|HOW ABOUT THIS, GOOD SIR? |
Is this recyclables offering to your liking?
You'll notice I took the liberty of throwing in
some cleavage. And a hint of bra strap. If that
doesn't work, I guess I'm just going to have to
sleep with you!
Because I don't know about the garbage men in your town, but Brampton garbage men are fucking picky. If it doesn't look nice enough, they won't take it. I had a shouting match with one of them a few weeks ago when I came out just in time to see him turning his nose up at it and starting to drive away. When I asked why he wasn't taking my garbage, he said, "Because it offends me." Well not in those words. What he actually said was, "It's all jumbled up and I can't see what's what. It looks like you've got some non-recyclables in there."
Well I was livid. "Jesus!" I huffed. "You're might picky for a garbage man!" Which of course was the wrong thing to say because although he might have been persuaded to take my messy garbage before I said that, he sure as hell wasn't going to take it now. He drove off and left me there with my unfit detritus, and I had to wait until the following week to rearrange it in a more tempting display and hope someone else was on duty.
Then one week I put a red bow on it. Which was sarcasm, but he either didn't get it or did get it and liked it, because he took the garbage ... and the bow.
Next week, I'm signing up for an "artful garbage presentation" class, in which we will learn to make stinky items smell better and to arrange rotting vegetable matter into happy faces.
Holy shit, people. When did life become this complicated?