11/21/2023
Today is trash day. I take the household garbage to the county dump on the other side of the county on top of a impressive ridge not far from the airport. I know the route well. I load up the jeep and hurtle my way across the Southern Tier as 'garbage-boy' foot-on-de'-gas. I pull into the dump area, unload the recyclables, and wait in line to get on the scale. Take the one large trash bag I have to container #3 with the other schmoe-dee-dos, and back up to it and chuck with all my might the heavy load into #3. I then head back to the weigh-in line, get weighed again, and as usual am asked to pay $5. I do. And then I drive off having unloaded my refuse, my undesirables, my 'dastrullmagus nun'; "That which falls outta my arse."
I'll leave this morning around 9am when E leaves to go to Endicott to see her dentist. We leave at the same time, return at the same time, and wait for the predicted snowstorm-deluxe to barrel through tonight. We are well stocked with foodstuffs and essentials. It's a party. Perhaps.
Ok. It's Thanksgiving week. The only American holiday with any true ubiquitous merit. Comes at a good time of year too. Slows everyone down off their yingery. It's a few days to fart in peace. The collective do-nuttin' wheeze. Reminds us that the end of the year as we see it is a-comin' and we can take stock, take note of our 12-month progress least we forget. What was our haul this year? What did it cost us to get it? Was there a profit? What did we learn? How does tomorrow fare?
These are the laments of 'Productive-Man'. The humanoid who makes things. Who carves up the planet to reconstitutes it as useful to him. From dirt we get F-16s, skyscrapers, cruise ships, bombs, M&Ms. From air we get rice pudding, soufflé, and sausage fricassee. From water we get toilet paper, the Met, cough drops, sofas and Chevys. The list goes on. Productive-Man never leaves a stone unturned, and ass not fu**ed, a beetle in its shell. Never.
The old folk, busy in their oldery, that are less or hardly productive are sent to Henry's to sip B-rate coffee from Mississippi and play with their angry scrambled eggs and hash browns. There is no handicapped parking at Henry's as it would be redundant with every spot eventually identified as such. The non-productive; the socially handicapped; the Moroni gather there like pinions (odobenus Rosemary's divergens) on an ice flow in the Chukchi Sea. Once in awhile one of them gets uppity and attempts to write a phantasmagorical novel exploiting their fetid youth and orangutan dreams. Hah! It eventually farts out and flutters in the sniffles of literaria to fall haplessly on the dung heap of tragedy and lost meaning. As it should. No one weeps about that, but it is noted that they do weep when Brittany Spears stubs her toe in Morocco while hallucinating on toad sweat. Understandable, eh.
