28 May 2011

Work, Beer and the Racetrack (In That Order)


The union said we should vote for it so we did. I voted against it. Always do. After working without a contract for a year we are signed up until 2014 or until the mill closes, whichever comes first.

That is a long fucking time. The unions and the companies like long deals. Now they can sit back and watch the money pour in. Used to be the union would not sign for more than a year or two. Now there is just as long between our deals with the fucking companies as there is between Olympics, elections or new wars for my country to fight in.

I know, I know. Better than not having a union at all.

Solidarity for fucking ever.

Like the end of every work week yesterday could not have ended fast enough. I had planned on heading straight to the racetrack's bar but my uncle, who lives in Dope City, phoned me. "Come by before you go to the track," he told me. "I have a surprise for you."

I did as I was told. Beer loves surprises.

When I got to my uncle's house he led me to his garage. Made me close my eyes before we went into it. When I opened my eyes I could not believe it.

"They're from one of the guys on my hockey team," he explained. "He used to work for one of the small breweries in town. You could say this was part of his severance package."

It was one of the biggest stacks of beer I have ever seen. More than my old car could hold. Good thing my uncle is the only member of the family who does not drink beer like a crack lipped vampire drinks blood.

We loaded up my car until the front wheels were barely touching the driveway and I headed to the track. Hit four of the six bets I made; skipped the 3 1/2 furlong races. No big prices - just a tidy profit.

There is no bad week beer cannot make better.

2 comments:

Jon said...

Somehow, we, the dues payers, are not privy to the machinations, this barn burner suddenly showed up as the international president of my union. He talks a hell of a fight. I suspect that nobody else wanted to preside over the end of the union.
Somehow our local president moved up to the international staff, despite the fact that he was allied with the bureaucrats not the barn burners. His parting gift was a 6 year contract. This was a very good thing. "Why was this a good thing?", you ask, you contrary motherfucker. Because at most transit systems management is asking for one year contracts on the basis of, "Here's what you're giving back this year and we'll be back next year to take back some more." Six years locked in is an unheard of luxury.
I know tore up old fucks whose only dream is to make it a few years to retirement. Six years is long enough they might survive if the doctors don't pull their tags and they don't drop dead on their own.
Beer, you are one of the best writers on the whole damn internet and I mean that. I am seriously glad that beer and the track are still working out for you. That sounds so fucking carefree. We are having it rubbed in our faces that the good times are over and it is time to get serious about the end of the middle class. I do not know many other carefree motherfuckers.
Solidarity for fucking ever.

Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

It is funny how the world of labour spins. The corporate shit for brains who make a profit running Popsicle Stand Canada started up demanding longer and longer contracts because that is what their fellow parasites in your country were doing years ago. Shit for brains see, shit for brains do. Our unions followed along. "It is for the best," we were told. Why we would follow a bankrupt country's labour patterns is just one of Canada's many mysteries. Maybe next contract the companies will want short "Fuck you!" agreements. It is a god damn hamster wheel.

As for us Canadian sawmill workers: it does not matter much how long our contract is so long as our logs keep being barged down south and shipped to Asia. We would sell our women if their pay cheques were not the only thing between us and the poorhouse.

The companies and the government can take everything they want from me - except my attitude. Fuck them.