And be prepared for the Red Curtain of Blood.
See, I’m on the side of anyone who WORKS. Nagin and cronies are dumping shit into a love-canal type landfill just upstream of a very independant little vietnamese community. Read the whole thing. If it doesn’t make you want to puke, and then rip nagin’s nuts out by his tonsils, you probably need help.
On the four times in your lifetime it ever happens,
Finished my shit today fairly early and the Big Boss cut me loose early (in addition to buying lunch!!) so I made it home past the worst of the Chicago expressway traffic.
I have to get my truck license plates renewed. I have to get a cop to verify the VIN number on the camper. I need to take that info to the DMV and get plates and take the motorcycle learner’s permit test.
I manage to get in touch with the local PD, who need $5 to have a cop come to the house.
I hit the bank for cash, head off to the copshop, pay the $5, go back home, put the dog out for a piss, the cop pulls up and fills out the form, polite and nice, and I bundle up my shit and head for the DMV.
Now, I did have to wait for an hour, almost.
But I managed to get tags for the truck, tags and title on the trailer, and my motorcycle learners permit, all in one fell swoop. And the woman who waited on me, a sixtysomething french woman with almost no trace of accent and the nicest backside I’ve seen on a woman that age, made the whole process so painless that I began to change my entire opinion of the place.
No, not really.
Still: I have my learner’s permit. And the tags for the camper. And new tags on the truck. I’m amazed.
About ten years ago, I was working onsite at a major manufacturer of heavy equipment. Their regular workforce had gone on strike, and we found ourselves (as suppliers) busy as hell trying to keep machinery in good order.
I had worked twenty eight hours straight, going from machine to machine recovering from errors or repairing broken components or just making sure the equipment was being fed sufficient raw material to go on. The area manager, with whom I had become good friends, came up to me to ask if things were going well. “are you having fun yet?” were, I believe, his exact words.
Not to be outdone my his sarcasm, I said “Yes! I’m having this much fun exactly!” and here I pissed my pants. As my jeans darkened, he looked at the spreading stain, shook his head, and moved on.
I worked another hour, wet and smelly, and went back to my hotel.
Lest you think I was the shining spot of utter insanity on location, I must point out I worked there a year with a guy who, one day, left work early so he could plant a pipe bomb in his girlfriend’s porch, which subsequently killed her. Pissing myself, by comparison, was fairly tame.
