Criteria for a great job

 I am fastly approaching two years of unemployment. I even have a headhunter, who specializes in the scrap industry looking for me. Its to the point; I would accept a job in a foreign country, The North.

When I first sent my headhunter my resume, he called me immediately. "This is a terrible resume."

"Its mostly because of my career." I wanted to say it, but I didn't.

I even offered to work for a scrap yard for FREE, just to gain a few resume bullets. Still got a NO. I can't even give it away. I must be the nastiest metal whore ever.

So I dusted off my 2004 edition of "What color is your parachute?" And started going through the section of determining what type of job I wanted to do. Here is my criteria for a great job.

•Being drunk or stoned would not greatly affect job performance.
•I refuse to be on call after I leave work. If you need me, call somebodyelse.
•I do not like working with people, particularly young people.
•I do not like working with computers
•I am completely terrified of snakes and refuse to work anywhere near them.
•I don't do confined spaces, rules out mining.
•Medical field a definite no, I have the nurturing skills of a buzzard.
•Fortune 500 bullshit drives me nuts, cannot deal with it. Rules out the world's largest employers.
•No government jobs, been there, done that. Hated it.
•I have a near pathological hatred and distrust of authority. Rules out police work.
•I will only work holidays if it a) is not difficult b) pays well c) greatly increases my chances of pussy. The same applies for weekends.
•Not a skilled trade that I don't already have. Which is almost none. I am too damn old to learn a trade.
•I will only work more than 40 hours a week if it pays really well. I prefer to work 20 to 30 hours per week.
•I like to take a lot of vacation to go hiking or have day long masturbation sessions.
•I enjoy working with my hands, even more if soft music is playing and my penis is available.

On the positive side of things, I ain't too picky about pay and benefits. I ain't had health insurance in years. Mankind went thousands of years with out insurance and did just fine.

My journey to the dark side is complete. I am an alcoholic, broke, jobless - hillbilly.

" Help me Obi Won Kenobi - The correct six lottery numbers are my only hope."

Lottery Winner, there is the job I want.

Fantasy Job #8: Bluegrass Rebel

Beset by unemployment and cursed with an over active imagination, I have started fantasizing about dream jobs.

Fantasy Job #8: Bluegrass Rebel

I want to be the radical outcast that takes bluegrass mainstream.

There is no musical talent in my body and I hate bluegrass. Not withstanding, I've got some good song titles and a dream in my heart. Theses songs are hard-core obscene and vulgar.

My first album, entitled "Songs I wrote while driving a great distance"

Track List

1. Shit Bitch (I love taking you anal)
2. Loving you is like ridin' a motor sickle with highly inconvenient handle bars
3. Did you fart? Or did your sister take her pants off?
4. You ain't doing nothing with it (The married Wednesday night song)
5. The race is on, lets do it dog like
6. Breeding Season
7. It ain't gonna lick itself
8. I'd rather wipe my ass with a belt sander
9. Don't just stand there, bring me a beer
10. Toothless women
11. Hillbillies do it in the hollow

Dirty Ert

I am a bad ass

Long have I been excessively and oddly proud of the pungent stench that my gastrointestinal system produces.

It gets bad, real bad. My wife will often slide a pack of matches under the bathroom door. "My God, what is wrong with you and is the marriage still valid?"

A while back, my daughter had a friend over. I blasted both of them out of the kitchen; the commode was two walls and a hallway removed. I started down the hallway after my award winning movement when I could see the girl in the hall mirror. She waved her hand under her nose and tried to fan away the toxins. "Oh! My God" she cried. "I can smell it, Oh my gosh, I think I am going to vomit."

Silently I listened down the hall and was filled with a tremendous sense of pride. The only way it could have gone better was if the teen queen had actually puked.

And then there was my fourth day on a new job.

The restroom that we machinist used could be considered frightening, or possibly unnerving. It was nasty. The kind of place that no woman would use, no matter the circumstance. However, we did have an assortment of cleaning supplies and paper products at the ready. That way, you could clean off a spot when the time comes. It was also not a very private restroom. If you sat on the commode and leaned down on your knees, looked to your right, you could see into the foreman's office.

I had been at the company for four days. The owner of the company, a multi-multi millionaire had come down to the shop to speak with the foreman. Along with the owner was our CEO, also a millionaire. The three of them were standing in front of the foreman's office.

That is when it hit me. I had been holding back unleashing my bowels at work. The hour was neigh. Let me tell you something, this was no ordinary fecal matter I was dealing with. It was the hot quasi-liquid, jalapeno hot sauce inspired, bring on a sweat kind of turd. As I said, the point of no return had been crossed. Like in Star Wars, when the Death Star fired off the big gun. Once the firing sequence had begun, a planet was going to get the shit blown out of it. There was no going back.

Many people may have been unnerved or embarrassed or intimated in this situation. Not the most relaxing scenario. I mean, one could be pinching the proverbial loaf while looking your new boss, the CEO and the owner square in the eye.

But not me. No sir! I am a bad ass. And it was just about time that these bastards found out just who in the fuck they were dealing with.

I made my way to the restroom, with slow, short and deliberate steps. I passed behind the back of the power trio of the shop. They were busy looking away from the restroom at a pallet for the moment. I approached the receptacle. I began to clean it with a paper towel and scouring powder. Then, No! I am too late? A crisis narrowly avoided as the Death Star that was my ass almost fired the main weapon before locking on target. But, I am a man of unusual bowel control. Three deep breaths and the cleaning began anew. At last the target was prepped and ready to receive.

I turned around to get into position for final approach. The three most important people at the plant were 15 feet away with their backs to me, in plain view. That is when I experienced one of the most remarkable bowel movements of my life. It occurred swiftly and fluidly. One sweeping motion of steady movement with now stops or hesitations.

I dropped trou and sharply moved into a squat. The moment my buttocks touched the seat, all hell erupted in the blink of an eye. My squat movement never came to a stop. I never stopped moving. It was like I did a repetition of a weight lifting squat. At the bottom of the movement there was no sitting, stopping or even a hitch in my motion.

Suddenly, I found myself standing with my hands still clasped to my belt. Quite frankly, I was confused. Could it be? Did that just happen? Then screaming trough my brain like a bull with its nuts on fire.

"Then we shall crush the rebellion with one swift stroke!"

The words of Grand Moff Tarkin from Star Wars rang through my head. I had indeed just crushed a rectal rebellion in one swift stroke.

I began to laugh. The only problem being was that I was standing over the commode with my pants down and my penis flapping in the breeze. The company power trio was still 15 feet away and looking in the opposite direction. As I began to "mop up", the smell hit. It stunned me. Over the smell of welding and a hundred other dirty industrial operations, it hit like a freight train. Now I was laughing, wiping my ass, looking at the power trio and holding my breath.

I finally got myself together. Slowly I washed my hands, letting the smell waft out into the plant. Still, the power trio were unaware of the horror that had occurred literally behind their backs. Did I walk back to my work? Nay! I strutted like a damn peacock.

From where I was working I could see them. I had not been working 30 seconds when I saw the stench hit. The CEO ducked and flailed his arms like a vampire bat had just grabbed his hair. The foreman shook his head like he had just plucked four nose hairs at the same time. The owner took three quick steps away from the restroom, as if he had just seen a snake.

I had to stick my head in a machine for ten minutes, pretending to clean it out, as I laughed my damn ass off.

Yeah, I am a bad ass.

Dirty Ert

The metal markets are coming back!!!????

If nothing else, being a scrap metal dealer is interesting, if not entirely unprofitable.

I recently had the displeasure of attempting business with a married couple who own a scrap yard, and are completely bat shit crazy. The names are changed, in order to protect the mentally volatile.

My business partner, Lyle, and I find this place via a referral from another customer. This place is way the hell out in the middle of no-damn-where. We literally had to turn off the paved road and dodge livestock to get there. But much to our surprise this place had a lot of scrap and junk cars. Lyle and I figured we could be in luck, very few other scrap buyers would venture this far off the beaten path.

Lyle and I introduce ourselves to Gwen and Will. After about ten minutes of discussing business, Will leads us to pile of scrap he wanted to sell. Lyle looks it over and gives him a price. Will is thrilled, he sells us the metal immediately. As Lyle and I load our bounty into the truck, Will fetches Gwen. He excitedly tells her about the good prices we just paid him. Gwen seemed impressed with us as well. All seems to be going well; Lyle and I have made another good customer.

"Hey boys," Will says to us. "Do y'all cut scrap off junk cars?"

"Yessir!" I reply. "But we usually only do large quantities."

"I got a 150 cars to cut. Is that enough for you?"

Mine and Lyle's excitement is almost palpable. In these lean times, this is a mother load of scrap; enough to pay the next mortgage. We make an appointment with Will to come back in two days to start harvesting the scrap; the whole process will take a week. Will is so excited about our prices that he even volunteers to loan us his forklift and an employee to help. For the rest of the day Lyle and I are floating on cloud nine.

For those of you who are not roving metal buyers, this is how it works. Harvesting scrap off junk cars is like shopping at Wal Mart. There are thousands of different kinds of scrap on automobiles. Guys like me go into old junk yards and take various parts off the cars. Then we go to "check out." We lay out all the stuff we got, tell the customer what it is worth, then pay.

Lyle and I arrive on our appointed day to start harvesting the scrap. Will walks out to our truck, there is an odd look in his eyes.

"You boys just go down there and look at all them cars. When you are done, come back here and we will talk price."

"Hey Will, no need for all that" I say. "The prices we gave you the other day are still good."

"No, that ain't what I want. I want one price for all of it."

"So you just want us to look at the entire junk yard and give you one price for all the scrap on it?"

"That's how we do business here boys. If you don't like it, you can just go on down the road." Will is getting kind of cold.

"Well, we'll have a look." I attempt to smooth him over.

Driving out into the yard, Lyle and I huddle. This is not the way anybody really does business. It would be like going to Wal Mart, loading your buggy and then guessing how much it is all worth.

Out in the junk yard, Lyle and I look around. There are not 150 cars, there are over 1,000. Most of the scrap has already been removed. What is sitting in the field is mostly hunks of steel and plastic, neither of which scrap guys like us buy.

"Dude" Lyle says to me. "Somebody done hit this yard. They just got the expensive stuff and what is easy to remove. About 1 in 10 cars actually have anything valuable. Dirty, just talk him into letting us get to work and doing our thing. We planned a week here, I just want to get to work." Lyle lacks several things, including timing and patience.

"Lyle slow down. Let me take the lead talking to this man. Whatever you do, don't say what you just said. Will thinks he's got a gold mine out here."

"Alright then, but lets go."

"Give me a fucking minute Lyle. I am thinking."

"Fuck man. I don't want to sit out here all morning while you just fucking think. LETS FUCKING GET GOING."

With a half ass plan in my head, I bow to Lyle's impatience. We make our way back to Will and Gwen's office.

"So men, how much are you going to pay us today?" Gwen says as we walk in.

"Miss Gwen, can I ask you and Will a few questions right fast?" I say.

"Go right ahead honey."

"Have any other scrap or core buyers cut in the southern corner of the yard?" I ask.

"Yeah!" Breaks in Lyle "Looks like somebody done gone in there and got the high dollar and easy stuff. I looked at about 30 cars and only 3 of them have any real money left on them."

Immediately Lyle looks at me with the "OH SHIT, I WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO TALK" face.

Gwen and Will go through the roof.

"If you boys are gonna be like that, get your shit and leave." Will says angrily.

"We ain't gonna be crooked again." Gwen says with venom.

Gwen and Will are in a shit storm of anger. I glare at Lyle. Sheepishly he sneaks out of the door during the tirade of heat from Gwen and Will.

I am a tenured veteran of sales; I have dealt with many angry customers before. After five minutes, the situation calms down and cooler heads prevail. I see an aerial photo of their junk yard on the wall.

"Will I am a little turned around on all this. If you would, can you show me on this aerial photo where the cars that have everything on them are?"

"Sure, it is this corner right here." He points to where Lyle only found 3 with scrap.

"Yeah!" Gwen breaks in. "But this corner right here, we had one of our boys cut the scrap off." She walks up and points to the same place that Will just pointed to.

I am really confused now. So I nicely ask for them to go over the photo with me again. With Will on my left and Gwen on my right, both pointing to the same spot; sanity leaves the room. For five minutes the two of them keep pointing to the same spot. He says the scrap is there, she says it isn't. Neither of them notice that they are contradicting each other, in fact they are looking at each other and nodding in agreement. Then as they talk, English breaks down. I suddenly realize that both of them are using words from English, but no real sentences are being made. I caught this one from him.

"When the market got up there, we had to buy a four wheeler but the man from the state said that our permit was fine." Trust me when I say, I did NOT miss anything in the conversation, this was just non-sequator.

Suddenly and with no waring Will turns around, sits in an old chair and lights a smoke. Gwen just walked off. My head is swimming, but I am a champ, not going to give up. Before I can speak, Will starts talking.

"You see, your money don't mean nothing to me. I got gold, lots of it. I told everyone in the county to buy gold last year. I bought $40,000 in gold last year, now it is worth over half a million."

I keep up with gold prices. Gold has not gone up over 10 times in the last year. "Damn good investment Will! Did you leverage to get those kind of profits?"

"Leverage? What the hell is that? No I GOT GOLD. I got it hid up on the hollers, no one will ever find it."

It occurs to me that this guy is either insane or fucking with me. He has a very serious, yet a far away look on his face. I stopped to really take a look and Gwen and Will. There is perhaps 8 teeth between the two of them. Neither looked like they use a shower much. Both of them were smoking cheap cigarettes like freight trains.

"I don't understand you scrap men. Y'all talk about Platinum going down. It is the same price it was last year. I know, I check it every day."

Will would be correct to say that Platinum was the same price as last year: if you believe that $1,200 per ounce is the same as $2,300 per ounce.

"Hell I got so much going on, I don't have time to fool with you. We have already done a bunch of business today. Gwen what have we done so far today?"

Gwen walks in and looks at me very seriously. "$140! And it looks like we are about to sell $200 more!"

"Honey you forgot about that old Ford headlight I sold! That's another $40. You see I got a lot going on."

I am desperately trying to understand the situation I am in. That is when Will hits me again.

"Really, I am an investor. I watch Bill O'Reily and listen to Rush Limbaugh. I know all about investing. Hell I'll just leave that scrap on them old cars. If there ain't more of it, and there will be, I just sell it off to the shredder. If just leave it laying, there will be more of it. Did you know that the shredder called and offered me $12 on my steel?"

"Did not know that Will. That is one hell of a price." I know he is out of his mind now. That morning I had talked to the shredder. A good friend of mine works there. The shredder would be lucky to sell steel for $7."

"I am telling you metal is going to be back at all time high prices in less than 30 days."

"Will, you are the only one I know that optimistic. What makes you say that?"

He stands up and whispers in my ear, his big secret. "Japan is going nuclear."

"Really?" I ask as he sits back down. I am feeling terribly lost.

"South Korea too. Both of them are going nuclear. They are gonna need all the scrap that they can get. I heard it on Bill O'Reily."

"Hmmmm." I am speechless. "You think I might could check back with you in 30 days when scrap is higher?"

Gwen and Will shake my hand and let me leave on that one.

I jump in the truck. Lyle winces.

"I know, I know, I fucked up. Dude don't punch me or anything."

"Lyle, get us the fuck out of here as fast as you can; these people are fucking nuts."

Later on, Lyle and I run into another scrap buyer that we know.

"Hey man, you ever buy any scrap from Will and Gwen up in the holler."

He starts laughing. "I tried too, they are bat shit crazy."

Dirty Ert

What are we making?

I used to work for a machine shop that made parts for industrial, electrical and mining equipment. Not the kind of crap the average person would ever run into. Here is how I tried to find out about the parts I made. I went up to the lead man.

"Hey big daddy! What does this stop block; I am making, go in?"

"That goes at the end of the switch barrel on one of the pad mounts that they make down the hill at the assembly plant."

"What kind of switch is it and what the hell is a switch barrel?"

"Shit, I don't know and I've worked here for almost 30 years."

"So what is a pad mount?"

"Some sort of electrical distribution thing that mounts to a concrete pad."

"So what does it distribute power to, or look like, good god man where do they use these mother fuckers?"

"Fuck, I don't know, the bitches are blue and shaped like a box. That I do know, if that helps you any."

"You have worked here 30 years and all you know about what we make is that it goes in a blue box that gets bolted to concrete and vaguely has something to do with distributing electricity."

"Yeah, fucking sad isn't it. Since the early 80's I've been so busy cranking the fuckers out, I never really cared to find out more about them other than the blue print."

"So you never got curious about where 16,000 of the aluminum mother fuckers go and what they do?"

"Yeah, I got curious twice."

"When?"

"1984 and 1999."

"What happened?"

"I got busy with something else."

Dirty Ert