What the heck, Trash Can?

What the heck, Trash Can?
I just bought a ninety-dozen pack of Tall Kitchen Bags and guess what? THEY DON’T FIT. You are a tall kitchen trash can, are you not? What gives?

The last batch of Tall Kitchen Bags was iffy, I know. Ironic, considering they were “Awesome!” brand (emphasis mine, though I am certain that more brand names need exclamation points). But no, seriously: I finished up that box and schlepped on over to the Target – I WENT TO TARGET FOR YOU WHEN I COULD HAVE JUST AS EASILY WENT TO WAL-MART – and picked out a fucking crate’s worth of Tall Kitchen Bags.

Don't give me that look, motherfucker.

Not just any TKBs, mind you: these had Odor Guard and Drawstrings and Stretchability-ness and possibly glowed in the dark. In short: this was some Grade A Prime shit, even if they were Target brand.

But nope. Not good enough for you, eh? I can barely fit these new fuckers around you and do they even reach the bottom? Nope. Not at all. But it’s ok, I’ll just gingerly place each individual piece of trash in the bag from now on. No sweat. I don’t mind at all.

Except I fucking WILL mind, especially next time I’m pitching the remains of what began as a perfectly good meal until I got a little heavy-handed with the onion powder or the jalapenos or the sherry and it turned to crap and I have to throw it in the trash because Mr. Garbage Disposal is such a fucking diva – all finicky and dainty and makes horrific screeching noises when it is displeased with me, which is always.

So what gives, Trash Can? Are you actually a Tall Garage Trash Can instead, masquerading in your white plastic-ness so that unsuspecting schmoes like me will blindly place you in their shopping cart, thus freeing you from the tyranny of the K-Mart?

Or did you, like, grow or something? Because we’ve been together a few years, dude, and I seriously can’t remember having this issue before.

Fine. Whatever it is I did to upset you, I’m sorry. Just – everything. Everything I’ve ever done. I’m now officially sorry. Here is my apology. To you. So can we just move on? Will you just go back to accepting my trash bags and we can forget this whole thing happened?

What do you mean it doesn’t work like that? That I should “know” what I’m apologizing for? Are you serious? Are you going to pull that crap with me? Now? Right here? Jesus, this is just like you. Let’s make a fucking scene in front of the whole goddamn internet. “Oh, look at me, I’m the victim here, Julie doesn’t care about my feelings, it’s all about her, blah blah blah waaaaaaaaah!”

Know what, a-hole? It is all about me. I own you. You see that pile of broken furniture laying next to the Dumpster outside? DO YOU WANT TO BE IN THAT PILE? Do you? Do you?

Then I suggest you shut your smart mouth.

But first tell me where to buy trash bags for you.

 

 

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