Category: Uncategorized

Air Canada’s Legendary Grand Canyon Misadventure

—or—

“From Loading Food Carts to Dodging River Rocks!”

Back in 1978, when disco was king and polyester was a lifestyle choice, Air Canada decided it was time to give its ramp rats and food truck jockeys a break. And not just a break like “Here’s a new pair of gloves.”
No — a full-blown, canyon-sized, boots-off, river-soaked, sanity-questioning expedition.

And leading the charge?
Bob Kent, a man who looked at the majestic Grand Canyon and thought, “Yeah… let’s throw a bunch of food truck drivers in there and see what happens!”

The Cast of Characters (a.k.a. Canada’s answer to the Dirty Dozen):

• Graham “The Gear Guy” Gibson
• Bruce “Bring the Beer” Bodium
• Gary “No Relation to Indiana” Jones
• Ray “Houston, We Have a Problem”
• John “Pludoms, Not Plodoms”
• Dave “Sunscreen is for the Weak” Houston
• George “The Bunker” Warriner
• Terry “The Troublemaker” Houston
• Duane “We’re Gonna Need a Bigger Raft” McPhail
• Glen “Peace and Confusion”
• And Bob “Send the Liability Waivers Later” Kent himself.

They called it a “bonding trip.” The insurance company called it “a developing situation.”

Destination: THE GRAND CANYON

What followed was a whirlwind of paddle smacks, misplaced lunches, and enough sunscreen to fry a lizard. The canyon’s ancient walls echoed with laughter, sarcasm, and at least one guy screaming,

“I THOUGHT THIS WAS A BUS TOUR!”

Highlights included:

• Dave using the emergency flare gun… to light a cigar.
• George “The Bunker” Warriner inventing the “Warriner Weasel Hold”, a paddling technique so confusing it required a flow chart and a chiropractor.
• Glen Peace getting lost and trying to pay a squirrel for directions.
• A campfire karaoke session that ended with Terry, Duane, and George rewriting the Beverly Hillbillies theme song to narrate George’s trip-ending fall into a patch of prickly cactus.

But wait — it didn’t stop there!

This band of thrill-seeking tray loaders came back for more, hitting the Salmon Snake River, Fraser River, and more rugged waters, dragging their dry socks and wounded egos behind them.

These were not just trips… they were epics.

Forget The Odyssey. This was The Foodie-ssy.

The uniforms may have changed. The trucks got upgrades. But the spirit?
Still alive — somewhere between a waterlogged boot and a duct-taped dry bag labeled “Terry’s Snacks (DO NOT TOUCH, BOB!).”

So here’s to the legends of the late ‘70s – the rampies who paddled, pranked, and paddled some more.

And to the Warriner Weasel Hold, the only river move banned by the Canadian Coast Guard and chiropractors nationwide.

Meet Pascal Leroux, once a humble ramp rat from Toronto Pearson, now living his best life as the self-proclaimed “Ramp King of Cebu.”

How did it happen? Buckle your seatbelts and secure all overhead luggage, because this tropical tale includes baggage, romance, and more sweat than a 747 in a thunderstorm.

Chapter 1: From Tarmac to Tropics

Pascal was the type of guy who could toss three Samsonites into the bin while reciting union bylaws in two languages. But one winter, after slipping on black ice and faceplanting into a pile of unclaimed snow-covered duffels, Pascal muttered the fateful words:

“That’s it. I’m outta here. I’m gonna find a place where the only ice is in my cocktail.”

A week later, he cashed in all his vacation passes, maxed out his Aeroplan points, and flew to Cebu, Philippines, thinking it was a brand of Canadian chewing gum.

Chapter 2: The Ramp Life Reboot

Word spread fast in Cebu. A foreigner with a reflective vest and the ability to stack bags in perfect Tetris formation? Locals were awed.

Soon, Pascal was offered a job on the airport ramp… but his “training” consisted of a mango, a lawn chair, and a man named “Boyet” who yelled, “Just don’t drop anything explosive.”

With no de-icing fluid in sight, Pascal thrived. He became a celebrity. Tourists took selfies with him. Pilots high-fived him. Someone even made a TikTok of him dancing with a baggage tug that got 3 million views.

Locals dubbed him “The Luggage Whisperer.” Others just called him “Kuya Palpak” (Brother Oops).

Chapter 3: Where Luggage is Light…

Thanks to budget airlines and a firm 7kg carry-on rule, Pascal barely broke a sweat anymore.
He spent most days shirtless, in flip-flops, gently loading backpacks like they were Fabergé eggs.

And yet…

Chapter 4: …and Love is Heavy

Enter May-May, the airport duty-free sales clerk with a laugh like wind chimes and a smile brighter than a halogen ramp light. Pascal was hooked like a headset on a pushback crew.

She admired his dedication, his muscles (from lifting oversized balikbayan boxes), and his uncanny ability to find any lost luggage by sniffing it out.

But love in Cebu came at a price. Mostly because May-May’s tito was head of security and had Pascal doing random pushups before every date.

Still, Pascal proposed using a plastic baggage claim carousel as a ring box. She said yes. (Well… she nodded while trying not to laugh.)

Epilogue: King of the (Baggage) Carousel

Today, Pascal lives in a nipa hut with May-May, two kids, and a rooster that won’t shut up during Zoom calls.

He still works the ramp at Mactan-Cebu Airport, where he’s known as the “Canadian with the Golden Clipboard.”

And if you ask him how he ended up in paradise, he’ll tell you:

“Sometimes you don’t choose the ramp… the ramp chooses you.”

Meet Rick “Roadside” Rinaldi, a food truck driver with the culinary flair of a chili dog and the vacation planning skills of a concussed pigeon.

Tired of flipping burgers and dodging union meetings, Rick wanted an adventure.
But instead of calling a travel agent like a normal person, he pulled out a dart, closed his eyes, spun around three times like a Price is Right contestant, and launched it at a map tacked to the breakroom wall (right beside a motivational poster of a sloth that said “Hang in there”).

The dart missed Aruba.
Missed Hawaii.
Missed anywhere with a swim-up bar.

It landed on… Colombia.
Not the university. The country.
Back in the late 70s. You know, peak “bring your own ransom money” season.

Rick, ever the optimist (or lunatic), shrugged and said,

“Welp, fate has spoken. Time to pack my flip-flops and Spanish phrasebook.”

Welcome to Bogotá!

After touching down in Bogotá with nothing but a fanny pack, a novelty passport holder, and a T-shirt that read “Gringos Do It Better,” Rick set off to immerse himself in local culture—which, to Rick, meant drinking something suspicious from a roadside stand and shouting “¡Mucho gusto!” at stray dogs.

Within 14 minutes, Rick had already:

• Taken a selfie with a llama
• Traded his shoes for a bongo drum
• Asked a man with a machete for directions to Señor Frogs

And then, it happened.

Two local “entrepreneurs” approached him.
One asked, “¿Tiene dinero?”
The other asked, “¿Tiene cerebro?”

Rick answered both with, “I only speak Canadian, sorry.”

They gently helped him empty his pockets, remove his fanny pack, and test the elasticity of his travel insurance with a complimentary “Bogotá Goodbye Punch” right to the nose.

Rick Returns

Rick returned home 10 pounds lighter (wallet included), with a black eye, half a poncho, and a new tattoo he doesn’t remember getting that reads “Pan con Queso 4 Life.”

His coworkers asked:

“Would you do it again?”

Rick replied:

“Absolutely! Next time I throw a dart, I’m aiming for Scarbough.”

Moral of the story?
Never trust a dart. Never wear a tourist shirt in Bogotá. And always—ALWAYS—buy travel insurance that covers “miscellaneous stupidity.”

AAS: Reporting on travel, trauma, and tortillas since… probably never.

—or—

“A Tale of Chips, Chumps, and Cheezies Gone Wrong!”

It was a slow Thursday afternoon at Gate 22, the kind of shift where the only thing moving faster than the luggage belt was the urge to punch out and nap in a lav cart. SoupBone, our overly enthusiastic ramp rat, had just wrapped up a mighty battle with a jammed cargo bin (and lost) when he heard it…

“CLUNK-CLUNK… TWIRRRRRRRR-rrrrrrrrrrk…”

The sound every snack-hungry rampie dreads.
The vending machine spiral of doom.

SoupBone hustled over, badge still clipped, gloves hanging from one pocket like a fashion disaster. Standing there, looking far too pleased with himself, was none other than The Vending Machine Bandit — an elusive airport menace known for shaking, tilting, and full-body tackling vending machines in search of free snacks.

His real name?
Nobody knows. Some say he used to be a cabin service guy. Others whisper he’s a rogue gate agent gone feral after being denied overtime in 1997. All we know is… he wears a safety vest that says “SECURITY” in duct tape.

THE STAKES: A dangling bag of BBQ chips.

SoupBone stepped up.

“Hey pal, you didn’t pay for that!”

“Neither did the CEO for those bonuses, now beat it,” the Bandit grunted, still shaking the machine like it owed him child support.

SoupBone, who hadn’t eaten since his “breakfast” (two Tic Tacs and a pocket lint surprise), wasn’t backing down.

So began the Snack Attack Showdown of Gate 22.

ROUND ONE: The Staredown

SoupBone squinted.
The Bandit gritted his teeth.

A tumbleweed rolled by (later discovered to be a rogue ball of duct tape and shredded ramp gloves).

ROUND TWO: Vending Machine Jiu-Jitsu

The Bandit went low, sweeping SoupBone’s feet with a mop handle.
SoupBone countered with a high kick that knocked loose a pack of Skittles (neutral casualty).
A crowd gathered. Someone yelled, “LEAVE THE SNACKS — FIGHT FOR THE COOKIES!”

ROUND THREE: The Final Crunch

Just as the Bandit lunged for the stuck chips, SoupBone whipped out his secret weapon:
A fork from the crew room leftover drawer, bent at a perfect 92° angle.

He jabbed the vending coil.
The chips fell.
Victory.

But before SoupBone could claim his crunchy prize, the Bandit dropped a smoke bomb made from expired powdered soup packets and disappeared into the swirling haze of MSG and crushed onion flavor.

When the fog cleared, the chips were gone.
So was the Bandit.
In his place, taped to the machine, a note:

“You win this round, SoupBone. But next time… it’s Cheezies at Gate 17.”

EPILOGUE:

Security reviewed the tape and said it was “too awesome” to delete. It now plays on loop in the breakroom.

SoupBone remains on high alert.
And the vending machine?
Still out of order.

—or—

“You Wanted Peace and Quiet? Be Careful What You Chirp For!”

It all began after The Incident. You know the one — when Soup Bone got yeeted into a container like last week’s leftover chili and dumped in the middle of the south hold while The Bugle did his best evil Disney villain laugh and strutted away. The entire ramp crew couldn’t stop laughing, and Soup Bone’s pride had more dents than a baggage cart after three shifts and a snowstorm.

But Soup Bone was no ordinary rampie. No, this guy had schemes. He didn’t just want payback — he wanted poetic justice, the kind that haunts your dreams and triggers PTSD every time you hear the words “central ready room.”

So he hatched a plan…
With the help of a shady pet shop in Mississauga and a sketchy guy named Kevin who “used to work for Cirque du Soleil,” Soup Bone acquired a box…
A box full of live crickets.

Not two. Not twenty.
Four thousand, chirping, bouncing, leaping, orchestra-from-hell crickets.

At precisely 0415, when the early shift was still rubbing their eyes and pretending to care about the coffee machine being broken again, Soup Bone struck.

He walked into the ready room calm as can be, holding a pizza box labeled “BREAKFAST FOR THE CREW.”
Inside: Not pepperoni. Not bacon and eggs.
Crickets. So. Many. Crickets.

He flung the box open and shouted:

“HEY BUGLE… HERE’S SOMETHING TO CHIRP ABOUT!”

The crickets scattered like union reps at a surprise audit.
Within seconds, chaos erupted. Guys were jumping on benches, throwing boots, one rookie was crying under the lost & found rack.
The supervisor slipped on a banana peel and fell face-first into a bucket of de-ice mitts.

Meanwhile, The Bugle tried to flee but slipped on a well-timed chirp-pile of hopping insects and landed in the recycling bin, legs flailing like a bag tag in a windstorm.

Soup Bone stood in the doorway, hands on hips, grinning like he just solved world hunger with a luggage strap.

Later that day, the airport pest control guy showed up, looked inside the ready room, turned pale, and just said:

“Nope.”

From that day forward, whenever someone in the ready room said, “Man, it’s quiet in here,” you could see them flinch… waiting… listening…

And Soup Bone?
He didn’t say a word.
He just hummed…

“The Sounds of Silence.”

---

NEXT ISSUE:
“Soup Bone vs. The Vending Machine Bandit: Snack Attack Showdown at Gate 22!”

—or—

“That’s One Way to Handle Excess Baggage!”

Once upon a time in the magical land of Gate 47, amidst the symphony of roaring engines, yelling supervisors, and missing luggage tags, there lived a ramp rat with a short fuse and an even shorter attention span. His name? THE BUGLE — because when he talks, everyone wishes they had noise-cancelling headsets.

Now, The Bugle’s arch-nemesis wasn’t a rival airline, nor the vending machine that never gave change — it was his fellow station attendant: Soup Bone. Why the name? No one’s sure, but rumors say his brain rattles when he shakes his head.

Soup Bone was a walking sound machine. Whether he was jabbering about hockey scores, humming off-key, or narrating every step of the bag-loading process like a low-budget nature documentary, he could wear out even the most seasoned earplugs.

One glorious Tuesday, after the third hour of hearing “Did you know this 737 uses CFM56 engines?” on repeat, The Bugle finally snapped. His eyelid twitched. His ear protection melted. His inner voice screamed, “NO MORE!”

Like a man possessed by the ghost of Ground Crews Past, The Bugle stormed into the central ready room, grabbed Soup Bone by the collar of his fluorescent vest, and — with all the grace of a WWE move gone wrong — dragged him toward the nearest LD3 container.

“HEY! What are you doing?!” shrieked Soup Bone.

But The Bugle was in a zone. He flung Soup Bone into the container like a duffel bag full of wet uniforms, slammed the door shut, and began whistling “Flight of the Valkyries” while strapping the container onto a loader.

Inside, Soup Bone was kicking and hollering like a toddler at baggage claim, while The Bugle nonchalantly drove him to the South Hold, a mystical place known mostly for its tumbleweeds and forgotten pushbacks.

Once parked, The Bugle tilted the loader with a grin — and Soup Bone, container and all, slid off the edge like a bowling ball in a windstorm. The lid flung open, and out rolled Soup Bone onto the hot tarmac, dazed, confused, and slightly insulted.

No aircraft. No audience. Just him and a lonely orange cone.

As The Bugle strutted away chuckling like a villain in an after-school special, Soup Bone sat there, his pride dented and his radio tangled around his neck.

To this day, veterans of the ramp still whisper about the time The Bugle declared war on background noise… and won.

COMING NEXT ISSUE:
“Soup Bone’s Revenge: The Day The Ready Room Was Filled With Crickets… Literally.”

—or— “Bob’s First-Class Ticket to Dumbsville”

Once upon a gate delay at Terminal 2, a rookie rampie named Bob—fresh outta high school and still confused by walkie-talkies—was handed the ultimate responsibility by his grizzled boss:

“Go fetch the key to the DC-9.”

Now, Bob had only been on the job for a few weeks. He still thought “GPU” was a video game setting and once tried to load a dog kennel into the lav truck.

But this? This was his moment. His chance to shine. His hero arc.
So off Bob went, storming through the airport like Indiana Jones if he wore steel-toed boots and forgot his lunch.

He scoured every corner of the operation:

• Asked cargo if they had it (they handed him a forklift).
• Asked customer service if they’d seen it (they gave him a blank stare and asked if he worked there).
• Asked a flight attendant—she offered him a drink coupon and a warning about “those ramp guys.”

Hours (okay, 20 minutes) later, Bob had an epiphany! He remembered a shiny key dangling on a hook in the dark recesses of the Sacred Maintenance Room, right next to an old coffee pot and a sign that read “If you touch this, you’re fired.”

Did Bob hesitate?
Yes, for about 2.3 seconds. Then he grabbed the key and sprinted toward the aircraft like he was in a cheesy 80s training montage.

At the gate, the pilot—Captain McMustache—was pacing like he was waiting for a kidney transplant. Bob handed him the key like it was the Holy Grail.

The captain took one look at it…
Then at Bob…
Then exploded with laughter so hard a nearby gate agent asked if he needed oxygen.

“Son,” he chuckled, wiping away tears,
“This is the key to the janitor’s closet. There’s no such thing as a key for a DC-9! You think we start this thing like a Ford Pinto?”

Bob’s face turned crimson. He briefly considered faking a fainting spell, but the floor was sticky.

The pilot kindly explained:

“Planes have starter motors, Bob. Switches. Buttons. Avionics. Not ignition keys like a lawnmower.”

Bob took the key back like it was radioactive and sulked off… but not for long. That day, he learned a vital lesson:
Always ask if the plane takes a key… before making a cross-terminal fool of yourself.

And in time? Bob rose through the ranks, eventually becoming…

Head of Unclaimed Lost Keys.

(Which, coincidentally, is also what his job title was the moment this story began.)

Coming next issue:
“The Great De-Ice Fiasco: When Jim Mistook Glycol for Coffee Creamer!”

And remember, kids—DON’T BE LIKE BOB.
Unless you’re auditioning for a reboot of Airplane!

—or— “Viva Las Vibrato!”

Our tale begins, as all classy airline stories do, in the baggage room, where dreams go to die and socks go to vanish.

Enter Frank, a seasoned baggage agent with a radar for trouble and a nose that could sniff out duty-free cologne from 50 yards. He was sorting luggage for Flight AC1281 (nice) to Las Vegas, baby!, when a bag came down the belt that gave him pause. Not because it was oversized, leaking, or covered in glitter…
But because it was vibrating.

And not just a polite buzz-buzz either—
This thing was shaking like it had front-row seats at a Metallica concert.

Frank, concerned this was either a rogue electric toothbrush or a ticking “See Something, Say Something” scenario, called in reinforcements: Lois the Gate Agent, known for her “no B.S.” glare and her uncanny ability to get a full plane to sit down and buckle up using only her eyebrows.

Frank took the suspicious suitcase up the bridge like it was a live bomb wrapped in Victoria’s Secret packaging. The flight was fully boarded, engines humming, and the captain was already complaining about being 10 minutes behind his coffee break.

Lois paged the owner of the luggage.

Cue: a well-dressed, slightly flushed woman who approached looking like she’d just remembered what was in the bag.

Frank, now surrounded by an audience of curious crew and one overly helpful flight attendant with popcorn, said:

“Ma’am, there’s something vibrating in your suitcase. We can’t load it unless it’s turned off. TCCA rules.”

She stammered:

“Oh… it’s… probably the battery will… just run out… soon. I mean, it’s not dangerous. I swear.”

Frank crossed his arms like a disappointed Italian uncle:

“Lady, either you open the bag, or this bad boy’s going to the Lost and Found of Shame.”

Defeated, she pulled out the key, opened the suitcase… and BAM!
There it was: a neon-pink wonderland of battery-powered enthusiasm.

We’re talking:

• The Mini-Mambo 3000
• The Vegas Vibe Wand
• The mysterious “El Toro Deluxe” (still in demo mode)

Frank blinked. Lois whistled. A nearby pilot clapped slowly.

The woman’s face cycled through every Pantone shade of red, then invented two new ones. She sheepishly turned the main culprit off—an enthusiastic device still tap dancing in its own ziplock pouch—and whispered:

“I was going to a bachelorette party.”

To which Frank replied:

“What were you gonna do, DJ the reception?!”

The toys were silenced, the bag was cleared for takeoff, and the woman boarded, never making eye contact again.

Frank turned to Lois and said:

“Well… at least somebody’s going to have fun in Vegas.”

And from that day on, every new rookie in the baggage room had to endure the ritual of hearing “The Tale of the Tickle Trunk to Terminal Two.”

Remember: If your suitcase is humming like a kazoo in a tumble dryer…
YOU MIGHT NEED TO DECLARE THAT AT CHECK-IN.

—Where the Weather Finally Behaved, But the Golfers Didn’t—

By Mike from Airport Aviation Stories (a.k.a. the guy who owns a clipboard but still slices off the tee)

This past May 26th, the legendary AC Rampies Bi-Annual Golf Reunion took over Granite Ridge in Milton, which is best known for being a golf course and a place where carts have more accidents than airplanes. The event was pulled off with military precision (if that military was run by baggage handlers) by General Bob Nelson, with recon support from Francine MacNeil and Debbie Burke, who patrolled the greens in a golf cart armed with a camera and enough sass to make a marshal weep.

The theme? Canada!
The uniform? Red and white!
The fashion? Questionable at best—one guy looked like a ketchup bottle mated with a snowbank.

But the real highlight?
“Elbows Up!” shirts handed out by Mike from Airport Aviation Stories, courtesy of Alphatech Automotive Appraisals—which, based on some of the swings we saw, may soon be called upon to appraise a few shattered golf carts.

The lucky recipients of the sacred cotton:
Tony Vassallo,
Nandy Palumbo,
Greg Orpen,
and Merv Ball—a man whose name literally sounds like a golf hazard.

And guess who showed up from far and wide?
Glen “The Prairie Slicer” Horney from the wild west,
and Dave “Haligonian Hook Shot” Ashcroft from Halifax—both proving that jet lag and double bogeys go hand in hand.

For once, the team that wins every year (you know who you are) was absent. Cue the heavenly chorus.
That opened the door for the rest of us mortals to have a chance at NOT being crushed on the scoreboard.
Even Don Leavers was spotted limbering up (or trying to) beside his usual golf buddy Michael Policelli, who wasn’t there—probably still trying to find a left-handed driver or his left sock.

The Muppet Show duo, Scott Kohen and Tony Angeloni (aka Frick and Fran, aka Statler and Waldorf), skipped this year’s hecklefest. Golf was eerily quieter without their play-by-play groans and rants.

We had present-day ramp rats, full-fledged retirees, and even union royalty in the house—Bill Shipman, the man whose voice could trigger a contract negotiation at 300 yards.

The Horney brothers, Glen and Al, were both there but didn’t play together—because apparently there’s only room for one Horney on the fairway at a time.

And of course, Larry and Andy Romanica, the sibling duo who showed up but didn’t share a cart because “it’s better for the family if we don’t talk about the score.”

Making surprise appearances were vintage legends like Johnny Glover and the mythic Web Jackson with his Cargonauts, who still claim they can load a 767 blindfolded… and drunk.

Some came just to mingle: Rick Levens, Rick Gemmill, and Uton Wilson—who wisely skipped golf and instead enjoyed 18 holes of people-watching and weather.

And hey, the weather actually cooperated this time!
A miracle!
Either that or someone sacrificed a Samsonite to the golf gods.

And so…

As we wrap up the shenanigans of another Rampie Reunion, remember:

Golf clubs will be swung, friendships rekindled, scores mysteriously improved, and legends—true or otherwise—retold.

If you missed it, fear not!
This September, the circus returns.
Whether you’re swinging a club, swinging a beer, or just swinging by—
Come out and join the ramp pack.
Because once a Rampie, always a Rampie…
Even if your handicap is your knees.

See you on the greens… or the patio.

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?