Wednesday, May 30, 2007
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.
================================================
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
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.
“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.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
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'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!”
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!”
