We see you in those high-vis shirts, six deep in a truck, one shovel between you, actin’ like the group chat needed a live-studio audience. The subliminal says it louder than any horn: “We don’t own this job; we just clock it.” The clowning, the locker-room talk, the phone-scrollin’ while a line of cars snakes to Tuesday, none of that is “hard work.” That’s place-holdin‘ dressed as public service, and the wives/partners at home? They’re doin’ logistics, morale, and supply chain, for free, while you replay bar-stool bravado like it’s a pension booster. Newsflash: it ain’t. Y’all ain’t foolin’ nobody, with your braggadocio. Please. How tha’ fuck you sittin’ around braggin’ when you need a class to teach you how to use a fuckin’ chainsaw. The life of a state maintenance worker, we ain’t impressed. We ain’t impressed since you started in that motherfucker actin’ a whole different mess, not a good look.

Let’s decode the quiet part and put you on game for a minute. Bright shirt, what does that mean, bright standards, with your PPE on the chest, but no pride in the craft? That’s like wearin’ church clothes to rob the collection plate.

Aw, you’re waitin’ on snow? That’s the mission of the rural state workers, spendin’ their summers gettin’ fatter waitin’ on some snowfall to what, flex your skills? If the plan from April to October potluck and fish fry Friday, don’t be shocked when the roads look like acne and the budget bleeds contracts.

Don’t even get me started on the inability to run a Stop/Slow sign. Lettin’ cars back up for miles while you look at your sad ass TikTok. Boy, you ain’t multi-taskin’, that’s a 50-car sermon about why taxpayers don’t trust the process or why you have a job.

Tell me you need a chainsaw and ladder class to be a maintenance worker? Who are they hiring in that building? A bunch of cotton-candy eatin’ motherfuckers with no common sense? What do you get for climbin’ an “actual” ladder? A participation trophy? They need to give certificates for gettin’ your head out of your damn cooter ya’ pansy ass beeotches. Get to work already and out of the damn drive thru. Maybe if you spent more time workin’ and less time degrading your wives, our fuckin’ wouldn’t be a mess.

Let’s get y’all movin’. Off your ass, on your feet, out the shade and in the heat!

Own a route, not a fuckin’ chair or breakroom lazy boy couch fat jacks. Put names on the zones and say, GET TO IT! Don’t sit around in your funky ass yellow shirts lookin’ like bright, fat bananas with no peel in your heel. When a pothole reopens from your shitty ass work, or overseeing since most of the state work in contracted out, take some initiative and fuckin’ fix it. I know it takes ten of y’all to change a light bulb and 20 to repair a pothole, but fuckin’ to do somethin’ to earn your sad ass paycheck. Can you have a little pride, or integrity for five fuckin’ minutes? Just askin’.

Too many idle bodies and idle budgets in this motherfucker. I think if y’all have enough time to talk shit about women, different races, and what stripper don’t want yo’ asses, then you have time to pick up a fuckin’ tool and get some shit done. Hell, pick up a broom if nothin’ else, it’s not like we have street sweepers in this town, so can we bring back pride around this bitch, or does make you feel too homo, ya’ homophobic fucks.

I see ya’ sittin’ on the guard rail lauhin’ at your own Fakebook post, but you ain’t funny, except your face. So, stand up in your last year’s wranglers or “stranglers” after all that damn nanner’ puddin’ you gobbled down at the buffet on your lunch break, but your job description ain’t seein’ how much work you can’ get done, it’s actually, um, like, um, maintenance, so fucking maintain SOMETHING!!!! You ain’t cool with your discount phone holster. Don’t you have a CB? What’s your 20/20? Takin’ a dump from your midday Arby’s run, so you can make room for your next meal? Trust me, that toolbox your packin’ in the front can’ hold another breakfast McStuffin’! Try a SuperSize portion of Intermittent Fasting!

How bout, if you can’t fuckin’ figure out what your job is, hire someone that will, get this, not only KNOW what they’re supposed to do, but they’ll actually do it. Like, say, a woman. Who could probably do everything y’all do in about 15 minutes with gusto, except for gobble down all that damn food, you’re on your own Fish n’ Chips! Hell, I bet when you’re just sittin’ there you sweat vegetable oil, and that’s just from breathin’! Yet, you talk about Hustler and gettin’ jiggy. I bet your wife got jiggy when she left your ass for a woman. I heard it all. How, you ask? Well, I’m not the only one, and technology is a motherfucker. Maybe you should pay attention to some things, instead of lookin’ in your lunch pail like it’s fuckin’ Raiders of the Lost Ark! Cause’ you see, women are sick of lovin’ y’all’s ungrateful, disrespectful asses, and that degrading shit you say about women, it ain’t cool, especially if you have loved ones who have been sexually abused. Grow the fuck up!

Here’s another thing for state workers milkin’ the clock, thinkin’ rainy days are recess. Rain is drainage day, inventory day, blade-sharpening day, paint & prep day. Mother Nature shouldn’t be able to out-plan a highway district so you can shove your meat holes with some dusty ass fish. Are you the fundraiser crew with your fish fry Fridays, or are you men with actual jobs? Well, I heard you ain’t a man until you split “something” open. How many of y’all are men then? All I see is the fuckin’ Get along gang. The Drive-Thru mafia. Simmadown’ with your racial undertones and sexist remarks. It’s tiresome, all that disrespect from a bunch of three-stick gettin’ assholes that smell like hushpuppies. How ’bout eat more of that, HUSH (little puppies). You have no swag, just a lot of nonsensical brag. It ain’t cute.

If it makes you feel any better, take out your clipboard and write Supervisor on it “Spicy Gravy, management edition” How’s that? Feel big(er) now? Take the gossip mill line off the excel spreadsheet, if you even know how to operate and navigate Excel. We’ve heard all your tired ass drama, your lies, and your Ego, not to mention all your disrespectful comments. It’s unimpressive. Do you know what would be impressive? If you fixed the fucking road instead of tearin’ them up!

Men love to run their mouths, and for some reason those in bright ass yella’ shirts that never get dirty do more of it than most, but here’s a hitch for your giddy up, respect isn’t a raffle ticket, it’s deliverable. If your best story is a strip-club fable or a racist wink, you’re advertising poverty of spirt. Real pros don’t need a laugh track. You’re sittin’ in a dusty ass building with no swagger, just the lingering of unused salt, oil, and unaccomplished dreams, the only swagger smell in that bitch is commode residue mixed with cologne, and too many damn excuses.

If you spend your 8 hours hatin’ your wives and pretendin’ to be somethin’ you’re not, then do somethin’ about it. Quit actin’ like your wives are the crazy ones, the petty ones. Sorry if you get schooled at home when you realize that ugly ass state uniform don’t hold the same clout as it does in a truck full of 5x bitches with no hair on their peaches. Don’t come to our table playin’ in our faces about what you say, like it’s cool. It ain’t. It’s sad, pathetic, and desperate. You might not have agendas and ambitions in that workplace, but the same ones you raggin’ on at your lowly paid career with no prospects, are the ones with boundaries and checkpoints. Don’t tell us what you said, show us what you did. Don’t come to us with your foul-ass degrading bullshit, cause’ we ain’t your audience, we can be the absence. You might strut around in those corny ass steel toe boots for nothin’ but it would also be nothin’ to shove a steel toe boot up your fuckin’ ass. Quit playin’ with our emotions and taxpayers’ dollars.

This isn’t about hate. It’s about honor. Some of y’all are diamonds, early, quiet, precise, proud. Keep shining. The rest? Park the circus. Clean the language. Pick up the pace. Deliver the work. Tell the whole story next time, and if you want to sit around and talk about those at home who love you, then invite them to the table and let them have the mic, I bet that room would be stone cold quiet. I heard the conversations, it was brought right to my face, and you sound like a bunch of lollygaggin’ perverts, not grown men with public jobs.

So, here’s the benediction, baby: respect first, work second, breathin’ room for nothin’ else. If you’re wearin’ 5X like a goddamn victory flag, let it mean five times the hustle, not five times the hot air. Clock in, do the job, and zip that loose rap before the very folks you’ve been clownin’ bring receipts and daylight to your little breakroom mythology. Keep that shovel where it belongs, in the ground, movin’ dirt, not writin’ checks yo’ ass can’t cash. Tighten your shit up, quit wastin’ money and energy with all that gum-flappin’ cause’ you can get a certificate in how to get a post digger out ya’ ass by those you wanna’ talk shit about. How ’bout less Cracker Barrelin’ and more to do lists gettin’ done, and you might be happier with yourself.

For “some” state boys in this county, we see you, we hear you, and……????????