101 Degrees

The foreskinmen are running around the mill alternatively threatening, cajoling, scowling, beating off and joking around with anybody who they can force to listen to them because all of a sudden nobody feels like working more than ever. The temperature of Dope City is hotter than a dog's breath, something us hockey loving motherfuckers do not cope with real well. When we cannot see our breath in the morning we are concerned we may be dead. It would be different if we could knock back a few cold ones in the afternoon, like in the old days, but drinking and working is frowned on these days. Guys drink just as much or more at home as ever on days like this, then half of them phone in sick the next day.

The dope smokers seem to cope with the heat ok. But after their lunch time smoke they are slower than Moses in January. Luckily for the dopers the price of their rolled air conditioning has about halved since the Osamaphobic Americans stepped up their border harassment a few years back.

Everybody not on the dope is taking pills to dull the heat.

I visited one of my old doper pals out in the parking lot today. Rollie makes Tommy Chong look like a motherfucking Maronite Christian. "I don't know how you take the heat without a little dope Beer," he said after I declined his hospitality for the thousandth time. The dope smelled spicier than David Beckham's dick. Rollie and I were both around when a bag was called a lid, man.

"Did you see fucking Parker running around trying to get the Hindoos to do some work?" Rollie asked. "He'd have better luck asking them to shoot a baby out of their hairy asses."

The mill owners are having a fucking time of it lately. Nobody wants to work like dogs, the way guys worked back in the '60s and the '70s. Used to be they kept the guys scared into thinking if they worked enough their mill would not be shut down. So many mills full of scared, hard working guys have been shut down nobody believes that shit anymore. The guys figure if you cannot make a go of it with everybody fucking the dog shut the motherfucking mill down and fuck off.

Everybody knows the real money is in dope, not fucking forestry, here in the future.

When Rollie finished his smoke he exhaled like a breeching grey whale and asked, "I guess you heard about Kilo and Bud? The fucking assholes."

"Yes," I answered, "I may have been the last to hear. I heard they both took a hit of the same something too strong."

"You heard right Beer."

"Neither of those motherfuckers had the brains to go with their taste for action."

"Remember the time they both came into work down on the boom on acid?"

"It's a good thing you grabbed the axe from Bud or he would have chopped that Hindoo in fucking half right in front of us. And who could forget the time Kilo climbed to the top of the smokestack and painted FTW on the lip of it."

"Those were some good fucking times on the river Beer."

The lunch whistle blew. I would like to axe the motherfucker who invented work whistles. Nazi cocksucker.

"Lucky for us we still got lots of good times ahead of us Rollie. Keep it clean motherfucker."

"You too you old cocksucker. See you at the pub after work?"

"That fucking pub would have to close its fucking doors without me."

We contacted fists and filed back into the overheated horror of the sawmill.