It had been a back-breaking shift. A veritable storm of the unmentionables.
Spit, sweat and another ‘S’ that’s best left unsaid. Let’s just say it wasn’t the same as on Clark Kent’s onesie.
Beetle had toiled. Had rolled sleeves up. Had gotten stuck in.
Boss man had said that yesterday’s quota wouldn’t cut the mustard. Beetle resolved to find out what mustard was but was sure gonna be cutting a whole slew of it today.
It had rained heavy the previous night. Meant that the going was softer. Easy pickings.
Meant that the soil and the shite stuck together with less packing.
It also meant that the slope was slippy. Risky. And with the fog too, not the choicest day for this type of work.
Looking left and right, there were dozens of co-workers stretching and straining. Every sinew stuttering to schlep their wads of earth and muck up and over the ridge.
What was there was anyone’s guess. The mustard perhaps? Who knew? Who cared? There were birds to dodge, squirrels to avoid, foxes, cats, toads, lizards, feet, bicycle tires. Not getting squashed flat by your own globe of expectation and excrement.
Oh, what a metaphor.
It was a bug’s life.
At the end of his shift, Beetle said his good byes and scuttled homeward.
His pronutum hurt and his palps were sore.
Beetle kicked off his boots. Ready to read the paper. Ready to leave today behind him.
‘Wash your mandibles, love...dinner’s ready’, came the sing-songy call from the kitchen.
Beetle sighed, the paper could wait.
‘How was your day, honey?’ Lady beetle cheerily asked.
Beetle paused a beat...
‘Same shit, different day buggyboo, same shit...’
