Well, it seems we (and I am referring to the collective pronoun, not the regal usage) have some … bodies…human remains, you know…that need to be …well, they need to just disappear, if you gather my meaning. Tony – our outgoing PM – would really like to tidy things up before he retires. I thought perhaps you might be able to help us. Mums the word, of course.”

I nodded again. “Of course. My staff is completely reliable when it comes to keeping secrets - especially when there is significant cash involved." I hesitated for a moment to make sure the seedling of the bribe-money idea was sufficiently rooted. She nodded her understanding, and I continued. "We have just the place. North Forty.” I pointed proudly to the framed photo on the wall of the enormous compost mountain that we called the ‘north forty’
“The bones of many unfortunate lost souls and more than a few road-killed moose are there interred,” I intoned gravely. “Er, how many ‘items’ do you have?”

“Oh, I am not sure. From Tony’s info I would guess several hundred. He calls them ‘the results of zealous interror-gation.’ Get it? In-Terror-gation?” She chuckled.

“So let me get this straight. You have a couple of hundred bodies that need to be buried, without anyone knowing anything.”

She burped the word “Correct, ” and gave me a Mona Lisa smile. I was duly impressed.

Dump Vultures

When I arrived at the FEMA trailer that I use for my office this morning, Lardass was sitting at my desk, doing something with the PC. I was annoyed, but he was oblivious. I demanded to know what his smelly ass was doing in MY chair.
"I'm Fixing your cache, he grinned, showing his red gums.

Since he started reading the "Degunking Windows" book, Lardass has been fooling around with my PC. He claims he has deleted half a dozen unused programs, thousands of temp files, cookies, and images of websites that Windows doesn’t know how to get rid of. He claims that just putting files into the trash icon does not actually get rid of them. “It’s sort of like moving unwanted items from your living room to your garage,” he notes. “You don’t gain any space.”

But my attention was already drifting to the closed circuit security screens that monitored the various place in the dump. No sign of dump vultures today. The new policy was working, I smiled to myself.

We call them “dump vultures”, because they hang around the take-and-leave-areas like birds of prey, ready to pounce on anyone who is dropping off good stuff. They load the treasures into their cars or trucks, probably to re-sell them at yard sales or on e-bay. We are an affluent town and the quality and condition of our citizenry's refuse is better than some of the new stuff that you can buy at Walmart.

Normal citizens have bitterly complained that these “scavengers” were scooping-up all the best treasures. So I decided to institute (and enforce) new policies about who gets in, and how long they can hang around. We experimented, using volunteer staff to enforce stickers inspection and hanging-around time. We recruited students, bored housewives, disbarred lawyers, recently released inmates, and retired people to work the take and leave areas. The Volunteer Corps did not work out as hoped.  Residents started complaining again because now the volunteers were grabbing all the best stuff, taking bribes and letting their friends and relatives hang around for hours. Corruption is the handmaiden of power. The dump is no exception.

I fired all the volunteers, and revoked their RDF stickers.  I got Lardass to tweak a few of the robots in the Artificial Assistant recycle area.  Lardass may be a complete slob, but he has a Mensa card in his wallet.  He restored several robots to working condition.  They were programmed to scan the faces of all citizens entering an area and keep track of when they arrived and when they left.  Anyone who overstayed the time limit got chastised and warned by the robots who were equipped with paintball guns.   I also placed a large and visible Tip Jar in each recycle spot with a sign that read "Appreciate your RDF employee!"  This was genius on my part.   

Ever since we opened the organ transplant take-and-leave area, we started getting a lot more foreign traffic. By “foreign” I mean anyone who is not a resident of the town. The reusable Kidney area is particularly popular, but hearts and livers are also in demand by sub-prime medical facilities, and amputated limbs seem to be prized by local would-be Dr. Frankensteins.

75% of the dump is now devoted to some sort of recycling activity. Thanks to prescient leadership and a firm control of the budget by yours truly, the vision of a dump as a transition station rather than a landfill is becoming realized. We are a model for other DFM’s to emulate. Oh, I try to be modest, but it is hard when the dump you created and staffed is world famous. Not surprisingly, we often get visitors from far-flung places like Japan, Albania, New Jersey. They come dressed like tourists, taking pictures and interviewing the staff for insights. I notice many of our mid-east visitors spending a lot of time hanging around the plutonium recycle area. Often I have to go out with my AK-47 and caution the visitors that the take and leave material is for residents only.

LA was extolling the virtues of a downsized hard drive when the limos arrived. My intercom crackled, and the barely understandable voice of the new intern said, “Boss, I am having some limos at the gate with no stickers. They are saying that they are having an appointment…”

Rajeed, our new intern, was manning the entrance gate, checking stickers. When he beeped me on the intercom, he was following the new policy. Nobody gets in without a resident sticker…or a crisp $20 bill. (Rajid and I split the bribe money at the end of the day.)

Lardass and I exchanged shrugs. Then I remembered. “Crikey, it’s the Queen!”

Rebirth

Ok.

After an extended and unanticipated dormancy, the dump is back online. I wish to allay any fears in the minds of my faithful readers (both of you), by assuring you that I have not been in prison or otherwise involuntarily confined within institutional walls during the hiatus. I must report that I have been distracted by a *new* addiction which I shall mention later, but I fully admit to being lazy and shiftless about blogging. Perhaps uninspired.

Actually, I was willing to let this idea fade into well-deserved obscurity. But some of you have nagged me into rethinking the need for this oasis from rationality, this theme park for refuse and junk thoughts.

Thus we re-open the gates of the Dump - a throwaway place where I can use my family, friends, fans, detractors, pets and persons-in-the-news as foils for cheap laughs and/or pithy insights.

Yes, I have softened the name of the blog. In the interests of opening the gates to a wider audience, the board felt that some artistic selling-out was needed. I like to think of it a compromise - you may call it 'pandering'. When you start paying admission, perhaps your opinion will matter. (Meanwhile you are invited to go f*ck yourself if you don't like it.)


Shall we begin?
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Here in New England we always get snow in March. It happens every year around the ides. The daffodils by my side door have not figured this out, which makes you wonder about the so-called wisdom of that old whore we refer to as Mother Nature.

Every year, with the inevitable mid February thawing, I notice these same hopeful green shoots thrusting up through the exposed dark soil of the herb garden. Heat from the sun catches in the rich brown earth, fooling the bulbs into thinking: Spring. Then comes the blizzard and blasting arctic air. The shoots turn gray and dead. Stupid plant, I think to myself, as I head out for work.

When I arrive at the FEMA Trailer that I call my office, the crew is taking one of their frequent, sometimes perpetual, coffee break. The guys are sitting around the Franklin stove with their feet up and chairs tipped back, like I tell them not to do because it makes holes in the new linoleum flooring of the trailer.

"Hey d*mpfucks," I yell at them jovially - acting as if I really am glad to see them after not showing-up for such a long time.

Lardass looks up from the book he is reading. He scowls at me, pretending to be exasperated by my intrusion, but I know it is just his way of letting me know that he does not like being shelved for 6 months without a good explanation.He is annoyed that he is still in the dump lineup. He was hoping to evolve to a better blog, or maybe get a better name.

This is what happens when you let your imagination get out of hand. Sometimes, you invent a believable character and pretty soon he wants to be a real boy. Like Pinnocio, they begin to dream about things that they shouldn't be dreaming about. Getting ideas. Trying to take over. [I have a theory that writers who are possessed by multiple personalities can be very good at writing dialog. But I digress. ]

Lardass bookmarks the page he was reading by dog-earing the page with a greasy finger. I can make out the title: The Secret. Crap, I think to myself, if I give him that sort of reading material, LA will be trying to change the universe by thinking positive thoughts. This would not be the Lardass we know and love.

I decided to change his reading material to a book titled Degunking Windows. I recently took that book out of the library (It's about getting rid of all the unwanted crap the comes with Microsoft Windows software). I thought it would be appropriate and droll to have dump worker reading a book about cleaning things, even windows.

But LA was not going to cooperate - I told you he was still pissed at me.

"You misplaced the star thingy."
"Eh? I just got here. What are you talking about?" It was my turn to scowl.
"You know, when you said hello, you stuck it in the wrong yew."
"Is this going to be some kind of sheep joke?" I wasn't in the mood for crude animal sex jokes on the first day back online.
"Asterisk" Growled Clooney. "You bleeped the wrong vowel."
"Oops,"

>>I backspaced and fixed the error. Then I marked this entire section for deletion, since it would make no sense once I fixed the typo. A writer needs to be in command of his tools, I always say. <<

Clooney, our resident wordsmith, is happy that I finally changed his name. He does crossword puzzles in oils using his artists' paintbrush. He is so confident of his answers that he always uses indelible inks and pigments. Even when he gets one wrong, he refuses to change it, claiming that it was a puzzle designer's error. Such arrogance demands a full season of mockery and derision. (Any similarity to a guy you know named George is purely coincidental. )

The rest of the crew will be returning anon. But now I must go take a nap. This is the most blogwriting that I have done in ages. Cripes, what's that stench?

Oh, and Welcome back.

Disclaimer

This is not a real dump. Any similarity to real dumps is both coincidental and a bit unsettling. Maybe I'm dreaming; maybe it is a message from a parallel universe; whatever - don't look for facts or truth or even acknowledgement of currently understood laws of physics.Like the christian bible, this is an arbitrary collection of writing designed to impress upon you the eternal truth as expressed by a guy who I met in a bar. His name was Rufus Descartes . Although his speech was slurred by an afternoon of pounding back frosty Sierra Nevadas, I'm pretty sure he said something like: Eventually, we all end up in some sort of dump." Then, apparently exhausted by the soul-draining power of the epiphany, he passed out.