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.”
In my case, LoM certainly will! *\;^)
Being really good at something sure contributes to happiness.
Good for you, Sion.
How long are you going to be in London?
I bet!
:-)
Not too long in London. I leave Saturday morning, arrive Sunday morning; meetings start Monday noon (so the Europeans can fly in that morning) and our business ends Wednesday early evening. Thursday I visit a nearby office; Friday morning I fly out and that night I arrive home.
How did things go today?
I've already accounted for that. I created an alter ego in my fiction who is taller, wiser, and kinder than I am.
Y'all can fantasize about him if you want.
I know. It’s so hard.
I didn’t notice a post yet.
I can’t imagine such a man.
I can only imagine him.
Even he makes mistakes. Here he admits it.
"You were lifted out of your boyhood and put in a place where you thought you were supposed to be a man. Even I told you that you must do what a man would do. I am sorry that I betrayed you in this way.
“I should never have asked you not to be a boy. It is a time of life that is as magical as a rainbow, and seems as fleeting as a soap bubble. Some of us let it go too soon, and are forever after like baby birds, fallen from their nest; unable to fly, and yet not able to return to the nest either.”
“Are you saying then, that I should go back home? I do not know if Mama will let me.”
“No. I did not mean that, though if you truly want that to happen I will make it happen! No, what I meant was not that you should return to your home, but that you should return to your joy.”
Talk about a Restorative!
I’m figuring a little extra salt on my breakfast, and I’m good.
Good night, all.
48 and cloudy, back from Walmart. Bill went with me because he needed more hair pomade. And I bought Frank a new comb. There will be tears!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j2ZXco32IRU
Shango - “Day After Day (It’s Slippin’ Away)”
I heard this song years ago and I just found it on youtube.
I thought the song had the line.
“where will the poor hippies when there is no San Francisco. “
It doesn’t, I guess I can up with that on my own.
O hai. I have to cook supper now.
Ojai. Busy day.
Der Prinz expects to have a job offer by Friday.
THAT’s good news!!!!!
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