Pandingham was relieved of his duties at Geneseo because of the general rot and decay of the American mind, which wouldn’t know the road less traveled from the long and winding road or the Yellow Brick Road. Cuts to staff caused by low enrollment also contributed to his dismissal.

Due to high driver turnover Pandingham was fast-tracked into his new position with FedEx, which used to absolutely positively get it there overnight, but now gets it there if the weather is pretty good and there aren’t too many call-ins. He likes the quick-paced, physical nature of the job, but is having some trouble assimilating with his co-workers because of his intellectual past.

An issue arose in his first few days during the mundane task of “balancing” with the delivery routes around him. Balancing ensures that all the routes have roughly the same amount of work on any given day. Pandingham responded to a request for his stop and package counts with some verse:   

Packages, there are a-many
Stops there are a-lot
Help, I would take any
That’d save my soul
From this wicked plot…

While the verse produced several curious looks and some whispering among co-workers, an incident a few days later almost turned violent. During the morning sort, where trucks are loaded with that day’s deliveries, the guy who runs the Lackawanna route, Lenny Lazaroni, was caught up with a package that needed retaping, just as Demi Lovato’s “Really Don’t Care” came on the radio. Lazaroni asked Pandingham to forward the station because the song reminded him of his whore ex-wife, who took all his money, his kids, and was living in his house with some fuckhead named Brad.

Pandingham did as requested, and the search landed on the classical station, which happened to be playing “Rhapsody in Blue,” with Khatia Buniatishvili at the piano. Pandingham was over the moon for this version of the classic Gershwin composition. So taken, he waved his arms playfully in the air, on his way over to help Lazaroni with the package, and said, “I just love Khatia’s Rhapsody—she’s so capricious and sensuous.”

Lazaroni dropped the tape gun, grabbed Pandingham by the collar, and said, “Look, man, I don’t fucking go that way—I like girls. If you ever say shit like that to me again, I’ll fuck you up. Don’t try me. I got nothing, so I got nothing to lose.”

Pandingham was able to smooth that over, but just barely, and was making some progress with co-workers—bitching about dogs on his route and Dumper Dave, a co-worker who routinely dumped all his stops and went home early. Then, one afternoon, just as he was heading out to do a pickup run, Laura showed up.

Laura was his old Geneseeo colleague and paramour. She was waiting for him outside the building with her Shakespeare and Keats. Laura refused to go on antidepressants because she didn’t want to dull her senses. She wanted to feel the hot blood course through her veins. She wanted to feel her own fire. Once, she stabbed Pandingham in the side due to a disagreement over a line in Byron.

He was smitten looking at her as she leaned up against her beat-up 2009 Volvo, pulling on her Marlboro, thick with Jim Beam. Though he needed this job, like a bowtie goes to a pretentious windbag’s neck or a beret goes to a self-important asshole’s head, he went straight for her.

Pandingham managed to escape with a warning after blowing off the pickup route. He’s unsure how long he can keep up this charade, especially if Laura keeps coming around. But until they send him on sabbatical, he’ll keep punching in and trying to hide his intellectual past.  

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“Besides being a doormat at work, anybody who knows me also knows my balls have been residing in the darkness of my wife’s purse for the entire time we’ve been married. That’s definitely not going to change, but this new thing where I can troll and own libtards is sure going to feel good,” McBovine said.

Former co-worker P.A.Kane, the 1.5 millionth ranked most popular Amazon author thinks McBovine’s trolling aspirations are a great idea. “Mark would be a fabulous right wing troll. He’s never read a book, he’s not clever, his media literacy is non-existent and most of all he craves attention. I can so see him on Mark Poloncarz’s Twitter page telling the County Executive to stick something where the sun doesn’t shine or instructing one of these moony snowflakes: Do your research . . .

To start out McBovine plans to focus on Hunter Biden. With no real understanding of history or policy McBovine feels a baby step toward becoming a real troll would be to kick at the President though his son, who has a history of suspect business practices and drug abuse. But tying Hunter Biden and his shady deals to the President, despite a lack of evidence, is not really the point according to McBovine. “The point of trolling is to be an asshole. Who cares what Hunter Biden did or didn’t do, I just want to own Brandon and all the cuck dummycrats. I mean, what would be better than sticking your thumb in the eye of a goody-two-shoes like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, who wants to do hard things like address climate change and social inequities. Who the hell does AOC think she is—JFK?”   

McBovine hopes to use Hunter Biden as a springboard to engage in other hot button issues like “woke culture” and CRT—Critical Race Theory. He’s not exactly sure what either is, but if Trump and Meatball Ron are against them—so is he. “You know, all this “woke” stuff is just another ploy by the commiecrats meant to make old white guys like me feel bad about waking up fifty times a night to pee and then having to nap all day long. And CRT is some bullshit about preventing school age children from learning about the NASCAR racing strategy. What’s more American than naps and NASCA? Nothing—and I’m not having it bitches.” 

While McBovine is coming for all the Obama loving, kale eating, podcast listening, George Soros handout getting dumbocrats he asks that you engage him mono on mono because If his wife finds out he’s vying for attention and trying to have a personality of his own she’ll move his balls from her purse proper to her change purse with all those hard edged pennies and dimes.  

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Arcade, NY—On the Saturday before Christmas, with darkness approaching, steady snow and thirty-seven deliveries left, rural FedEx Express driver Chuck Ollenburg’s Mercedes Sprinter slipped helplessly into a ditch off of Route 39 in the Arcade hills. Despite good tire tread, low gear and six-hundred pounds of sand bags weighing down the back end the truck was no match for mother nature. Thankfully, Chuck still had cell reception and was able contact his dispatcher and secure a tow…in three hours.

After running through a series of useless curses directed at all the lazy ass online Amazon and Wal-Mart shoppers Chuck quietly accepted his fate. Looking at social media he became thoroughly depressed seeing friends and family all gearing up for a night holiday cheer while he sat in this ditch, knowing he was going to spend Christmas Eve delivering the remaining  thirty-seven stops on his truck.

With nothing to do Chuck’s mind drifted back to his high school bedroom, where he was doing  one hitters, listening to Insane Clown Posse, while trying to do his Algebra homework. He remembered being really close to solving an equation using the Pythagorean theorem, but he just couldn’t work it out and instead of texting his math whiz friend Tommy Sargente, he did another hit, turned up the ICP and said to himself, When am I ever going to need this Algebra bullshit. He then tried to get Haley Smith, this girl he had his eye on, to return his texts.  

His revelry was broken by a tapping noise on the side of truck. Momentarily Chuck thought it was the tow, two hours early. YES, he said to himself.  But it wasn’t the tow, it was the nice Amish man whose ditch Chuck was sitting in. The man asked if he wanted to come, keep warm in the house while he waited for the tow. Sitting at this angle Chuck didn’t think it was a good idea to keep the engine running while he waited and accepted the man’s offer.

His name was Jacob Soltzfus and he was a clockmaker…a passionate clockmaker. After some delicious freshly baked bread and tea Soltzfus showed him his clocks. Chuck wasn’t much into clocks, but he did admire Soltzfus passion, even if it was for something as weird as clocks. This prompted another memory and a hasty exit from Soltzfus’ house.

He tried to fight it but walking down that long icy driveway Chuck couldn’t get another passionate guy out of his mind, his Uncle Joey, a Union Plumber. When it became apparent Chuck was a washout at school his mom got him an apprenticeship with his Uncle Joey, who was forever talking valves and water pressure and his Union brothers. He remembered a heated argument between Uncle Joey and his Dad which came to blows when his Dad insisted on using  pex instead of copper to redo their kitchen. He also remembered how he only lasted a week at the apprenticeship. The work was hard and dirty and the guys were merciless, asking Uncle Joey if he had any other daughters and if was she was going make sandwiches for the crew. The razzing was endless, but if Chuck had stuck it out, he would be a master plumber by now earning $150K a year.

Back in his truck looking at social media again he saw a pic of Uncle Joey and his third wife enjoying Christmas poolside in the Bahamas. He also was part of a group text from his old math whiz buddy, Tommy Sargente. who worked cyber security for the FBI. Sargente was at his condo in Florida with Haley Smith and they were announcing their plans for a June 2018 wedding. In the pic showing off the engagement rock, Chuck couldn’t help but notice that Haley was just as beautiful as she was in high school.

Just then, as a heartbreaking depression was settling over Chuck, he received a message from his dispatcher saying the tow was delayed and it would be another hour or more until they could get to him. Taking in this latest bit of bad news a hushed calm came over Chuck and he quietly began to weep as he mused about his life choices.            

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Cheektowga, NY—Standing in the check in room in two loose lines waiting to clock in the delivery drivers were grateful this morning’s chatter drifted to the new dispatcher, Mike, and away from the, soul crushing, brag/whining of the Southtown drivers, who never stop boring everybody with their stories about the hours they work, the miles they drive and the dogs they evade, while making the not so subtle point that everyone else sucks.

Paul started the conversation asking, “What’s up with Mike? Everytime I call to get an address updated he gives me this big sigh and says has to change screens.”

“Yeah…right,” said Colleen, “And then it always takes forever for the screen to load because the system is slow. He sighs like ten more times while we wait.”

“If Mike answers I hang up and keep calling back till I get Jimmy or Sean,” Norberg said shaking his head.

“Isn’t like ninety percent of his job looking up addresses, why is he always on the wrong screen?” Paul asked again

Bell, one of the Southtown drivers puffed his chest and said, “In the Southtowns, we correct our own addresses. You all suck.”

Tom McCabe, the Akron driver had a theory, “I think Mike’s woozy from all the food he eats. Ever see his lunch bag, it’s like a friggin suitcase.”

“You have no idea,” Dickie Fatta, the downtown legend said  “He has a George Foreman grill in that thing and he barbecues liverwurst sandwiches.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Mark said, a frightened look coming to his face. “I was in the stall next to him the other day and there was this explosion. No pun intended, but it literally scared the shit out of me. Made me think of Dresden, 1945.”

Dave, the Southtowns driver whose giant head makes you think of monoliths like Stonehenge and the old Daryl Hannah movie, Attack of the 50 Ft Woman bragged, “In the Southtowns, when we’re on our routes, instead of lunch we catch a fish in nearby streams with our bare hands. After a few bites we cast them aside and keep on working unlike you slacker assholes. You all suck.”

Just then Mike, the new dispatcher, entered the check in room weighed down by his suitcase /lunchbox. The room went eerily quiet. Mike sighed and asked if he could cut the line because…”the system takes a long time to load and I don’t want to affect anyone’s productivity by being on the wrong screen.”

As the time hit zero the drivers snickered to themselves while clocking in. Only the Southtown drivers remained stoic and humorless because it was real now and everyone besides them were slacker assholes.

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