Bring In Your Dead

I have an affliction.

I’ve had it before, and god help me, I’ll probably have it again. I shouldn’t complain; most people have to deal with the same thing – I have a job.

Jobs have only one redeeming benefit – money. With money, I can buy goods and services, including Pop Tarts,

 and gas for the Yugo.

Unfortunately, jobs have many detriments including 1) wasted time 2) raised expectations from creditors 3) increased difficulty in free-loading on others and 4) E.J.I. (enforced jerk interaction.)

Sick days bring a respite. Unfortunately my current boss, Whipcracker Toliver, has memorized the WebbMD website, and it’s getting harder to find an illness to pass muster with him.

This morning I tried a different tack. I called work.

Whipcracker: Tote that Bail Bondage Services. This is Whip Toliver. How may our employees serve you?

Headley: Mr. Toliver, I have some sad news.

Whipcracker: What is it now, Headley?

Headley: Yes sir, I’m calling about Headley Hauser. He’s dead.

Whipcracker: Am I not talking to Headley right now?

Headley: No sir, this is Doctor Mumblefuss. I just happen to sound a lot like him.

Whipcracker: I see, Doctor Mumblefuss. This of course is a terrible tragedy. I’m sure Headley’s coworkers will be deeply saddened. I wonder if he knew before he passed on, that if I report his death to social services, he’ll no longer be eligible for unemployment or food stamps.

Headley: (pause) Maybe I should try the shock thingies.

Whipcradker: Yes, Doctor, do try the shock thingies, and if you manage to resurrect Headley, remind him that it’s his turn to bring in coffee this morning.

I’m not sure, but I think he was on to me. Next time, I gotta find someone else to play Doctor Mumblefuss.

Cral and I used to do a song about work in our spectacularly ignored act: Headley and the Rug (and Cral) Hit the Road. I apologize that there’s no tune for you, but there really wasn’t much of one even when Cral and I did it. All the Xs are for hand claps.

Love my Job

words and kinda music by Headley Hauser

I need to go away XX I need to go away XX xxxx

I need to go away XX I need to go away XX xxxx

This place makes me shake xxxxxxx

This place makes my belly ache xx

This place gives me things I don’t need xx

I need x I need x I need

I need to go away XX I need to go away XX xxxx

I need to go away XX I need to go away XX xxxx

This place makes me work xxxxxxx

This place makes me deal with a jerk xx

This place gives me things I don’t need xx

I need x I need x I need

(go up a step)

I need to go away XX I need to go away XX xxxx

I need to go away XX I need to go away XX xxxx

This place gives me grief xxxxxxx

This place is just beyond belief xx

Tell my boss that I NEED TO GO!

I need x I need x

I need to leave

I’d tell you it was much better live – but there was a reason we were spectacularly ignored. Here’s a vid of someone who’s actually pretty funny.

Work, Death, and Light Bulbs

I don’t plan to work a day after I die – I don’t care how many times my boss calls me.

I’m dead – that’s it – no notice, except the one in the obits. Please say something nice. Lie if you have to. Don’t make me haunt you.

No, no work days, after I’ve gone to the great (fill in the blank) in the (fill in the blank.)

Especially as I’ll probably be cremated.

 

“Sift him into the working clothes boys.”

“Whew! We’re gonna have to start calling this guy, Dusty.”

That’s no way to urn a living.

By the way, puns are allowed after you’re dead.

As is the proud tradition among males in my family, I didn’t figure I’d live long enough to retire. The tradition probably began because a whole bunch of us never did.

Now I’ve lived past that heart issue at 50 that all Hausers get, so I’m starting to see life from a whole new perspective. Now instead of a sudden death in the prime of life, I’m looking at years of old age, eating cat food, and starving in the cold.

Quite a comfort.

And now they’re taking away my incandescent bulbs. How are you supposed to stay warm on a winter night cozying up to a compact florescent light? You can stick your finger right into that coil thing, and not even warm the rest of your hand.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m ready to love the CFL. I’m already fond of gloomy days and Cheerios without the milk, why shouldn’t I love CFLs?

Of Course, I would like CFLs better if any of the following were true.

1) They were the most efficient form of light bulb.

2) They worked reliably and well.

3) They worked in my 3-way lamp.

4) They weren’t a major cause of migraine headaches.

 

5) They didn’t pose a deadly toxin threat (mercury) to all living beings – I gotta admire ambitious toxins.

Maybe this reason is not so important.

6) They weren’t pushed on us by government.

7) They weren’t pushed on government by a huge corporation in bed with politicians.

8) They didn’t look so stupid (Okay, I’m ready to let that one go.)

9) My power bill wasn’t higher because somebody decided to pack up cases of these toxic, inefficient boondoggles, and ship them free-of-charge, to poison the far-too-nearby homes of wastrel (like that word – even when it doesn’t fit,) neighbors who make more money than me.

They’re also hard to cuddle up to. Can you imagine little Cindy-Lou Whoo down in Whooville, staring wistfully at a Christmas tree full of curly-queued, migraine-causing, occasionally dimming, mercury-wheezing, Big-government-and-corporate-mandated lights?

Who needs a Grinch?

Who, by-the-way never seemed to have a job, in spite of his posh mountain-side villa, monster sled, and all-purpose, reindeer-impersonating dog.

And the Grinch didn’t have to die, get cremated, nothing!

Hey, I can be a mean one!