Employment Considerations

There are advantages to unemployment.

Last Friday a man filed suit against a Florida temp agency because he lost his penis and testicles on the job.  Not “lost” as in, “So, this is the big Bermuda Triangle warehouse…hey, where did my penis go?” No, this “lost” was the “Ow! Your machine just cut off my penis!” variety.  Although I’m sure his version sounded more like, “AHHH! AH! AH! AH! AH!” 

Few words properly encompass the emotion behind, “I’ve lost my penis.” Trust me.  I’m speechless, and I know right where mine is.

“There, there, little batman. It’s ok…you’re still attached. Go back to sleep…”

And this Florida guy didn’t screw around with his castration. He let the machine take his testicles too. I don’t know how temp agencies work in Florida, but I usually make the employer pay me, not the other way around.

This guy didn’t know how Florida temp agencies worked either. He was new to our country. He’s a Puerto Rican national. According to his soprano claim, Edgardo Toucet was sent to a machine shop, where he was shown a peeler.

No, bigger.

Right idea, bigger still.

There we go. Yes. Edgardo was told to work the foam peeler without any proper training. Adding to his difficulty, Edgardo doesn’t speak or read any English either, explaining why he didn’t know to keep his penis clear of the spinning razors.

I thought penis preservation was a universal concept, but it just goes to show how insensitive we Americans are to other cultures. To each their own. To Edgardo, he got his in a bag to go.

Now I’m not blaming Edgardo. Oh at first I was. At first, I was looking at the picture of the peeler going, “How did he get it there…” I even stood at bar pretending it was a peeler, trying to understand how he could get it caught...

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, your disturbing the other patrons.”

I’m sorry; I mean the bar at my house.

“Honey, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, you’re disturbing the cats. Oh, and here’s a Clorox wipe for the bar. Take care of that.”

I still don’t get it, but according to the Orlando Sentinel, Edgardo isn’t the first victim of this particular peeler. That’s right, this has happened before.

“Oh… “

Now this makes sense to me on so many levels. I’m still a little confused about the how, but obviously it’s a pattern. Maybe the machine’s possessed. I’ve read about that in Stephen King books.  It could happen. The point is, the machine is collecting penes. Men shouldn’t work it. The regular workers know it. They won’t touch the peeler with a twelve-inch—never mind. They won’t touch it. So when a temp comes in they send him to the official temporary work station.

“Uhm, why are there candles, a pentagram and is that blood on the machine?”

“I thought you didn’t speak English?”

“I don’t, but I found this important enough to try.”

“Oh, right. Good effort. The candles are for light, the pentagram shows you where to stand.”

“And the blood?”

“You’ll figure it out.  It’s perfectly safe. Remember to pull down your pants.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I said ‘there might be ants...’”

 Ants or no, that seals it. I’m a writer not a worker.  The worst thing that can happen to me now is a scalding coffee burn.

All things considered, I’m okay with that.

“Back to sleep. It was just a bad dream, little batman…”