The Ballad of Forklift Katie

     For those of you who don't know (or care), I work in a mail processing warehouse.  It is a horrid job, but leaves you mentally unengaged, which to people with a blog in need of a post, can be an unexpected benefit.  For people who have never worked in an unskilled labor job (assholes), there are a lot of chances to die by smooshing (think Giles Corey).  Usually this is courtesy of mission handling equipment drivers.  Rarely is it intentional.  Deaf Steve, Sherman, Navy Rhim and Snazzy Hat Guy are all drivers who adhere to the safety precautions set forth by OSHA and the plant manager.  There is one legendary forklift driver who won't even trouble herself with the petty safety restrictions of mortals: Forklift Katie.


"Better luck next time, cockbag."

      Allow me to introduce Forklift Katie in the following way: she is clinically deranged.  She exists in a whole different dimension of batshit lunacy than ours.  On occassion, this dimension will overlay ours and create disturbing and baffling interactions. 

This is the craziest picture I own, and it is still saner than Forklift Katie

     That said, Forklift Katie performs a serious role for the United States Post Office.  She is the post office's homely grim reaper. 

     She zooms around the warehouse on her cthonic forklift which, unlike other forklifts in the warehouse are powered by electricity, is powered by some eldritch sorcery.  The backup alarm is the tortured screams of a thousand rapists and child molestors who are begging for the sweet alternative of hell which seems like paradise to them after serving Forklift Katie.  The warning light is the soul af a kitten being lit on fire.  The tines were built out of the femurs of liars and the tires are covered in the skin of adulterers.  The lugnuts are the testicles of those guys on To Catch A Predator and people who cheer for the New England Patriots.  The levers are the spines of hookers and the pedals are the shells of pet turtles.  The only positive trait is that the engine, which sounds like a million unbaptized babies being doused in tabasco sauce, alerts you that it is approaching with its demonic pilot, who is probably carrying a crate of mail going to Fort Wayne. 

Pictured above: The only frame of reference available

    Her impatience is the stuff of legends, but not the good kind like Michael Jordan and Godzilla, more like New Coke and Atari 5600.  Whatever you do, do not, I repeat, DO NOT allow her to engage you in conversation!  It's not that her voice sounds like a mastodon raping pikachu, it is that her thought process is so alien that she might as well be imprisoned in R'lyeh.  Her reasoning is as bizarre as why daleks have a plunger in their arsenal.

I know the internet has a picture of what I described, but I refuse to type that phrase into Google



Pictured above: Forklift Katie's thought process

     This concludes my Ballad of Forklift Katie.  Let me know what you guys think in the comments below.  If you liked this, share it.  Actually, even if you hated it share it, one of your friends might like it.