06 February 2006

Flight of the Wheelie Bin

“Where’s the wheelie bin?” Asks Gretchen.

This question has been pondered by better minds than mine. “If the wheelie bin truly exists, does it really care about us? Now, that’s the real question.

I grunt.

This deeply philosophical question is posed at an inopportune time; three hours, four beers and a bag of chemical cheese puffs into the important 14 hour Superbowl pre-game show.

Yes, it is important; I’ve installed television monitors above the commode and kegerator. I wouldn’t do that for “Dancing with the Tards” or “American Idle”.

The grunt, apparently, is not considered a proper answer and the question is re-submitted; this time with the accusatory suffix “You left it by the kerb Friday, didn’t you?”

This is unfair! I distinctly remember putting it back in it’s proper place and sorting junk mail (unwanted bills, correspondence from the IRS or worse, Gretchen’s relatives, etc.,) directly into it.

“There was a pack of gypsies camped on Fiddler’s Green last night. They must have nipped it in the wee hours.” I reply, trying to look around her at the TV. Even though it was a commercial, it might be a funny one.

That was a funeral procession!”

Hmmph. Dead people. Even more useless than gypsies, if you ask me. I squirm in my chair trying to peer around the other side. No luck; total eclipse of the TV.

“Alright, I’ll buy a new one tomorrow.” With this offering to the moon spirits, the vast, bulky moon should unswallow the TV, allowing it to bathe me, once again, in its life giving warmth. No such luck.

“No, go look for it, NOW!” Apparently, garbage cannot survive for one day outside of its proper home.

So, bundled against the swirling snow, I peek outside hopefully. Alas, Gretchen was right. The wheelie bin has gone walkabout; probably during the windstorm last night. I trudge downhill a fair piece before I see it.


I shall need a ladder as it is perched majestically in a tall pine, like Steve Irwin about to molest an eagle.

Now, in most small villages, the sight of a fat man, standing precariously on the top rung of a ladder laid against the upper boughs of a swaying pine, jabbing a wheelie bin with a 2x4 will attract a crowd representing the lower tail of the IQ bell curve, and believe me, my village is no exception.

“No, Jab it to the left, TO THE LEFT!” Roars wheezing Fred.

“Do you want me to get my shotgun and shoot it down?” Asks Ray, who is still on my shit list for deer hunting with my truck.

“Hook your belt around the bough for safety, Uncle Evil.” shouts the only sensible one; Ray’s eight year old son who was obviously switched at birth. I feel great pity for the other family when I consider Ray’s genetic legacy.

I buckle the belt around a bough and with one mighty heave, the wheelie bin and 2x4 both cartwheel to the ground.

Unfortunately, so does the ladder.

Overbalanced, I pitch forward and am left dangling head down about thirty feet above the cruel frozen earth and the now broken ladder. The belt has saved me, but the increased tension has exposed my own moons and truth be told, it’s a little chilly at that altitude.

“Grab ahold of the trunk, THE TRUNK!” Roars wheezing Fred.

“Do you want me to get my shotgun and shoot it down?” Asks Ray hopefully.

“Hang tight, Uncle Evil!” shouts the only sensible one. I’ve got just the thing!” and he dashes home.

So, with wind howling amongst my nethers, I am left to ponder. What will little Mike bring back? Crampons, rope, carabineers, an eight and a fudge-seat? A new ladder? The fire department?

I make out his tiny figure pelting back down the road with something small in his hand.

The little bastard got his camera.




And that's the way I likes it.