August 28, 2010
Originally published October 3, 2002
We bid a fond (well, no-so-fond) adios to a new employee at work today. He was 19 years-old, able to escape from a minimum-wage job throwing sacks of fertilizer at "Webb's Seed and Feed" just down the road from me, and welcomed with open arms to a place that was willing to offer him three times what he was making before, medical benefits, a retirement plan, 401-K, and the opportunity for advancement.
Before he managed to actually show up and work 60 days on the job (his probabionary period) he was late three times, missed four days of work (three of those were medically excused for a KIDNEY STONE! How the hell does a 19 year-old KID get kidney stones?) went home early three times (Sick to his stomach twice and... I am not making this up, CHAPPED NUTS from sweating in his crotch-area, and he got our medical department to assign him to two days of "light duty" for that. I don't have "light duty" where he worked, so he sat on his lazy ass for two days while other people did his work, and that didn't bother him at all.) He was late again yesterday, so we fired him today.
I must be WAY out of touch with the younger generation. The job that young man was offered was the one I started with at the plant. During MY probationary period, I caught a terrible case of the flu and came to work anyway, with a 102 degree fever. I made my shift and did four hours overtime, too, at the very worst of my fever, chills and trembles, because my name was on the schedule. I figued that any sane employer was going to look at me HARD during that probationary period, and know that with my job really on the line, when I could be fired at the snap of a finger, he was seeing the very best he was EVER gonna see from me. I wasn't going to fuck up a good thing. I wanted that job.
I'm starting to see a few of the new hires that remind me of me, but I still have a lot of "Rusty-Nuts" (the nickname this asshole earned among his coworkers) coming down the pike. We have 60 working days to cull 'em, and we're starting to do a good job of that. After "Rusty's" third incident, I called him into my office and told him that he was on thin ice. "If you don't want this job, say so now," I told him. "There are a hundred others on the street that DO want it, so you can save me, you, and somebody we don't know a lot of grief if you just quit. Keep on the way you're going, and I'll fire you. SOON!"
He was repentent, contrite and slobbering in his promises to do better. That lasted three days, and now he's gone.
I suppose he'll go back to slinging fertilizer at Webb's Seed and Feed. If they want him.
I know that I DON'T!
August 21, 2010
Too much of a good thing
Originally published October 4, 2002
GAWD! I just had the neighborhood Cookie Monsters descend like a swarm of locusts on the Crackerbox, and I'm out $37 as a result. Of course, I'm due to receive a box of Double Chocolate Chip cookies, a box of White Chocolate Macadamea cookies, and a box of Chocolate Brownie cookies in November. Plus, I contributed to the worthy cause of Rincon Elementary School. It is obvious from my orders that I like chocolate.
The problem is... I don't eat cookies.
When I was a senior in high school, I got a job at the internationally-famous Byrd Cookie Company, where I boxed cookies, bagged cookies, delivered cookies and ATE ALL THE COOKIES I WANTED. That was Mr. Byrd's policy: EAT ALL THE COOKIES YOU WANT! He knew, probably from experience with other eighteen year-old young men, that a new employee eats like bush-hog for about two weeks, then gets sick and tired of cookies. The first time I walked into his cookie factory, I thought it was the most wonderful-smelling place my nostrils had ever detected.
After two weeks of eating all the cookies I wanted, I felt like puking when I smelled cookies. I don't care for cookies to this day.
I ate ALL I WANTED. Forever.
August 14, 2010
Originally published October 4, 2002
1. The end of the world is coming, if you can save only one kind of animal, which one will you pick?
A good dog. A dog really is "man's best friend," and I've never had a dog bite me as viciously as some women have. I would enjoy the dog as a loyal companion when the world ended. Then, if things got really bad, I could kill it and eat it, in a stew with some wild onions.
2. You go to Africa. When you visit a tribe, they insist you take an animal as a souvenir, which one will you choose?
The chief's most beautiful daughter, of course!
3. You did something wrong. Instead of being a human, God punish you to be an animal, you will choose...
Samonella. That way, I can punish OTHER PEOPLE, too. Just like God, and pretty much in the same way.
4. If you have the power to make one species disappear forever, which one will that be?
5. One day, you met an animal which can speak human language, you wish that'll be...
Hillary Clinton. She doesn't speak "human." She just pretends to in front of microphones.
6. On an isolated island, you can only have an animal as your companion, which one you'll choose...
DA GODDESS!!!! Or Britney Spears. Or Nicole Kidman. Or Nina Hartley. Or...
7. If you have the super power to tame all kinds of animal, you'll choose what kind of animal to be your pet?
See the answers to question #6.
8. If you have a 5-minute time to be an animal, which one you would like to be?
Ron Jeremy. But I want a LOT LONGER than five minutes.
Looking back at the questions, I don't think I took a Love Test. Musta got lost wrestling with the corkscrew...I believe that I took an accidental PETA TEST. Boy, are THEY gonna be pissed at me if they ever read this.
I don't know how I got to where I got, when I set out to get where I was going. That's the story of my life.
August 07, 2010
Originally published October 5, 2002
I own several guns, and the 76% Worshipable Woman carries a .38 revolver in her purse. It's a nice Ladysmith, but I told her last night that unless she practices a LOT with it (she has never fired the thing), she had better be able to touch her target with the 2" barrel, or she'll miss.
Of couse, that's not a bad thing. That little hand-cannon makes enough noise that she could point it straight up at the ceiling and fire away if she heard a burglar in the house. The would-be thieving bastard would take out window glass and screen, leaving a shit-trail on the floor as he ran for his worthless life. A Ladysmith is LOUD outdoors. Fire one inside a house and you'll think hellzapoppin'.
She wants another, more powerful and accurate weapon for home protection. I recommended a 410 shotgun.
I don't know if ARMED LIBERAL would agree, but I believe that a 410 is the ideal firearm for dealing with footpads and critters, inside or outside the house. It is easy to handle, you don't need to stick bricks in your back pockets to deal with the kick, and it makes a nice hole in what you shoot at from 20 feet, which is a LONG shot inside your home. And it makes a loud noise, too.
When I played guitar for a living, I carried a Colt .22 derringer, a nice two-trigger, over and under double-barrel. It was smaller than a pack of cigarettes and held two .22 longs. It fit nicely in a jacket pocket or in the back pocket of a pair of Levis. It made me feel warm and fuzzy when I left bars in downtown Savannah at 3:00 AM and carried two guitars down back lanes or through bushy squares to get to my car.
I left the Red Lion Tavern at the Desoto Hilton one night and walked about a block to where I had parked. As I was opening the trunk of my car, I saw a lanky black guy with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth approaching. Behind me, I heard another person coming my way. "Hey, man," said the lanky black guy,"You got a light?" I heard the footsteps behind me pick up their pace.
I pulled the derringer out of my pocket and stuck it in the black guy's face. "I've got your light RIGHT HERE!" I yelled.
"JESUS! HE GOTTA GUN!" the bastard screamed. He turned on his heel and ran, and so did his partner behind me.
I stood there in the street for a moment, feeling downright proud of myself. They were going to rob me, and I scared them off. I was a goddam Clint Eastwood. I was John Wayne. Man, I was COOL! I stuck the derringer back in my pocket and attempted to light a cigarette.
My hands were shaking so badly that I almost set my hair on fire.
If I had NOT been armed that night, I would have been robbed or killed. That's what those two shits intended to do, and a .22 derringer changed their minds.
If THAT gun loomed large to them, think about what the wrong end of a 410 shotgun looks like.
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