Working Class Warfare

A strapping young construction supervisor with (a) an uncle on the board of the Union with a pension plan administered by Lehman Brothers and (b) a brilliant future ahead of him, courtesy of his wife's new lawyer "acquaintance," was pontificating at the construction site that he could out-perform anyone on-site in any given feat of physical prowess.

He made a special case of casting vitality-related aspersions at one of the workmen of the mature, near-retirement persuasion.

After several minutes of the usual articulate and grammatically incisive abuse, the older worker'd had enough, just as he had with the wonderful Union that had ceded control of the industry to coked up polymaths with MBA's dedicated to the betterment of our working men and women across this wonderful country of ours.

"Why don't you put your money where your mouth is--Scumbag," the elderly worker inquired.

The youthful supervisor giggled three times in a row.

The old man continued: "Tell you what, asshole. I'll bet a year's salary--gross--that I can haul something in this wheelbarrow here over to that portable shithouse over there that you won't be able to wheel back--ever. Not in a day, not in a week, not until this useless project is completed, sits for a year and a half, is decommissioned and finally razed to the ground. Which means never--this is a zombie project if I ever saw one."

"You're on, old man," the youthful future SUV salesman ejaculated knowingly, following several nanoseconds of in-depth analysis and due diligence.

"Bring it on, you worthless old sonofabitch!"

The old man reached out and grabbed the wheelbarrow by the handles.

Then he nodded to the young man with the brilliant future.

"All right, my young friend. Get in."

.