Must Be Neat In Appearance And Good With Dead People

Monday was a good day.

Four more carcasses in the ground. Four fewer people to flip off in traffic. Four fewer Early-Bird Specials. Four fewer Social Security checks draining the coffers. More oxygen for the rest of us.

And what a beautiful day for body disposal duty. Sunshine. Seventy degrees. I shed my shirt and started loading the first vault of the day. The vault is a one-ton-plus concrete box that encases the casket that encases the body. One more layer of profit for funeral directors. A sticky butyl rubber compound fills the tongue and groove fitment between vault box and vault lid. Seals in the freshness. Don’t even need to burp the lid.

My morning striptease caught the eye of the Ridin’ Boss, and he damn near spilled his coffee as he made a beeline for my nakedness. I thought I’d turned the pretty little bastard, and he was going to have his way with me right there in the boneyard.

I thought wrong. Seems the Scandahoovian Bonedump had adopted a new dress code. A gravedigger’s dress code? Corporate America is going casual and gravediggers are pouncing upon the opportunity to take up the slack? Are we taking class pictures today? I suppose this means no more farting while pulling stumps, either. No more pissing in the bushes. No more pissing in the graves.

Gotta wear a shirt, according to the human landfill board of directors. It’s only proper.

I explained that, while the board of directors has a right to implement any policy they so desire, my personal policies supercede any and all policies implemented on domestic and foreign soil. My policies universally reflect the fact that I don’t care about policies, and I am willing to sacrifice my upward mobility in the carcass disposal profession in order to feel a little sun on my back while I perform grunt manual labor. If the board of directors can find a genteel, gentile, dainty gentleman in khakis and polo shirt who is willing to dig graves and plant bodies for a buck-two-fifty an hour, by all means they should hire that candidate. While they conduct an executive search for the applicant fulfilling that pedigree, I’ll be the naked, farting, pissing guy getting these corpses in the ground before the neighbors start complaining about the stink. Or I can just go for a naked ride on my Harley. Your call. By the way, fuck you.

Like I said, Monday was a good day. Four more carcasses in the ground. Lots of sun on my back. No customer complaints. Job security that comes with a job nobody else wants to do.

I promise to wear my finest pinpoint oxford to the Gravedigger Awards Luncheon.