Tag Archives: Waste container

Trash Can Wars Part 2 … Crossing the Rubicon


I can’t do this anymore.

Rebellion, open and honest rebellion, is my only option. The oppressed must rebel.

I have no guns, mind you. No weapons, save a bayonet I bought for like $5 in Iraq years ago. But desperate times, my friends, call for desperate measures.

I speak, of course, of my wife’s retarded – I mean insane, I mean full-blown weird – decision to remove the trash can from the house.

Moar Boobs!

I honestly just blogged, twice about a fucking trash can. Everyone deserves some boobs.

I talked about it here. But if you don’t want to read that, let me sum it up quickly.

My wife decided, for reasons that escape any known or sane definition of logic, to do away with the trash can. The MAIN trash can, mind you (the one in the kitchen), has been removed from the house entirely. In the trash can’s place we are currently using – and I couldn’t make this up if I tried – convenience store plastic bags hanging from the door knob.

Don’t try and work through the “why” of this command decision. There isn’t any way to rationalize it. It is devoid of reason and without logic. There is no, it-helps-with-recycling aspect to it. In fact, I’m pretty sure it does the exact opposite since all trash goes into the same plastic bag.

Ease can’t be the reason for the change. The small bags fill up every time someone farts. The only purpose, I can surmise, is to annoy the living hell out of me. Something an actual trashcan never did.

A beer ad from Brazil! I was trying to find a trash can full of beer cans and instead found this. You are very welcome.

A beer ad from Brazil! I was trying to find a trash can full of beer cans and instead found this. You are very welcome. ~Fran

Trust me on this one – TOTAL pain in the ass.

Besides filling up at a rate of every second, my wife insists the handles of each plastic bag be tied before being removed from the house. Because obviously, an untied plastic convenience store bag holding coffee grounds, empty beer cans and egg shells is tacky as hell, or an affront to god.

Or something.

Anyway, rebellion, or something akin to rebellion, is brewing. Soon I’ll be meeting with like-minded individuals (the cat) to discuss in hushed tones the revolution.

We’re on the cusp of blood being spilled. Well, not blood exactly, but at the very least beer and that’s c0mpletely fucked up.

The following exchange just took place.

“Damn, Todd! If you would just take the trash out when it’s full, I wouldn’t get mad,” she said.

“You know what would make this a lot simpler, using a trash can,” I explained. “It’s an ancient invention that has proven its worth throughout the ages. Having little bags the size of a fucking coin purse to deposit our waste into is both stupid and stupid. It’s stupid twice. It makes literally no sense. Logic cannot be applied to the decision, that YOU made. It’s impossible to logically justify this decision from any firm standing.”

The Angry Eye

Your logic has logic in it. This makes me mad. (Photo credit: jcgoforth)

At this point she became pissed.

“I’m doing it because of beer cans!”

That was her answer. I can’t explain it. You can’t explain it either.

Her logic is that there would be  too many beer cans in the trash can if we used the actual trash can. There are too many, thus the trash can is no longer going to be used. I also might add that we have a newly purchased, fully functional trash can, that she banished to the basement some weeks ago.

Now… I’ll be fair, I’ll be honest, I’ll bare my soul here. This blog is called Had A Few BEERS for Christ’s sake, so yes, the receptacles that deliver beer’s sweet, succulent love into my belly are eventually in need of disposal. My love, nay, devotion to beer produces (gasp) empty beer cans.

In our last house it was verboten to even place a beer can in the kitchen trash (I used the one in the garage to dispose of my empties). So her argument holds no water, or trash, as the case may  be.

So I think I’m going to take a G-gank approach to this problem and

just put the fucking trash can back in place. When confronted I will tell her it’s there because it’s stupid to not have it there. I’ll also use phrases like, “Because I said so.” “Trashcans are not evil.” “Who has the penis in this house?”  And, “Please honey, can’t we have a working trashcan, please?”

I’d type a lot more of this, but I obviously have a tiny bag of trash to take out.

I have restored the trash cans to their rightful place in the Oliver Republic.  Much like Caesar I fully expect to be stabbed.   Oh well, the die is cast.

I have restored the trash cans to their rightful place in the Oliver Republic. Much like Caesar, I fully expect to be stabbed. Oh well, the die is cast.

Finally, to anyone reading this and thinking, but what about Germany’s recycling laws, I’d like to reply, yes.

A fast note to Had A Few Beers readers: Fran, the awesome person who edits this, recently had surgery for chick stuff or a rotten gallbladder, or circumcision, I wasn’t really listening. Seriously though, I hope everyone reading this takes a moment to wish her a speedy recovery. (Fran you’re awesome and I hope you feel better, sans gallbladder).

Please send me a working trash can and other fears about going on a business trip


There is a public-information campaign for the U.S. Military that aims to help servicemembers returning from long deployments adjust to living with their loved ones again. The gist of it is, shit may have changed while you were gone, stop being an asshat and deal with it.

In simpler terms, “expect change.”

I’ve, in a previous life, deployed twice in service to my country (as has my wife) and I fully realize that this sort of information is both needed and useful.

Things do change when you’re away for a year or more, and that’s OK.

But — and this “but” is an all-capital-letters BUT — how the fuck does my wife expect me to predict the level of fuckallery that she inflicts upon our house every time I’ve gone on a trip that lasts more than two hours.

I travel a moderate amount for work. I used to travel all the time. There have been six-month periods that I was away on business trips more than I was home. Thankfully that’s slowed down a lot and now I’m only gone a few weeks every two or three months.

Still though, the decisions made while I’m gone for 10 days are baffling, shocking and bizarre to me. I don’t know about your marriage (or domestic union, or shack up, or polygamist cult), but generally in my household decisions that affect both participants are a committee kind of decision. An idea is put forth. If there is opposition, a counter argument is made and, generally, I do whatever the fuck she wants me to do.

I’m not talking about decisions to buy a new tablecloth or replace the towels with a new pattern, (actually our towel collection should really, really be donated to a home for the blind and mentally disturbed. It’s a mishmash of vomit, earth tones and some sort of cloth weaved by a not-very interested person in a refugee camp circa 1820) those kinds of decisions I could give a fuck about because I have a penis.

Kellogg's frosted flakes lipbalm

They’re magically delicious. Now with lip balm!(Photo credit: Valeri-DBF) 

Really, during this most recent trip, my wife replaced a lot of our dinner plates. My interest registered on the “husband gives a fuck” scale at a two. Something scientists in a famous 1978 study defined as, “Is she happy with the decision? If yes, shut the hell up.” She showed me the new plates and I asked myself the following: Will the plate hold food? Yes. Is she happy with the plate? Yes. Therefore the plate is fucking great. If it were not for her I would be eating cold Frosted Flakes out of the box, happy I had remembered to buy Frosted Flakes in the first place.

So, by change, I don’t mean the simple changes that serve to turn the feces-strewn, half-naked-poster-girl-riddled cardboard box the single me would call home, into the comfortable, charming place I now live in because of my wife’s awesomeness.

Oh no, I mean the completely irrational, logic-defying, who-in-their-right-mind-would-consider-this-an-improvement kind of change.

Changes that make no fucking sense whatsoever kind of changes.

Which are my favorite kind of changes.

You probably want examples. I would too, honestly. I mean, a guy can’t just make wild claims about his wife making these kinds of changes and not back it up with a few examples can he?

Lucky for you I have examples*.

We no longer have a trash can.

I don’t mean the little ones you and I all have in the bathroom that collects tissue and cotton swabs. Nor do I mean the ones we all keep in our bedroom collects “Oh that’s fucking GROSS, NO!” I mean missing into the abyss was the central trashcan of the house. Yours is likely in the kitchen as is ours … as WAS ours.

While I was gone the decision was made that all refuge will be place in little

plastic bags awaiting recycling

Clearly these are better than the $80 trash can with the spring loaded lid you had to have last spring. Clearly.(Photo credit: EvelynGiggles)

convenience store bags (of which we have eight million stored) and then when full (and they are always full) they will be removed from the house.

Now look, in addition to being a major contributor to the house’s trash-making capability (beer cans), I am also the authority on taking out the trash because she decreed it so eons ago. That part is fine, it’s not a household chore I mind and really it’s pretty easy. I’ve even been taught to check the liner after the bag is removed and, if dirty, to spray it with cleaning solution and wipe with a paper towel.

I mean I have this shit down.

So how was this decision made? Saying nothing about recycling. How did we go from having a respectable clean receptacle for our trashcan to using 7-Eleven type bags? That’s like deciding not to use the dishwasher when you have a working dishwasher.

Yeah. We’re no longer using the dishwasher.

I’m pretty sure my wife was abused by a dishwasher as a child. I suspect it’s a repressed memory. Nothing else describes her fear and loathing of the dishwasher doing its job. Its been an ongoing battle.

“Honey, just use the dishwasher,” I’d say.

“I like doing them by hand, it’s relaxing,” would be the reply.

Then two weeks later when it becomes more aggravating than relaxing (which in my stunning brilliance I predicted) I get, “Can you help me wash the dishes?”

Yes, honey, yes I can, by loading the dishwasher.

* I could write a book with examples and may still…