Every Tuesday, much like our dogs, I wake up with a purpose. I take the garbage out and expect someone with a driver’s license to pick it up on said day. It’s only once a week, and it’s not so much for my wife to ask of me. She’s a peach. They forgot to pick it up this week.
Two large dogs, two cats, coupled with a bunch of cooking, creates a bunch of garbage. That’s why we pay people to pick garbage up on a weekly basis. “People” meaning GARBAGE MEN OR WOMEN! Get used to that title. I used to deliver ice and I had to get used to the phrase in mid July during one hundred and something degree temperatures, “Pretty cool job, huh, Iceman?” “F you.” That’s when I decided to get a college degree. It’s also the beginning of a bad joke and an angry man.
Yard waste, recycling, and God forbid I write it, “Garbage”is the Holy Trinity of the men or women of the Union who decide when, where, and how they dispose of it. They control our waste. Their power is undeniable and unforgiving. I spend so much time placing consumables and their ugly cousins in different baskets, I forget to tell my wife how much I love her when she leaves to go shopping. The basket happy bastards, after dictating the day, minute, hour, or month they may drop by to pick things up, laugh when you are unhappy with their service. Hold on. I just received a very nice message from my wife proclaiming her husband is not an A hole.
She is the peach in my basket. Done.
Swinging like a wild man,