Wanzl CEO Ben Hinnen: Engineering Idiot/Labor Criminal/OSHA Bozo

The NCDOL arrived at the conclusion that no one on three shifts at Wanzl/Technibilt had licenses to drive forklifts.  I was unaware of this per my assumption that such a basic step would be accomplished but never underestimate the stupidity and ignorance of the establishment--they remain fine liars. 

Another missing link was Blake Guffey--he had a fancy title at Wanzl you can find on Linkedin; as I read the lies Guffey told the NCDOL I realized I never saw Blake Guffey, nor ever heard of him and his fancy title he got from A&T University the entire time I was at Wanzl--which was over forty hours a week--I once drove through a snow-storm to get there.  What I did see at Wanzl was dope-smoking, Xanax sales and drinking.  Guffey wasn't around for that--I think Wanzl's Health Safety Nazi worked from home.  The establishment is often never around and if they're around, they're behind locked doors--that's so some commoner doesn't kill them all over whatever latest crime towards labor they've committed.  There are many of them and is why we have government oversight.  Another thing I was unaware of at Wanzl was the first class getting hand-to-hand combat classes from law enforcement--I learned that later through Wanzl propaganda aka "social media."  Pointing out such awesomeness got me blocked on Wanzl social media.  Prior to being Blocked by Wanzl, I was quite the producer--I was such an insider that Wanzl management told me its management woes--Pedro Bercerra told me James McGill was a constant headache.  They fought often per their rocky bromance.  Wanzl also told me keeping people moving was a hassle--that was, again, about McGill.  Maybe it's because people were fucked-up; when I used to get fucked-up I moved slower than I was before I got fucked-up.  If you gave me a lengthy task I would have probably fucked it up.  Because the world is small--after I got blocked on social media I decided to see what else was going on in the world: That's when I learned who James McGill's drug-dealer was--I first had to decide who was the drug-dealer at Wanzl.  One of Wanzl's dealers offered me a Xanax for five dollars but I'll never name who did that--because they didn't have connections, they got sent to the assembly line.  I can think of a few things I'd like to be doing at 5 A.M. but Wanzl's assembly line would never be one of them.  When I have to piss at 5 A.M. I don't want to.

Probably the most disturbing thing about Wanzl was how hard it fought for its dope--but because Wanzl was addicted I should have expected that; naturally, the booze, who-knows-what-else and marijuana boiled over.  Due to how much of it was going on I'd called Plant 3 "Sunny Valley Apartments" for some time.  It was the same scene as the Ridgeview Mighty Kings corner store--even the "people from Germany" came to "Sunny Valley" when I was there.  We were told that the "people from Germany" were on their way to Newton, NC--as a result, we had to clean-up the place--but we really didn't.  Plant 3 was a shit-hole and stayed that way despite the "people from Germany" en route.  We didn't clean jack nor did Wanzl say "Lay off the pot, booze and Xanax until the people from Germany leave."  As a result, the "people from Germany" came through with the crew living it up like they did all week; all that was missing in  Plant 3 was a disco ball and a cop.  I couldn't get over that the "people from Germany" were right there in Xanax-Land--no one pulled the plug on "Sunny Valley."  The City of Hickory does a lot of business in "Sunny Valley."  That's because you can't change it.  Arrests are always the same people at "Sunny Valley"--Wanzl was no different.  It was one fight after another between Wanzl and James McGill.  One day Felix "The Flask" Chavez threw a tool at me--he was drunk and ready to fight; I could have put his eye out with the tool but I didn't--I would later wish I had--I could have easily said "I didn't get hand-to-hand from a deputy so did what came naturally."  I left "Sunny Valley" and found Greg Eller in the "plant on the hill."  He essentially ran "up top," although, as explained finding where Wanzl is isn't always easy--Wanzl's Who's-Who is often "Who's Where?"  If you knocked on Blake Guffey's door it would probably be a door in some suburb somewhere and not the Wanzl plant in Newton; he would have probably answered the door in his slippers (which would also be against OSHA).  I told Eller about "Sunny Valley."  He told me to take it back to Juan Carlos Lemus so I did. 

The fellas were furious that I exposed their dope--I threatened their lifestyle at Wanzl.  I didn't get hand-to-hand-combat advice from the corporation, though, so had to think quick on what else to do--if they get attacked the first class can do some kung-fu--if you get attacked that's just too fucking bad. 

That's when I knew Wanzl didn't give a fuck about my welfare.  If I didn't get that the first time I got it the second time.  The next day was my last at Wanzl; because the world works through who-you-know and not what-you-know, like Wanzl's freelance Xanaxer, I got stuck with tasks and duty other people didn't want--my other problem was that I wanted to work.  I was really digging a hole for myself; others I knew had the same problem--no matter how hard they worked, they would always be fucked.  I went "up top" to Greg Eller's again--that was the day after Felix "The Flask" flipped his lid; Felix had a hard time showing-up for work--it became such a problem that the country club came to "Sunny Valley" and pulled some FBI shit on his ass--when Chavez returned to work he'd clearly been throttled in that office--his attendance needed some work.  He looked grey in the face--he wasn't circling the drain anymore--he was going down the drain.  It was okay if he got wasted at Wanzl--but not at home--Wanzl had standards he had to meet--he needed to start showing-up to drink--the rules are the rules.  BYOB.  

When I reported to Eller the day after Chavez shit himself, Eller told me to hang tight--he had to get someone to set-up the work area--enter Angel "The Dragon" Hernandez--exit OSHA.  At that time I was aware that James McGill didn't have a license to drive a forklift--he never shut the fuck up about it so went on about it to no end--but neither did Shannon Hale have one--no one had licenses on three shifts but I didn't know that but I soon discovered it whether I knew it or not--Angel Hernandez arrived, screaming his head off and throwing things around with a forklift.  It's how he sets up work areas; no one said anything about it.  I was unaware he didn't have a license to operate a forklift but I soon discovered it via instinct--a table in the back was the give-away.  We all have that little voice that says "This motherfucker's crazy."  Over time that little voice began whispering more secrets "We have never seen someone operate a forklift that way--something's up here--don't you think..?"  About a year later, the NCDOL made Wanzl get everyone certified to drive forklifts but not one cocksucker thanked me--now James McGill, Angel Hernandez, Shannon Hale--anyone who was uncertified before can now get a better job.  Wanzl knew that so kept everyone uninformed and unemployable by being unlicensed--that's so the CEO's get all the benefits of the system and no one else; Wanzl also kept people doped the fuck-up--that was intentional, too.  If they acquired serious habits it would be an additional problem and mark against them.  The Shannon Hale's of the world are natural managers for Wanzl--they don't know shit, never will, and Wanzl hopes to keep that going.  Wanzl also got the benefits of the Catawba County Sheriff's Office--insider information it clearly is--but Wanzl failed to pass knowledge onto the Great Unwashed.  The unlucky bastards on the assembly line at 5 A.M. remained ignorant on how to properly defend themselves should someone lose their shit.  The point of this story is that labor can never trust the system.  Wanzl lied to the NCDOL--it hid Hernandez in a stack of paperwork I still have in my possession but I was really only looking for one name--if Hernandez had had any sense, or even one nut, he would have contacted me so he wouldn't have to work for Wanzl, anymore.  They're going to shit-can his ass, anyway, when he's no longer needed--that's what they'll do to everyone.  Wanzl was probably aware of how stupid Hernandez was--it was in tune with Hale, and other idiots--they come cheap because they never think.  They probably think engineering is Thomas the Tank Engine  aw

     This has been several years ago, but is likely to have continued; as far as I know, Kroehler Furniture is still there and I know Foothills Staffing has gotten itself a nicer, newer office off of suckers like me—both have prospered off its victims so remain fine capitalists.  When I looked into the upholstery program posted on Indeed by Foothills I wasn’t sure if I should take it; another notification had me deciding to take it about a week later; Foothills told me the job “Didn’t pay thirteen dollars an hour.” 

Because I was looking for something new, so wasn’t on the look-out for sharks with multiple chins, I signed myself into financial doom.  When I went back to Indeed to tell others I was no longer available, I learned I’d been had.  Others at Kroehler weren’t hot about the situation so soon quit.  It was the case that some were making thirteen dollars an hour while they weren’t.  They’d been snookered, too, by one of Foothills’ pigs.  My guess is Foothills is seeing who will make it through the program; maybe that’s what it is, maybe they’re gauging who’s a pussy and who isn’t.  New hires anyway, are put on the ottoman line and trained—at varying levels of pay.  The surprises don’t stop there.  Within about a week, me and "M" (who I would much later see at Sheetz, when he was working at the “shopping cart factory”) both of us were soon in Kroehler HR (he was a terrible upholsterer).  Since pay was a sticking point with me, I asked if we’d be making thirteen dollars an hour or what.  I was under the impression we were about to be hired permanent; HR is where things happen (I was once told during an interview for a previous job I didn't stand a chance at "HR rules the world”).  Me and "M" were both told by an HR youngster in two languages that we’d be driving on our own dime to Morganton to take some sort of test that would determine our success in upholstery—which was off to a shaky start already.  What Kroehler did not say was what would happen if we flunked the test.  I was told by Kroehler to clock-out, drive to Morganton, take the test and return ASAP to work.  I did exactly that aside from taking the test (and stopping by Sheetz for a cold soda, I wanted that badly).  I’d been juiced already so arrived at the appointment they’d set for me disgruntled; I was driving to Morganton on my time and money. 

The problem here more than labor getting fucked is health care’s role in the scam; health care is seen as a scam already by many.  To my knowledge I have not gotten a response from filing an ethics complaint with Blue Ridge Health Care; that’s been about a month ago, I return every call I get (even if I’m certain enough it’s from China).  The employee, which included others than me, has no idea they’re driving themselves to financial doom.  Everyone on “the floor,” however, tells you right away what’s going to happen if you botch the test.  Kroehler doesn’t tell you that and it should; Foothills never mentions it during hire.  Both Kroehler and Foothills did a fine job of maintaining head games.  I played more of those than I did assemble sofas and ottomans.  Being as I didn’t take the test I was taken off the ottoman line and sent to what I think was called “Panels.”  Over time, it appeared others putting together furniture were working harder than we were in “Panels” but seeing as we were still handling upholstery it appeared to still be upholstery to me (during a secret-police meeting I didn't know was probably already scheduled, I was told by the upper class that "Panels" wasn't "real upholstery").

Another aspect of the con on your paycheck is your duties are summed-up with being paid for "General Labor."  You're smart: After having probably been screwed all your life like I have, I don't have to expand on the grey area "general labor" is all about--it means anything, like how mobile you might get in the future where escape isn't part of the plan.  I know from a previous job that being moved around isn't good; after all that time, money and planning for themselves, Kroehler doesn't want you to leave. 

If you wind-up doing nothing but empty the trash the Man considers it a "win."  If you quit, they have to hunt for new blood; Jim Jones operated in much the same way.  What I’d been doing for some time by then was harassing Foothills.  Indeed was unaware it kept sending me a job I was already doing; so I kept answering Indeed by re-applying for it.  It’s how I reminded the system as often as possible how it fucked me—and others; Foothills knew I was already at the job I kept applying for.  Some people botched the test so flunked it; it’s like a machine where you flail your arms and legs—it’s an odd thing. 

I’ve been through boot camp so had a lot of tests and weird medical shit—I’d never been on anything like the upholstery assessment; I didn’t flunk the helo-dunk and we did that several times--if you fucked that up you would momentarily drown (everyone passed, either calmly, in a panic or both).  I probably would have passed had I attempted the “upholstery assessment” but I didn’t; I went through the motions so I’d get the lowest score ever, while coached by a health care ninny (which I believe was physical therapy) to not give a fuck the entire time.  One woman who was hired maybe a month after me got sent to Morganton, too, with no knowledge beforehand of what she was getting into (she may still be there, I have no idea).  She flunked so was doomed to make less until she quit or gave in to poverty she had no idea was coming; I have no idea what became of her.  While I was working in “Panels” an odd thing happened.  My checks showed I was making thirteen dollars an hour making me right that the test was pointless but wrong in my assumption that I’d “won.”  I was soon afterwards sent back to the ottoman line; the head games, at this point went a little like this.  Foothills emphatically told me during hire that if I had any question about the assignment to call them—I worked for them, not Kroehler.  I had no idea what that was all about although it’s clear now.  But when I called Foothills about the obvious more than once I was rudely referred back to Kriminal Furniture.  "Boretz," who was Kroehler Overlord II, told me Foothills didn’t know shit—that I was with Kroehler now so was not to listen to Foothills "That woman doesn't know anything about what goes on in here."  An additional problem was the schedule; if you didn’t work Saturday you were out of a job—this was additional reason to keep wages as low as possible however they could pull it off.  We were (at the time) at forty hours by Thursday, worked a half-day Friday (or possibly an eight-hour shift, it’s been awhile) then worked a half-day Saturday (I no longer recall if we worked eight hours Saturday, either).  By Thursday I’d had enough of upholstery—by Friday I’d certainly had enough of upholstery.  By Monday I’d had enough of upholstery again; we were essentially having only one day off a week—Monday got there quick.  The shift began at 6 A.M. 

"Boretz" is probably the best example of what a schedule like that does—he complained in meetings that he couldn’t get a date because he was at work all the time.  I hope he dies there.  The simple math is that some doing other jobs, like Quality Control, weren’t making even twelve dollars an hour.  I couldn’t believe that when I found that out—it’s why they were there on Saturdays as any idiot would know, except for "Boretz" who was doing everything he could to have a Saturday off so he could do normal things like get some pussy.  I noticed couples there; I won’t insult anyone over why that was happening.  When overtime hit on Friday I went as slow as possible technically making me a fortune. 

On behalf of the bottom-line fuckery, I'd shoot fifty staples into pockets right in front of management who knew I was steaming and why.  It was clear that everyone in Kroehler management and an office on Bryan Boulevard was in on the game.  The way I saw that is that when gravity took over, consumers would never figure out why staples were on their floor every once in awhile and not on a real schedule, either, hopefully driving them mad.  After returning to ottomans from "Panels" a few weeks later another event occurred.  My check dropped to twelve dollars an hour again; I kind of expected that, though, being as I didn’t know what to expect at that point aside from a good fucking from the cause. 

As you might guess, the thirteen dollars an hour check looked much better—it gave me purchasing power.  Now I was back to not exactly participating in the economy again unless you count being used and exploited; thirteen dollars an hour made me feel better, too—I felt like a human being who mattered.  It fooled me into thinking I was vital to the overall picture so was a real American.

While others quit or walked around butt-hurt I fought for my money—it wound-up only costing more although freedom is free; after being returned to the ottoman line (where a twenty-something donut refused to learn upholstery altogether so stayed in “Panels”) I got corralled into HR again—sweet-talked on the way by the ottoman manager who knowingly led me to my doom, where, after I entered a secret-police meeting, some white Darth Vader figure from the country club looked down his nose, claiming I was aware everything I was getting into by driving out to Morganton—that HR told me everything I was getting into, when, in truth, no one’s told anything by either company but are informed by their co-workers who’ve somehow remained human beings. 

Golf Sucker also snooted that he had a job for me driving a forklift instead, that, of course, paid even less peanuts six days a week or you’re fired—how much it paid he omitted—it was clear they left out a lot of things (I also lacked a forklift driving license).  I sent an e-mail to Kroehler HR soon afterwards saying something along the lines of "Fuck your secret tricks and your captain, young lady."  I didn’t appreciate the Gestapo atmosphere—further resistance, of course, plus the truth of how Kroehler conspires with Foothills, got me canned altogether. 

Before being thrown out I did learn some upholstery along the way—at night, at around 6:30 P.M. when it was time for bed again, I was seeing ways I could do things faster or better—it’s how minds work that want to get somewhere; upholstery isn’t that hard, actually, it just looks that way if you're watching the old pros.  It’s not strenuous; there’s no heavy lifting, you don’t get that dirty or sweaty, even if you’re a walking inner-tube who smokes.  Despite how defeating this obviously was, I doubt either Kroehler or Foothills has learned any lessons, except for Foothills' fat, new office where more suckers can join the club well-within the fire code.  As I was filling out the application at Foothills someone came in with a shorted check—I would soon join him, about five minutes later.  "Boretz," on orders of the plantation owner who lacked the nerve and desire for dirty work of any type, deligated or necessary, bounced me out of Kroehler, claiming he didn’t know what was going on.  I left a bar in Europe like that, after retching in the men’s room—we’d overdone it like we did as soon as we could (in those days, the night was still young).  I was slinging stout like it was fresh crude when the owner came in, flipped over my sudden dark side I didn't see coming myself and ran us all out of there.  As of now, as far as I know, the enablers in Blue Ridge physical therapy haven’t responded so do not appear to push ethics like they push second-class chumps into what was never a living wage to begin with, if they passed; I’ll check my e-mail  aw