Posted on 02/26/2011 1:38:34 PM PST by Squawk 8888
I’m not the wiener peeler, I’m the wiener peeler’s son, And I’m only peeling wieners, ‘Til the wiener peeler comes.
I apologize to pheasant pluckers’ sons everywhere for stealing their tongue-twister.
But who can resist when my Internet fairy, Irene, drops this job ad on my desk? “Get out your resume,” she purrs.
I pause in processing Moonlight Lady submissions, and take a boo.
“Full-time Wiener Peeler,” says the ad.
Wazzat? I ask. A red-hot stripper?
“No. As in weenie. It’s got you written all over it, ” says Irene, and she flutters off.
Well, I’m getting sick of grinding out daily columns like hamburger. So I read on.
“Opportunity. Excitement. Teamwork. Respect.
“At Maple Leaf Foods we are committed to attracting, rewarding and retaining talented people who are passionate about making a positive impact in their professional and personal lives every day.”
A noble mission. What better way to pursue it than as a bona fide full-time professional wiener peeler. The opening is at Maple Leafs’ hotdog plant in Hamilton.
Imagine the awe when you tell fellow partiers your occupation.
Picture the lineup of schools recruiting for career days.
The teachers may giggle, but the kids will scream for free samples.
You’re on Price Is Right and Drew Carey says, “What d’ya do for a living up in Canada, Mikey?”
I peel wieners, Drew.
“Good for you. Wiener peeler. Hmmm. reminds me, folks, get your pets spayed or neutered.”
Anyway, I check around and find yet another job opening at Maple Leaf. Wiener stuffer. Hit it ...
I’m not the wiener stuffer
I’m the wiener stuffer’s son
I’m only stuffing ...
(Ed. note: Stop that, you hotdogger, or we’ll make you pose for a picture like Gilles Duceppe in the silly hairnet.)
NO! Not that! I’ll do anything, boss.
The photo of Duceppe in a cheese factory was a body blow to the Bloc. He looked like a weenie. Un chien chaud. Un hotdog.
I wonder. How do wiener peelers and stuffers look? All dressed?
I call Linda Smith at Maple Leaf Foods and ask: What company wit came up with those job titles?
“They’re in the union contract,” she says. “They’re really a kind of food-processing operator.”
So machines do the actual stuffing and peeling. Thank God. I can’t imagine sitting there all day, fingers numb, going, “hundred thousand and one weenies, hundred thousand and two weenies, hundred thousand and ...”
The wiener stuffer fills the tubular collagen casings with hot dog sludge. Since you asked, the ooze typically comprises mechanically separated chicken, pork, beef, water, wheat gluten, salt, sodium phosphate, spice, dextrose, corn syrup solids, sodium erythorbate, garlic powder, onion powder, sodium nitrite and smoke.
If you need to ask what mechanically separated chicken is, don’t.
Or go eat a veggie burger.
Once the dogs have been divided and smoked and solidified, the wiener peeler removes the casings.
The stuffer and peeler look like hazmat officials or Apollo astronauts.
They wear blue rubber and plastic head to toe, with hairnet, hardhats and mask. Plus earmuffs. Yes. All those dogs barking.
The hirings, says Smith, are to gear up for summer, when 60% of wieners are sold.
What a great job, eh?
I assume you get to take home any bent, twisted or otherwise defective wieners.
And you’d be in the pantheon of careers with chicken sexer, pet food tester, bounty hunter, odor reader, fortune cookie writer, golf ball diver and newspaper hack.
Plus, you’re wrapped in a soft, warm union. The Brotherhood of Bun Fillers (BBF), or whatever it’s called.
I can picture the negotiations:
“We want a raise, a longer lunch, three weeks holiday, dental coverage and pension improvements.
“But hold the mustard.”
I can’t imagine, Darks.
I’m sorry.
Reminds me of the movie Premonition.
When dreams come true for me, they are mostly benign. I see the people who will be in my life, and the surroundings I will be in. Unfortunately, I often/mostly don’t understand the context of what I am experiencing.
Then, one day, I ‘See it!’, and remember.
A lot of good that does me.
Life’s like that.
For the lucky it’s always a surprise.
Date on the sketch if Feb 1999.
Hmm.
When it happens, I try to ignore it.
why?
Because, it is annoying and doesn’t help in any fashion.
Sketch was titled “Introit”, and the date glyph style I used says the day was the Feb 8th ‘99.
I've never thought about it.
There are dreams that involve everyone being upset about some situation.
Maybe if/when something big happens, if I try to imprint date, time, country, etc. on my mind, I will be able to remember the context of my dreams in enough time to warn people.
Sort of a reverse time travel. More like time transcendence?
Or not.
That’s the whole problem.
Trying to figure out the time. ing.
I always figured it was the mind grasping onto subtle subconscious information bits and drawing a conclusion.
The image was annoying, and wouldn’t get out of my head.
But that was all there was, the image and nothing else.
Darn this sketch has faded.
I didn’t spray it with fixative, and the paper itself apparently isn’t archival acid free.
I’ll have to find some way to cheat.
I don’t even want to approach this subject except to say, “The things I’ve experienced along this vein are frightening to say the least.” I could ‘splain, but it would most likely creep everyone out.
It’s very cool that you still have it.
I am kinda freaking out for the fact we have 5ft of snow. The ground is frozen solid. Cannot bury her yet here.
Could your vet cremate her? That way, you wouldn’t have to stress about the frozen ground.
Could you use what you know to save other people?
It would have to be frozen and snow covered, wouldn’t it.
It’s expensive at most vets, but cremation is available.
Mrcoldone does not want to do that.
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