Friggin' Labor Day
So I get to friggin' work Monday and nobody else shows up. The security guard tells me it's friggin' Labor Day as if I don't know. Of course I know! I been celebrating Labor Day ever since I was issued my first friggin' Social Security number in '74. Then I always come into work and I'm always the only one there.
We celebrate it every year, the frickin' kids love it. On Labor Day Eve we huddle around a Sterno stove I swiped when I wuz working at Coast to Coast back in the 70s. We roast a few Chuckwagons over the fire (good thing the friggin' Wheel of Death is so easy to jimmie) and sing Tom Waits songs while we hit the sauce (Ragu).
Then I klck the kids asses up to bed where visions of Chef Boyardee Microwave Cups dance through their heads. I head off to the break room (my wife calls it the friggin' kitchen) and read Crankshaft and play a couple rounds of Jumble. I try to read the Dave Barry column but it's usually too blurry, my paper (The Echoland Shopper) is so friggin' cheap they just Xerox it out of other low-rent newspapers that Xerox their columns out of other newspapers that actually pay for the friggin' thing.
After the little pumpkins have drifted off into a sweet slumber I go fill up the steel-toed boots that hang over the Sterno can with sweet morsels that I scored out of the candy machine at work (you know, where you see a dangling item left by some poor sap who got screwed and ain't got the class to get that machine rocking to and fro till that son-of-a-bitch drops into what Gus calls the bonus bin).
That day I'd scored a Three Musketeers bar that was hardly even melted and I cut that sucker up into 12 pieces ... one for each pair a kids to fight over.
I had a pretty good year so I sprung for some new used hard hats that I found at the Ax Man. 3 of the frickin' kids are turning 7 this year so I fgure it shouldn't be long before I have them working the coal mines. Somebody's gotta pay for the new Cinemax package I just added to the cable bill.
When the tykes awake the next morn, there are squeals of delight as they dig up their presents that St. Workingstiffa Claus has buried our back yard. Kind'a funny, last year, adorafrigginable little Mabel (who turns 3 this year) dug up the remains of a drifter that had probably been down there cookin' since the 30s.
Yeah, I hate to friggin carry in too much further because this story's getting hard to follow ... even for me.
Happy Belated Labor Day yuh friggin' Goldbrickers!
We celebrate it every year, the frickin' kids love it. On Labor Day Eve we huddle around a Sterno stove I swiped when I wuz working at Coast to Coast back in the 70s. We roast a few Chuckwagons over the fire (good thing the friggin' Wheel of Death is so easy to jimmie) and sing Tom Waits songs while we hit the sauce (Ragu).
Then I klck the kids asses up to bed where visions of Chef Boyardee Microwave Cups dance through their heads. I head off to the break room (my wife calls it the friggin' kitchen) and read Crankshaft and play a couple rounds of Jumble. I try to read the Dave Barry column but it's usually too blurry, my paper (The Echoland Shopper) is so friggin' cheap they just Xerox it out of other low-rent newspapers that Xerox their columns out of other newspapers that actually pay for the friggin' thing.
After the little pumpkins have drifted off into a sweet slumber I go fill up the steel-toed boots that hang over the Sterno can with sweet morsels that I scored out of the candy machine at work (you know, where you see a dangling item left by some poor sap who got screwed and ain't got the class to get that machine rocking to and fro till that son-of-a-bitch drops into what Gus calls the bonus bin).
That day I'd scored a Three Musketeers bar that was hardly even melted and I cut that sucker up into 12 pieces ... one for each pair a kids to fight over.
I had a pretty good year so I sprung for some new used hard hats that I found at the Ax Man. 3 of the frickin' kids are turning 7 this year so I fgure it shouldn't be long before I have them working the coal mines. Somebody's gotta pay for the new Cinemax package I just added to the cable bill.
When the tykes awake the next morn, there are squeals of delight as they dig up their presents that St. Workingstiffa Claus has buried our back yard. Kind'a funny, last year, adorafrigginable little Mabel (who turns 3 this year) dug up the remains of a drifter that had probably been down there cookin' since the 30s.
Yeah, I hate to friggin carry in too much further because this story's getting hard to follow ... even for me.
Happy Belated Labor Day yuh friggin' Goldbrickers!
posted by Gus Grimstone at 12:19 AM
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