Discards are the stuff of life me thinks. That is, if each wasted animal managed to trash himself in a dumpster someplace. Now, if other people have thrown one out with the garbage then that’s a little sad. Not for the discard, he knows a good thing in the form of a bin when he sees it, but… it just boils down to the fact that trash is something quite a lot of people have a serious problem dealing with and they solve it by tossing it out and letting other people have a go.
Fine. Admittance of incompetence is greatly appreciated good people.
Trash, human or otherwise, is for other people to deal with. Fine. So we have a multi-million rupee business in dumpsters and related paraphernalia not forgetting the human beings involved in it whose supposed contribution to life is primarily as a statistic for the number of blue collar workers who are not yet jobless.
Secondarily, of course, they collect your garbage. Eh? Did I get that right? Is there actually a sub-stratum of human beings who go around collecting other people's discards? I wonder. Its always “garbage disposal units” in the plural but “trash collector” in the singular. Even the bloody machines that work this industry are “disposal” thingies. Not the human beings. They collect your trash.
I should try to interview one of these blokes. I don’t think anyone has ever done that. You hear of a “garbage workers union” any place let me know. The results of a chit-chat should be interesting. Although I guess it won’t make any more sense than interviewing a psychotherapist. That particular animal also collects other people’s garbage. Well not exactly. He provides each gunk filled gar-bag with a dumpster but calls it a couch. And he earns millions too. Come to think of it, why not interview the garbage as well while I’m about it? What does it feel about its fall from being one in a clutch of great tomatoes of which it was the only rotten one through the fault of its stupid farmer, its fertilizer, its pests, its picker, its packer, its distributor, its purchaser? What’s its take on everyone making gourmet dishes outta rotten tomatoes and selling them at heart-attack prices to people who would be better off with a heart-attack or haut-indigestion at the very least? (You absolutely must try the rotten tomato bouillabaisse at this gorgeously cozy little place I discovered darling. It’s absolutely out of this world. I’ve been having the runs for a week now and in fact I’m running even as I speak luv. Oh? *giggle* Oh yes. I got the man to install a phone in the throne room. It is such a necessity for people with discerning taste in food like us you know?). Blah.
How does it feel like to be that breathlessly anticipated child that once its born doesn’t look, taste, feel or cook quite the same as every other? I think I know the answer. It will say “thanks but no thanks, no interviews thank you very much, gotta plane to catch and a date with a dumpster, er.. the grocery store is just around the corner so talk to the tomatoes if you really feel the need to blab.”
I think I will sit down on this curbside, next to a dumpster that may or may not contain a dead body and wish that I were born mad.