THE DIRTY BOMB!

It had to happen sooner or later. Some heartless, unfeeling terrorist was going to leave, what scientists term, a "dirty" bomb, in a backpack, briefcase or doggy bag . A WMD so insidious, so horrible, that it would leave a large area virtually uninhabitable for a very long period of time. Who knew that it would happen in the very pizza store where I work? Who knew it would be the result of a "home grown" terrorist? The saga began several days ago when one of our drivers went into the store's large walk-in cooler to do his "side work". Side work is a domestic type task that is assigned to each driver to perform each day after he is done with deliveries. It can be anything from washing all the dishes, emptying the trash, sweeping the floor or, in this case, fluffing the cheese. This last task requires one to enter the cooler, open approximately 20-10 pound boxes of shredded pizza cheese and hand fluff up the bags so that the cheese will thaw properly. On Monday, Adam, an early twenties something college student/driver, had completed his deliveries and was ready to do his side work. He entered the cooler and about 10 seconds later came staggering out, eyes watering and gagging over a trash container.

He yelled to know one in particular, as he leaned against the wall, "Dude, that's just not right. That's just rude!"

Nathan, an insider, a worker who makes pizzas and takes orders(usually too young to be a driver), walked around the corner to see what the problem was.
Adam said, "Man, Dude, somebody better check their shorts because what they left in the cooler just isn't right, Dude."

"What do you mean, Dude", Nathan asked?

"You know, somebody burned a mule...left a dirty bomb, you know"?

Nathan, "Somebody farted in the walk-in cooler?"

"Fart doesn't cover that", Adam responded, "I think they had an out of the body experience. You know like... get this thing out of my body. Any way, I'm telling Chaz(the assistant manager) that I'm not going back in there."

"Dude, we need pizza sauce and it's in there," Nathan stated. They both stared at the closed cooler door.

Adam finally broke the brief silence, "I wouldn't eat anything that came out of there for days. It's got to have, like you know, a nuclear half life or something, you know? "

"It could freeze and just hang in the air or something waiting for the next person to come in", Nathan added.

I had been standing behind both of them, at the corner sink doing dishes, my side job. I said, "I'll go in and get the sauce. You guys are just Florida wooses. You have obviously have never been on a Boy Scout camp out in the Midwest in November. I have seen the Scouts have to throw tents away after couping up 6 guys in there. You want to talk about dirty bombs. Plus, I grew up with six people in a house with one bathroom. I can hold my breath with the best of them."

"OK Dude but if you go down, we're not coming in to get you!"
http://www.heptune.com/farts.html

WHUH?

WHUH (or W-HUH?) is what I have been calling the AM radio station that blasts out of the whitish chevy's speakers each and ever time I start it up. I have previously referred to the station as broadcasting in an Afro-Mexican-Pentecostal revolving format which means, I never quite know what I am going to get. The reason I call it W-H-U-H(KHUH for those of you west of the Mississippi) is because I really don't understand it or I really don't understand it. Recently, I was taking a morning jaunt and had a woman's voice jumping out of the speakers at me, as soon as I cranked up the whitish' engine. Deaconess Jones, it seems, was in mid sermon rant. She screamed,...AND SHE DON'T HAVE THE POWA THAT SHE THINK SHE HAVE, THAT SHE REALLY DO HAVE"! Now, I'm no theologian and I have learned that God will speak to me in many ways through many different types of people but if God is trying to speak to me through the good Deaconess, I need a translator.

I got out of the car to go into the store, when I came back out and fired up the whitish, they must have(I can only hope) changed formats. A marginally talented woman in a fairly unprofessional mix was singing, ...."and my man he stay out all night, he don't treat me right, that's why I'm goin lookin for the poontang(excuse me if sic) man,yeah baby, that's what they call him, the Poontang(does one capitalize poontang?) Man..." Can they say that on the radio? I guess so.