Do you know how many people have survived electrocution?  Zero.  The word means death.  You could survive an attempted electrocution, but probably you have better things to do.

     Do you know how to spot a good electrician?  A good electrician can smoke two joints, drink two quarts of beer, and play two games of pool in thirty minutes.  ‘Cause that’s how long they’ve got for lunch.

     Electricians are the biggest potheads.  I fit in well in that respect.  First electric company I worked for was called Praise, a religious outfit.  At break, half of ’em would sit around and pray, the other half would drive around the block ten times smoking big joints.  Guess who I hung out with?

     A lot of electric companies have drug tests, which I think is absurd, because the best electricians I’ve ever worked with were the biggest stoners.  Why shut out the cream of the crop?  I’d only take a drug test if it were an essay or multiple choice test.  Shoot, if it were my company, you’d have to test positive.

     Besides, I could never pee in a cup.  I’m too bashful.  I can only relieve myself at home alone with the door closed and the water running.  Now, I’d be glad to give those drug-testing companies a sample of my shit.  That would be appropriate.

     I was in the electrical union for a while.  First job I went to, I told them, “I’m proud to be here.”  They told me, “You’re not digging that hole right.”

     Second job in the union I had to take a test on electrical safety.  I was the only one who passed it with a 100% score the first time.  Ended up working for the asshole who had to take it three times to get a barely passing grade.  He had all the right hillbilly features that please the average redneck.  Lot of both in the union.  I felt so welcome.

     I never learned to speak properly the language of the union electrician.  With these fellows (and occasional transvestite),  language must be carefully chosen.  Do not use the words comply and directive in the same sentence, ’cause that’s five syllables, right there.

      They called each other “brother,” which was okay with me, ’cause I only had to remember one name.

     My parents were so happy when I joined the union, because now my burial was paid for.

     I’d like to start my own electric company.  I’d name it Eyeball Electric.  Our vans would have a huge red-capillaried eye painted on the side, most closely approximating the look of the fellow likely to answer your service call.

     And if it’s your lucky day, the guy will have bathed the previous night.

     I worked for a man who hated all his customers.  I just hate fifty percent of mine.  And of course I’ve fallen in love with the other fifty percent.

     When I’m showing off I have the woman hold my tester when I check for power.  I tell her, “When it’s hot it vibrates.”  But don’t tell that to the pastor’s wife.  Or her eight year-old daughter.

     And speaking of eight year-old girls, I worked with a guy who could not pass an elementary school bus without grandiosely pantomiming the acts of oral sex.  Fellatio and cunnilingus.  For the kiddies, who were as enthralled as I was chagrined.  He’s got his own business now, and a family, but I ain’t ridin’ with ’em.

     I worked with an electrician who brought his two-foot bong and pound bag-o-weed with him to work every day (for breakfast, and break, and lunch, and break, right?)  Boy did I hate it when he called in sick.

      My foreman at the Department of Public Safety remodel sold quarter-pound bags of weed from his job cart.  I actually picked him for the position.  I was the first hired in this town, and they asked me, “Do you know anyone who can run this job?”  I thought to myself, now who is the biggest stoner I know?

2026 R.M. Reliable Electric