Once upon a tarmac not-so-far away, before the Era of the Fluorescent Safety Vests (also known as “The Neon Yoke of Oppression”), ramp agents roamed wild and free—dressed in everything from Molson Canadian tank tops to “My Other Shirt Is a Baggage Cart” tees. Back then, your shirt only needed two things: a hole for your neck and fewer oil stains than your gloves.
But one tragic Tuesday in the early 2000s, the Uniformocalypse began.
Our hero—let’s call him “Slick McDuff”—was the lead at Transborder Baggage, a battleground where bags flew faster than supervisors’ excuses. That morning, Slick sported a non-regulation, but logoed T-shirt, tastefully accessorized with day-old coffee stains and the scent of honest sweat.
Enter Manager Greg Skidd, a man so uptight his clipboard had a therapist. Skidd waddles over with his sidekick Mike Fozzi, who was somehow cosplaying as a Toronto Paramedic. (Apparently, ambulance fashion is totally fine as long as you’re not doing CPR on a Samsonite.)
Skidd squints at Slick like he’s just caught him waterboarding a Samsonite.
“Is that T-shirt company issued?”
“Not exactly… but it’s got the logo,” Slick shrugs, gesturing to the heroic bird embroidered over his left pectoral, right above the salsa stain.
Skidd’s corporate radar explodes.
“You need to go change!”
“I don’t have one in my locker.”
“Then I’ll have to send you home.”
But just then, Slick notices Fozzi’s Toronto Ambulance tee, clearly purchased from “First Responders R Us,” and says the ramp rat equivalent of ‘et tu, Brute?’
“What the fork, Greg? You’re calling me out while your boy Mike looks like he’s ready to resuscitate a baggage cart?”
Greg’s face turns the color of his nose: boiled-lobster red.
“If I’m getting sent home, you’d better clear out half the bagroom—unless you’re only enforcing the dress code on people who don’t bring you coffee.”
With that, silence fell like a lost bag in a cargo hold.
Skidd, unable to admit defeat, drags Slick into his “office” (i.e. a recycled broom closet with a desk).
“I’m writing you up!”
“Cool. Where’s my shop steward?”
“Uhh…”
“Yeah. That’s a policy violation, Greg. Better write yourself up while you’re at it.”
BOOM. LEGALITY SMACKDOWN.
As Greg fumbled with the keyboard like it was a Rubik’s Cube covered in lotion, Fozzi peeked in with that smug look only a guy wearing someone else’s uniform can have.
“Hey Greg, you wanna borrow my stethoscope while you’re diagnosing discipline?”
Just then, a senior union rep wandered by, noticed the scene, and asked:
“Why’s Skidd sweating harder than the lav guy in July?”
Slick calmly explained the whole thing. The steward gave Greg a look that said, “Oh no, honey, no.”
The final outcome?
- Slick got his warning torn up like overstuffed luggage.
- Fozzi was told to save the ambulance cosplay for Halloween.
- Greg? Well, Greg had to attend “Leadership and Conflict Resolution” training, where he was last seen asking the facilitator if he could discipline his PowerPoint.
And from that day forward, a new phrase echoed in the bagroom whenever anyone got hassled about their shirt:
“Better ask if Skidd’s wearing socks from head office.”
THE END
Or is it just another beginning in the saga of High Vis, Low IQ?
