I woke up first. Stealthily I slipped out of the covers like a ninja lynx. I tiptoed across the room. My wife was zonked and she needed to sleep in. With God as my witness I vowed to do my part.
On the bedroom doorknob hung the finest shirt that I owned. I have this annoying habit of putting shirts on knobs rather than hanging them up. It drives my wife nuts. I had worn it to a funeral the day before. My Sunday best consists of a black short-sleeved button-up shirt, the only blue jeans I own without holes in the knees, white socks and a pair of sneakers. Yep, that’s as good as it gets.
I wanted to keep noise out of the bedroom but I couldn’t close the door all the way because of the cats. They show great magic at doors that are closed to them and that would undoubtedly wake her up. So I gently nudged the door so it was mostly closed to help keep out light and noise.
In a good mood, I then proceeded to start my day. Little did I know it was already too late. The berg had already been struck. I just didn’t know it yet.
A few seconds later and my wife was up. What the hell?!
“What are you doing awake, my Queen?” I politely inquired.
“The cats were in the bedroom and they couldn’t get out.”
“But I left the door cracked just so that wouldn’t happen, my love.”
“Your goddamned shirt was in the way. They couldn’t get out.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“That’s not all,” she added.
I was filled with dread.
“They shredded your shirt.”
And, sometimes, that’s all it takes. Get out of bed and the hammer of life comes down hard and bone-crushingly shatters you, your dreams and even your shirt.
I looked at my watch. I’d been awake for 42 seconds.
It’s late. So late that it’s already dark out. I’m sleepy from sitting in front of the TV for six solid hours under a blankie and shoveling down an entire container of ice cream. Like a zombie I stumble to my feet and stagger towards the bedroom.
“Need… sleep… now…”
No one ever claimed that eloquence is my strong suit.
Finally I reach the doorway and lean against it for support. Must rest. Almost there. Stay on target. Stay on target.
Then I glance at the bed. The covers are completely gone. Nothing but a naked mattress and box springs await. And that’s not exactly the type of naked I had in mind.
Shut up, kid. It’s not like Obi Wan just got bisected with a lightsaber.
“They got washed. The rebel dryer containing clean bedding will be in range in 15 minutes.”
“But I wanted to sleep now!!!”
Why do sheets have to be clean? For that matter, why do we have to sheets at all?
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labor union: just about the only people on planet Earth who give a flying shit about the plight of the lowly worker.
–Source: not Wikipedia
What is a labor union?
If we think of the employer/employee paradigm as a formula, on one side of the equation we find power, control, the ability to make decisions, have a hand in the company’s fate, profit, dignity, respect, ties to government, legislation, influence, and much, much more.
The labor union is that which stands to protect all that remains on the other side of that equation.
There may be a lot of power-imbalanced relationships in the average person’s life, but the relationship between employer and employee is most likely at the top of that list. Bar none.
Are labor unions perfect? No. Do they have flaws? Yes. After all, they are comprised of flawed human beings just like every other human-based organizational unit on planet Earth. They are, however, just about the last bastion of hope for the average worker who stands opposed in the face of overwhelming injustice and the imbalance of power.
Like my daddy used to say, it’s enough to make me go burlap.
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