Pride Day at the Sawmill

There is a few university students around the sawmill this summer again. The old boys retiring, going on lengthy absences to get their more worn out parts replaced and going insane has created spots for them at the bottom of the seniority list.

Mostly they keep to themselves, rarely talking even to each other, preferring to consult their smart phones incessantly with their dope addict's weary nod.

Four of them were doing this today in the shade of a rotting shed at lunch time when I spotted them and thought I would go see what the fuck they have to say for themselves.

"Oh we like working here fine," the spokesman for the group told me when I asked them what they thought of working in a fucking mill. "We make fucking near three times as much here working than we would stirring up coffee or whatever.

"There is one thing we could all do without though," he began to tell me with a sincere look in his eye. "Every time we bend over to pick something up some old fuck like you is looking at us with a faraway look in their eye and a hand deep in a pocket fondling themselves."

"Ha!" I laughed. "You should have seen what it was like when I was your age. Sawmills were even more like prisons than they are now back then. You just chose who you were going to take it from and moved on until a prettier boy came along looking for a safe sawmill daddy to protect him from the rest of the cornhole crew."