23 November 2006

Lunch Time

The guys at work mostly eat sandwiches, green goop wraps or leftovers. The banks of microwaves in the mill lunchrooms suck more juice heating up the previous evening's casserole than a two bit whore between five and six AM. Sometimes the combined smells steaming out of the microwaves make the lunchroom smell like a supper time summer walk down just about any street in Dope City. Other times the microwave smells hit you hard in the gut like a midnight walk through a Sliverville back alley.

Today was one of the good days as I heated the spaghetti I could not eat last night because I drank too much beer when I got home. In the microwave next to it a small bowl of fragrant green goop bubbled like a green pea soup beer shit. That was Tiger's lunch. Just like I have asked him for years I asked Tiger, "What the fuck you cooking there Tiger? It looks like my shit this morning but it sure does smell good."

Tiger carefully removed the bowl from the oven. If he spilled any of the bowl's contents on himself he and I would would be spending some quality first aid room time together. "You know very well it is spinach and the finest spices of India, you dirty ignorant cocksucker. If you ask me one more time I will slap some on my big brown dick and make you lick it off. If you ate some of this good vegetarian food instead of your putrid seal flipper spaghetti you might live to see the Canucks one day go all the way brother."

We call each other brother because we are union motherfuckers. Tiger and I had some good times during some of the protracted battles we have waged against the greedy uncaring bastards we all greet cheerfully whenever they stick a hardhat on their head and come into the mill looking for trouble. Tiger loves his scotch at least as much as I love my beer. We call each other dirty cocksuckers and worse but do not mean anything by it unless we have a picaroon in our hand.

As I sucked up my spaghetti Rollie sat down with his sad ham sandwich, a bag of taco chips and a couple apple turnovers from Shopper Heaven. As he opened his stainless steel thermos and poured himself some sweet creamy coffee Pupinder sat down with a hot bowl of goop, his wraps and an apple. I huddled with my spaghetti and tried not to think about the goop that now just about surrounded me.

Rollie leaned into the table with his sandwich and found his stomach with the coffee. After he chewed up some of his fat sandwich he asked Pupinder, "Well, have you got it?"

Pupinder smiled and said, "Everything is in order Rollie. Come by my car after work."

Rollie does not fuck around getting his dope in order for the holiday season. I did not ask but I assumed it was coke. But it could have been opium, the Indian guys get ahold of that now and again. I will find out on Boxing Day when Rollie and his wife Wanda throw their yearly get fucked up all day party.

2 comments:

Beeno said...

ai tu queres bomitar munêlhos de cavelo?!?!?!
bom trablho continua assim e nao caias pelo precipicio. MORRE
twice
se um dia te apetecer morrer cala te

Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

Beeno is one of the Portuguese down at the mill. His family were Anarchists forced to flee Salazar's death squads back in the early '60s. Despite living in the country that gave the world Joe Shithead and Gino Odjick he still speaks very little English. He wanders the mill gabbling about bomitars, cavelos and trablho. What he means is there is going to be trouble if he does not drink a bottle of wine soon.