The Department of Labor. In 2004 the DOL adopted a seriously more aggressive approach to dealing with rogue employers. I had been planted in the HR department of HO Widgets two years ago surveilling the clearly illegal office romanze of Ms. Bubbles and CEO HO.
But I stumbled upon much more than I had bargained for . . . there was a connection to the illegal employment of aliens--hundreds of them--throughout this area. It was
[font size="1" color="#FF0000"]LAST EDITED ON 02-24-04 AT 11:36AM (CST)[/font][br][br]a cross between X-files and Hawaii Five-O. And now my sights were set on the Union Steward, who was now cowering in the corner. Bitingly, I said to him...
"Whaddya think I am? Stupid? I've been on to you for quite some time, but you were just so wrapped up in yourself that you got careless. You can stop the 'act' now . . . I know who you REALLY are and what you've been doing here. Now I'm gonna
Meanwhile, the crying employee realizing no one was paying attention to them, was trying to decide whether to change back to a man thinking that as a woman no one cared why he/she/it was crying.
It's not at all like it appears, snivelled the guy who we'd thought for years was the union steward. Actually, I'm the Onion Steward, in charge of a nationwide onion importing operation. You've wondered for two years why people cry around me and now, I'm afraid you know the truth.
Just then, the fire alarm went off! People were frantically running down the hall. Poor Mrs. Mendlebright was trampled right before my eyes! Someone shouted, "run for your lives, it's....
[font size="1" color="#FF0000"]LAST EDITED ON 02-24-04 AT 01:36PM (CST)[/font][br][br]its...its....That frizzy headed woman who was at the top of the Forum for awhile; She's crawling down the ladder to the onion tank! She's...she's... my God, she's pulling her head off, her head, her, she's running down the hall in my direction with her head in her hand and, God, it was a false head, she dropped it, she's...she's...my God She's really James, get under the desks for God's sakes, he's got a mallet of some sort and he's got people with him. Margaret! Brad! And some bald guy. It's a terrible nightmare. They're going to kill us all. The door, it....
Mr. Ho is going to laugh his head off when I tell him about this dream. I get ready for work and rush out the door hoping I'm not late for my termination interview with Ima Hogg.
Suddenly, I stop, remembering, the DOL and the real reason they had come to my office. They are investigating trading abuses by pension fund administrators. I'd better make that call and give a heads up to ...
... to ... the CEO who is at this moment on a flight to CA to attend a pension fund junket with our new hire Bubbles, who actually, after an extensive background check, I found out is really ..... Bobby in drag. Seems the CEO and bobby will also be married while they are there and will be ....
...the front page story in HR Legal issues regarding gay and transgender marriages. As I looked back on my wierd, unusual dream, I remembered a very strange conversation I had with our union steward, who relayed a strange story to me. This story had been responsible for many sleepless nights of late. As I drove to work, I mulled over the highlights of the story. It seems the steward had stumbled upon...
....the family hideaway in rural Arkansas. (fast forward) A decidedly crisp, piercingly brilliant crack of the hickory disturbes an otherwise peaceful visit to the tetering, old two-holer outhouse. They both scramble for flashlights, realizing the weathered privy has been struck and is sure as hellfire sliding down the slope toward the pond. Giving only casual thought to the fact that their britches hung on nails halfway up the hill, they scream in unison, hoping the half-drunk Harley will hear....
their screams. But . . . as they reached the spot where the privy once stood, they began to lose their footing. The mud seemed to grasp at their feet, pulling, pulling, pulling them downward. They reached for each other, but too late...they began to slip and slide down the slope, straight toward the pond. They strugged to stop their descent, but to no avail. In the bullrushes at the edge of the pond, they could see the outline of the broken privy's boards--like giant jagged hands with malformed fingers reaching up to welcome them . . .
...to a fate worse than death. Suddenly, a massive hand came from just out of camera range stage left and broke he perilous, inexorable slide toward the pond. Stunned, exhausted and decidedly stinky the saved souls looked up toward their benefactor and savior in his camouflage fatigues, web gear and helmet. It was none other than Col. Mustard, noted medal of honor winner, former SEAL, Special Forces, Combat Controller, Forward Air Controller, Ranger, busboy and parking lot attendant. Now working undercover for the Department of Labor in the Bureau of Crossgender Marriage Abatement, Col. Mustard will enlist these two brave souls in his campaign to quantify, calculate and determine quotas for crossgender affirmative action plans before...
before taking off on his next assignment, to save the world from the horrible flue flu which was causing the world to go up in smoke. He expected to save the world by
he found they were alreading in consulting with the CDC - and found that the flue flu is very prevalent in the transsexual community. Armed with this information they
redacted the testimony and opinions of the penultimate contributor and reviewed the reports of all who had witnesses the outhouse sliding into the pond. One or both could concievably have been infected with an unlimited variety of ills; but, testimony was in conflict, and none disagreed that two naked individuals, however disguised, had slid into the sludge bottom of the pond and only one of them had emerged....and, crawling through the thick, slippery mud to grasp the thin sappling, he announced....
I think we're on a road to nowhere. Let me use my GPS trasponder to find out just how lost we are. Hmmmm... it's worse than I thought, I don't know if well ever get back on track.
...a neon sign that is flashing on and off, on and off. The words "HR Hero's Entrance" in bold letters are imprinted burned into my brain. At the base of the sign I can just see the outline of a person, flicking the switch for the sign on and off. The light beckons and I crawl my way out of the muck to the beacon of hope. As I draw near, the identity of the person is becoming more clear. Suddenly, headlights from the nearby road illuminate the person. With a gasp I recognize...
John B. Phillips, Jr.! What's that behind him? A Harley, an odd-looking, God-forsaken tree with glass branches! Why he's trying to emulate someone so familiar, but could it be ...
Comments
suddenly, A SHOT RANG OUT!
... and she crumpled to the ground, folding like a cheap deck chair.
Mr. Ho is going to laugh his head off when I tell him about this dream. I get ready for work and rush out the door hoping I'm not late for my termination interview with Ima Hogg.
....the family hideaway in rural Arkansas. (fast forward) A decidedly crisp, piercingly brilliant crack of the hickory disturbes an otherwise peaceful visit to the tetering, old two-holer outhouse. They both scramble for flashlights, realizing the weathered privy has been struck and is sure as hellfire sliding down the slope toward the pond. Giving only casual thought to the fact that their britches hung on nails halfway up the hill, they scream in unison, hoping the half-drunk Harley will hear....