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Monday, April 30, 2012

God Love You Jimmy Poon!

No matter how carefully I plan, I end up rushing. I'd worked a swap with Jimmy Poon who was on nights at North American Veeblefetzer so I could do a short shift today at the plant, where I pound out millions of size 7 grommets on the line.

I had done most of my preparation - I thought - and would have a few hours to spare before making the run to Flusherville Regional Aerodrome.

Had one eye on the clock all day and of course just as I am about to slip out the door, with Jimmy Poon covering for me, here comes Norbert, decked out in pink pants, a khaki golf shirt that looks like its made of some sort of kevlar weather balloon material, and white patent leather shoes. Norbert wants to go over some numbers with me to figure out why the matrixed veeblepounder is sometimes missing every 382,000th grommet. I can imagine my flight leaving without me, just like that...

Norbert starts going on in his lispy German accent about how is wife isn't happy with the veeblepounding she's getting.

"Turn her over to me, Norbert, I'll show her a veeblepounding she'll never forget," I mumble under my breath.

"What did you say?"

"I said fuck you Norbert." The grommet line is a very loud place.


Just as Norbert is going for his clipboard and motioning me to come with him to the office, which will put the Norbert kiss of death on my flight out of the Aerodrome, Jimmy Poon makes a move, climbing high on the line, near the hopper and deftly kicking over a big bucket of grommet releaser fluid, which resembles whale semen (so I'm told), right down the back of Norberts pink pants.

Norbert looks up at Jimmy, screaming like, well, a freshly whale-jismed asshole. Jimmy puts on a show like he is about to fall, making it clear to Norbert that it had to be pure accident.

I could kiss Jimmy Poon as Norbert is running for the executive washroom, covered in whale load, crying like a 10 year old girl and desperately fishing for the special gold executive washroom key he carries.

And just like that I'm past the crew, who are in stitches, I'm out the door, in a flash, a quick wink to Jimmy Poon, and a big thumbs up from him to me to wish me luck on the trip.

So I get home and I'm trying to cram all my life-sustaining and important equipment, supplies, chargers, cables, fuck me does it ever end??? Ah yes, and the "Day 5 change of underwear" underwear. I think I've got it all together when I realize... my carry-on rolly bag seems pretty heavy. A little worry starts in the back of my head.

I've got a box of freeze dried moose meat that I've got to get sent off to Momma Flusher. It means an extra stop on the way to the Aerodrome and an interlude with Canada Post, which means that pretty much any kind of a cluster fuck might happen.

Finally, after checking everything in the house 3 times, driving 50 feet down the road, driving back, going in, checking some other shit some more and closing the living room curtains, I'm out. Traffic woes. People in front of me. Red lights. The stress is building. I do NOT want to miss that flight, with the promise of $120 in April freeplay at the end of it all.

Canada Post at Shoppers Thug Mart does their job surprisingly well this day, making only one mistake - marking the bill for the moose meat shipping as debit instead of credit. Whatever. I'm out of there and at the Aerodrome at last, with a little time to spare!

I'm still a little nervous about my rolly. It seems really heavy. Like there are scuba weights in there. I walk up to the the counter and the first thing I see are a couple of dumb students from the Flusherville hairdressing school, heading home after the semester. They have luggage. And boxes. And carry-ons. And they are going through EVERYTHING, setting aside this and that.

One look and I know what's happened. They are overweight. WAY overweight for what the AeroCrashSpatiale Beechditch 6900 Whimperfan engined Turbodump we're all flying on can carry.

And they are frantically looking for items to ditch. Poor dumbass hairdressing students!

At the counter, the moment comes when Counter Attendant Sledge says to me "Put your rolly on for weighing."

I do.

And sure enough, with a hard limit of 22 pounds, my rolly checks in at 25.2 pounds.

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