A Lesson in Refuse Removal Futility

I have a question. This particular question has plagued me for the past month, tried my wits and patience, and left me feeling uncertain about my mental faculties. I'm stumped. So I pose this question to you, the Regular Readers who justify my existence, for you to ponder and perhaps answer if you can:

How the hell do you throw away a trashcan?

My quest to rid myself of the can began with an argument with my wife. She decided that we needed a new trash can because, according to her, the old one was "too dirty". I saw her "too dirty" argument and raised her with my "Uh, duh, it's a trashcan" argument. She then countered with a "but they're filthy", to which I responded with my previous "it's a trashcan" argument, with emphasis on the word trash. The argument continued in this fashion, the married couple's equivalent of the old "Who's on first" bit with neither of us changing our arguments, just repeating them with increasing emphasis on key words. I felt my argument was iron clad (it's a TRASHcan!), but she ended up buying a new one anyways.

Now, how to rid myself of the old trash can? My first idea was to write on the lid of the can, "This can is trash. Please take it." I wanted to make sure the trash collector would see the writing so I wrote in big letters, such big letters that I was only able to fit "This can is trash" on the lid. I still wrote "Please take it" on the front of the can in even bigger letters hoping to grab the attention of the trash collector.

Take note that my neighborhood's trash collection takes place in the wee hours of the morning sometime between when I am supposed to get up for work and when I actually do. I didn't account for poor lighting when I wrote my message, so I'm guessing he either didn't see it or only read the lid. After reading the lid he probably thought to himself, "duh, it's a trashcan", emptied it and put it back on the curb next to the new one.

Did I mention the can was full? I still continued to use the can for refuse removal (remember: trashcan). I figured it would save the trash collector a step in the process, thus increasing his collection efficiency.

My wife suggested leaving the can empty and, instead of leaving a note, actually being out there when the truck arrives to tell them to take it. Pshaw! I will do neither. This is no longer just about throwing away the trash can; it's about getting the trash collector to take it without using either of the methods my wife suggested. It's a matter of personal pride, male pride, and human ingenuity. And besides, the can was still quite capable of serving as a trash receptacle, even if it was trash itself.

For my next attempt, I printed a sign on my computer using the largest font that would fit on one page. The sign contained the message "PLEASE TAKE THIS CAN" in bold letters on a white sheet of paper. I taped the sign to the lid over my previous note and set it at the curb with the rest of my trash the night before trash collection. Unlike my previous note, which was written in marker on the can's lid, the white sign with black letters provided much better visibility in low light. Unless of course it rains, which it did that night. In that case, the sign dissentigrates into a gray pulpy mass the collector is unable to read. He's also unable to bend over and pick it up apparently, since I found it on the ground behind the emptied can.

For my third attempt, I did what any self respecting, capable man with a staple gun would do. I stapled the lid down. No need for the extra sign. One tug at the handle and the collector will realize his attempt to de-lid has been thwarted, thus forcing him to look down and see my message and take the can. A plan this foolproof requires observation, so I got up early just to watch.

Who knew the guy had Popeye forearms? Apparently he had dealt with stubborn lids in the past. With one yank the lid was off and the can was dumped. The entire process took less than ten seconds. It took me twenty minutes to staple the lid on. From my observation point hunched down at front room window, I silently cursed him and that wretched albatross of a can for foiling me again.

So here I sit in the wee hours of the morning on week four of my trash can experiment, the light of my laptop monitor keeping me company as I observe my latest attempt. The sign has returned, but this time it's taped completely to the can to prevent it from getting wet or blowing away. The lid has been tied shut with twine. I even set the can on its side to help drive home the point that the can is dead and no longer a suitable trash receptacle. Surely this will work, but just in case I already have an idea ready for next week.

Duct tape. Lots of duct tape.