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July 14, 2005

Volume 3, Issue 14

Overtime. Use the word or the concept.

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The scene was chaotic: blood splattered over the windows, police sirens screaming. Sgt. Polowski kept his rifle low as he aimed through his scope at the gunman.

The body count was high in that little convenience store. Two punks out in front; the fat one was blown right through the head. The girlfriend lying in a red pool right in front of the door; the lasagna pan upturned next to her. He could see the perp holding a video store guy hostage.

As the sniper gently squeezed the trigger, the gunman yelled, “I’m not even supposed to be here today!”

Posted by: TheMightyEmu at July 14, 2005 7:54 AM · Permalink

The house was still; the wife and kids were finally asleep. He sat down in the blue glare of the monitor and tapped the keyboard.

“I ain’t working,” the cowhand declared, removing his Stetson and wiping his sweaty brow.

The private detective slammed a shot of whisky and nodded. “Me, either.”

“It’s union rules,” agreed the star captain heroically. “Bylaw 35 – No member is required to work past 8 pm without overtime compensation. Time and a half.”

The writer sighed, shut off the computer, and went to bed. The Plot Devices and Stereotypes Guild was a pain in the ass.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at July 14, 2005 8:42 AM · Permalink

Don't talk to me about overtime, buddy.

Let me tell you about my last shift, in 04-11-1927. Popped into Manhattan at noon, spend two hours getting an uptime clown who was short-selling the market into handcuffs. Then it's over to Charleston, 12:15 to break up a money pipeline to the Klan, another two hours. Then I get sent to Oklahoma, 11:07 AM (12:07 Eastern) to save some Supreme Court judge's great-great-grandfather from death by tornado. Another two hours. So I'm working those same two hours three times, all told. And the Temporal Authority suits think they're generous giving me time-and-a-half?

Posted by: Jeff R. at July 14, 2005 10:19 AM · Permalink

Dad looked up at me across the picnic table. “Now that you’re starting your first job, there are some things you should know,” he said.

“Sure, Dad,” I replied eagerly, sitting down and setting down my cap and name badge.

“They’ll offer you overtime,” he began. “Sure, the extra money will seem good. But don’t accept it. Just work your shifts and then come home.” He paused and looked over at his rusted trailer; all the home he could afford after Mom divorced him. Tears pooled at the bottom of his eyes. “Remember that your first priority is your family.”

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at July 14, 2005 10:23 AM · Permalink

It’s amazing how adrenaline can keep you going.
H+100 – 100 hours after crossing the berm, and I’d slept a combined total of maybe 8 or those, in one to two hour naps here and there.
Dried blood and sweat matted the sleeve of my nomex overalls. My wingman popped a T-72 that was not 50 yards from me, and a little piece of Russian made armor turned to shrapnel had found a path just inside my vest.
I thought of my girl back home. It’s 3 A.M. in Austin. She’d be sleeping.
Brings a new definition to the word “Overtime.”

Posted by: Tanker J.D. at July 14, 2005 10:23 AM · Permalink

I don’t speak Grunt well, but I manage a deal where I spend an hour in hand-to-hand with a local Neanderthal. If I survive, I get the info I need to continue the Quest. If I don’t survive, I don’t need the info. Works for me.

The gong sounds. The hour’s up. I look to the Chief. “Give,” I grunt. He grins.

“No. Overtime.” The grin morphs into a smirk.

“Overtime? What overtime?” I’m exhausted; Mr. Neanderthal isn’t. No way I’ll survive another hour. “How long until I win?”

“Game in overtime. Play till sudden death.”

I'm in big trouble.

Posted by: Essay at July 14, 2005 10:48 AM · Permalink

All the jolly Foo Fumplings
In the wee town of Weiss,
Worked at a small factory
Baking Fooberry pies.

“Just look at them all sitting there,”
The boss said to his friend in the hat.
“They eat half what they make
And they’re all getting so fat.”

“But they won’t burn the fat off,”
Replied his hat wearing friend.
“They just clock out and go home
When their shifts come to an end.”

So the boss lengthened their work days
To help burn off the calories.
And to cut down on paying overtime
He put the Foo Fumplings on salaries.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at July 14, 2005 11:09 AM · Permalink

With my sincerest apologies to the good Doctor.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at July 14, 2005 11:09 AM · Permalink

"Okay, I need you guys to work this weekend, It’s Easter, this is more important.”

“So,” I said, “is it mandatory?”

“No it’s not really mandatory, but that’s not being a team player around here.” She squinted at me with her beady little eyes and her gut hung out over the waistband of her long skirt. She held a large bag of M&M’s in her hand. “Here, I got you this,” she said as she flung it on my desk.

“You’ll be here too?” I said.

“Going to the beach,” she said as she waddled out.

Someone muttered, “fuckin bitch.”

Posted by: Amalie at July 14, 2005 11:32 AM · Permalink

"Oh man, I've got it, let's write a tune about our ridiculously easy lives as rock stars."

"Sounds good, dude, we can make fun of all those poor bastards who have to get up out of bed every day and go to a real job."

"Yep, waking up early to a blaring alarm clock, having to ride a crowded train at 8:15, slaving away at a job all day, that must really suck."

"Totally...., being a musician is definitely where its at, no doubt about that."

"Yeah, haha, how about this one.....we're just taking care of business....and hohoho, working overtime!"

Posted by: K. Brown at July 14, 2005 12:01 PM · Permalink

We round, fat Foo Fumplings
Who bake pies, not Dumplings
In the quaint but wee village of Weiss
Abused by our bosses
Who, to cut their losses
Made us non-exempt bakers of pies

We had the last laugh, though
As our last paychecks show
Full Health coverage and dental we've earned
As our benefits mount,
Let us now take account
And look back on the lessons we've learned:

Hat wearing consultants
Can spout and spout nonsense
But they'll take all the dough that they can.
And Seuss imitators
One Hundred words later
Should make sure that their lyrics can scan

Posted by: Jeff R. at July 14, 2005 12:09 PM · Permalink

A Central American butterfly flitted, heedless of generating a tiny waft of turbulence.

Days later and far away, Drake stepped off, controlling the butterflies in his stomach. "Ice in my veins," he thought. A good kick would send the game into overtime, giving him a chance to beat the spread: he’d save his own life.

The long-snapper fired the ball, Rick caught it and placed it to the ground, spinning the laces away. Drake kicked it and watched: it would be close, angling towards the upright, close….

The ref waved his arms: wide right, by the merest puff of wind.

Posted by: Kevin at July 14, 2005 12:15 PM · Permalink

Very nice, Mr. R. :)

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at July 14, 2005 1:20 PM · Permalink

Exhausted and beaten, they all gave up on their tasks
Of making Fooberry pies and wearing Fooberry masks.
The Foo Fumplings then left the poor village of Weiss
And they all moved to Las Vegas (the famed city of vice).

They drank the free cocktails and attended a show,
Then the silly Foo Fumplings gambled away all their dough.
Finally, broke and dejected, back to Weiss they were drawn
But their old town had crumbled and the buildings were gone.

(If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to Seussian rhyme.
But sometimes I fall down, like Weiss over time.)

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at July 14, 2005 1:55 PM · Permalink

It is quite a pity
That building a city's
Not as easy as baking a pie.
Or that Fooberry wine
While it may pass the time,
Will not make you a more handsome guy.

(Or that fitting the theme
for this day's Nesmann meme
Must be well-hidden and not overt;
I'm extremely worn out
juggling rhyme, scan, and count
Like some microfictional hair shirt.)

But to get to the point
Of this Doctor S. Joint
The Foo Fumbles were not without hope
Though the village was dust
And the factory rust
They could still sell the land to some dope!

Posted by: Jeff R. at July 14, 2005 3:02 PM · Permalink

(Like others, I barely –
Well, sometimes, but rarely –
Go overtime with posting here.
But today is uncommon,
And I don’t mean to egg on,
And I hope that you know I’m sincere.)

Foo Fumplings don’t fumble,
Though sometimes they stumble,
Because gambling is a disease.
They went for a few sessions
Where they learned some good lessons
And they were soon cured with great ease.

They rebuilt their town
(The one that fell down).
They put up a pie factory, too.
Now with the boss gone,
And the guy with the hat on,
Fooberry pie was back on the menu.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at July 14, 2005 3:51 PM · Permalink

“Are they still going at it?” Tanya asked Laurence as Andy, Michelle and The Eschatologist madly pounded away at their daily contributions.
“Who? These guys?” Inquired Laurence, gesturing at his typing colleagues. “I guess so, but I never knew one hundred words could take so long.”
“Uh... No, I didn’t mean them,” clarified Tanya. “But you’re right. They seem to be burning the candle as both ends. And actually, I meant the white-boy rap off going on in the comments section.”
“Oh THAT!” Laurence brightened up. “Well... I think the score is tied. What should we do?”
“Declare an overtime.”

Posted by: Tanker J.D. at July 14, 2005 4:16 PM · Permalink

He wandered. Lost. Sometimes tentative, sometimes defiant, sometimes, well, yes, sometimes. The path was long lost, the goal...elusive and forgotten.

Came up to a crossroads. He looked down each path. Indecisive, he fell to his knees. It was too much.

The accident had happened, he knew that. He knew that he was responsible and he knew he could never make it right.

Unless

Unless

It slipt away from his thoughts, elusive and forgotten.

They had told him that he had 3-4 weeks. Then what? If they knew the answer, they didn't tell him or he couldn't remember.

They watched silently.

Posted by: JAB at July 14, 2005 9:05 PM · Permalink

The joy of the hit. Very few people have ever been able to understand. When I talk about it, I usually get reactions that show the listeners aren't quite sure I'm human.

But every once in a while I run into someone who gets it. We talk about the blood and the sweat. The shots to the kidneys, the hits so hard our heads ring. I was lucky enough to play noseguard. That meant on a good play I had as many as three blockers coming at me and a running back.

When I was lucky, I even got overtime.

Posted by: Gahrie at July 14, 2005 10:24 PM · Permalink