Fwd: Superior Dribble: Trash Talk

re-posted

Trash Talk

"Honey! It's garbage day tomorrow, you have to prepare the trash! If you're looking for your glasses I last saw them on top of your head! I'm heading out."
She knows I need my glasses to prepare, not take out, but to arrange and properly place unwanted articles and food waste in their respective bags and boxes. I need my glasses to find that dad-blang triangle on the plastic containers. Lord forbid if I get the wrong numbered triangle in the recycle box. If they could make the numbers bigger or colour them it would certainly make my life easier. I have to twist and turn them trying to get the light right, running my finger across the ridges trying to caress out a single digit number. I look like I'm trying to strum some instrument made of recycled garbage. The wife's jealous of her plastic salad box, complaining it gets more loving attention on the way to the Blue Box than she does all week.
Now the plastic's taking care of, it's time to wash the bottles and try to remove labels from the glass. I say try, because usually that's all it is, is an attempt. If they (the garbage police) want labels off, why do they (again the garbage police) let companies crazy glue them on. They are at one with the glass! Hot water, soap and razor blades are needed to try and hide the fact that it was once a pickle bottle. It seems anonymity is very important to the people down at Bills Brought Back Broken Bottle Bin. Where their motto is 'Be an un-labeler enabler!' I think Bill drinks what's left at the bottom of the bottles.
Onward to the papers! For this I refer to my 'Recycle With Confidence' section of my recycling bible (provided by our fair city) which I now find out got mixed up with the recyclables last week! And thrown out! So now with anything but confidence, I attempt the next to impossible. The house receives and brings in a lot of paper. And for this we have two different bags with which to recycle our papyrus. So do I use the blue bag or the yellow bag for a non-glossy insert flyer with removed plastic window made from cardboard with a newsprint insert. I hum and haw over this one for some time, and then with little confidence place it in the yellow bag. I then get off the floor and phone Tom next door to see which bag he used. No answer.
Newspaper after newspaper checked for hidden paper infractions. Cardboard boxes flattened, and staples removed. Egg cartons squished. Plastic windows removed. Tearaway all traces of my name and address on any envelopes. Become like the pickle bottle. Find interesting article in 'Time' magazine and waste ten minutes determining if your spouse is cheating on you.
Now, not only am I not sure I've got the right paper in the right bag, I now lack confidence the wife is staying true to our wedding vows! I'll try Tom again.
Still bothered by the flyer made of cardboard with the newsprint insert, I complete all paper products and move on to food scraps. Confidence builds. Either cooked or non-prepared foods all go in the kitchen container and then the green cart. What my wife can do with a $30 dollar roast is criminal. I just throw it out before it becomes a crime scene. For Christmas one year I got her a serving platter with the white chalk outline of a roast. Like the police do with a dead body. In response, she used my suit pants that day as a pot holder to remove the turkey from the oven. Asked why, my now ruined expensive suit pants became a pot holder, she replied 'Thats what you use them for!'
I search fridge and freezer for all past and future offending food scraps. Careful to leave the frozen fruitcake from Aunt Tilley that's been there for three years, then away for two, only to be re-gifted back to us for an additional four years more.
Now waving and clapping my hands I make my way to the kitchen container. I look like a blessed, praising church - goer as I enter a small cloud of fruit flies. I affix both hands to its smooth exterior, careful not to slop any residue on my skin. It'll stain, burn and stink on contact, immediately, and for an extended period of time. Eye protection is a must! Now down a flight of stairs, opening two closed doors I reach the green cart outside. I clear a ten ft radius to pour the offending odor into the green cart. I open the lid of the kitchen container and my fruit fly herd triples in size as they try to escape my wifes meat loaf. I carefully pour out this offending odor, turning nose and eyes away, noticing all the lights at Toms house are off. Now it's off to the end of the driveway for tomorrows pick up.
I see Toms Blue Box is at the curb already. I go through his yellow and blue bag to see which one he used for the flyer ( I'm sure we both got one in the mail) made of cardboard and newsprint. No luck! It's not there. I try his phone again.
Several more trips to the end of the driveway conclude garbage eve. All garbage has been prepared and expelled less than one week from entering my abode.
The digital alarm clock shows the score all tied up at a dozen apiece as I lay in bed looking at the ceiling. I lay there wondering where my wife is and thinking back to my youth.
"Honey! It's garbage day tomorrow have you taken out the trash!?" My Mom would ask my Dad.
"I'll do it during the commercial!" was his reply. Two minutes done! Which is why I guess we are where we are today.
And then I think............., and then toss and roll and notice all the 2s on the clock. The wife's not home yet. I get up, put on my housecoat, outside to the Blue Box and retrieve my worrisome flyer. Back to the house, crumple it up and flush it down the toilet. Problem solved! Tomorrow I'll wipe up the water from the toilet over flowing and unclog the throne from its offending flyer.
I lay there, now at peace wondering why I never thought to separate the papers from the flyer. Silly me. S l e e p y...I hear a car...next door....Toms car....my wife tip toes into the room. I sit up and turn on the light, "Honey it's 2:30 in the morning! Do you know which bag Tom used for that stupid flyer!?"


Bob Niles


bobby did this  

Fwd: Camp Atcha Ownrisk

                                     Camp Atcha Ownrisk

Dear Mom and Dad,
Grandma thought I should write a note to let you know we are all okay here. The fires and smoke have only added to our camping experience with Grandma and Gramps. Gramps said it was a good thing he had built the campfire on the west side of his van as the flames ran away from our campsite rather than through it.
Gramps is a really good driver and is teaching me to drive when his eyes get too tired from all the smoke. He works the three pedals and the shifter and I'm the eyes that steer Gramp's 'Millennium Falcon. Oh don't worry it's only on the back roads where little traffic is seen as most of the residents that use the roads must be away on holidays. That's what old Gramps figures anyway.'. Grandma sure gets excited easily.
Last week we spent an extra day in this little town that was under a vaccination order. It sure was a quiet little town.I guess everybody's hiding from getting their shots like Peyton and I did.  Gramps had to fix the brakes on his old camper-ized van so we camped behind the tire shop in town. The man that owned it was evac..u..something and  wanted Gramps to come with him and his family off the mountain. Gramps laughed and waved him a cheery good-bye. But before they went (and in a big hurry)  they had left the bathroom at the back of their shop open for us to use at night. 'Good thing!' Gramps said because the tanks on the van were overflowing so we couldn't use the toilet. Gramps said he'll dump them soon somewhere because with so much extra weight, stopping the Millennium Falcon is more of a suggestion than conclusion.
Grandma and Gramps sure pray a lot. They were praying so hard and all the time that they would find Peyton again. But I guess you already knew that we found him. Gramps said he used his secret computer to computer-ize you the message. The hospital fixed Peyton's leg with a cast and now he's as good as new. It will still take a while for his hair to grow back though because of squirting gas on the fire. But gramps said you knew that too.
I guess he told you about the EpiPen too then. Gramps figured we needed some nuts with our beers. Kidding! They were light beers. Anyway that  'blue to the sky and orange to the thigh' TV ads paid off big time! Twice! Gramps can't believe so many things, like mixed nuts, have actual nuts in them. Then he got all bothered and wanted to know how everybody went from allergic to intolerant overnight. Grandma said she's going to start reading the labels on all our treats from now on. And we eat a lot of treats!
Gramps tuba sure takes up a lot of room in the van. But he swears by placing it on the picnic table at the camp site it usually keeps the sites on either side empty. And if not, like our last stop at Camp Atcha Ownrisk  the teenagers guitar at the site besides us, at 10 o'clock at night, makes good fire kindling.
A couple of nights ago gramps and I went up to the top of a nearby ridge that's burning and empty the septic tanks on the fires. Whatever septic is, besides stinky. I figure he should  get his picture in the paper for helping put out fires but he's not interested. He said he wanted to keep it our secret.
You sure got a cool parents Dad. After they go to sleep Peyton and I can stay up as late as we like. Don't worry we don't go too far out in the forest as gramps says there are black bears and grizzly bears around. He has bells that we wear and we carry bear spray. We know they're around as we see bear droppings all over the place. Peyton's gross cause he looks in it to see what they eat. Gramps and him found berries, grasses and fur from maybe a rat in the black bear scat this morning. And bells that smelled like bear spray in the grizzly scat just behind Gramps van. Gross eh?
Grandma is going to show me how to mail this at our next stop. My first mail! Gramps won't let me use his secret computer to email you. I think he's a spy! We're going off now to look for him as he's wandered away again. Doing spy stuff probably. Last time we found him he was spying through the fence of a colony of nudists back in the woods.  Grandma kicked him in the bum and scared him. He almost knocked the fence over and let the nudists out.  Grandma said nudists are naturalists so I guess they eat berries and nuts and,....hey maybe they eat bells!
"So Emmett are you and Peyton having fun?" you ask. Do nudists eat bells and poop in the woods!? Of course we are! Ha ha! That's old school LOL
Love you! See you in 10 sleeps maybe.
Emmett Griffin
Grade 4

Bob Niles

Fwd: Fan Appreciation

                                             Fan Appreciation

Squirt, squirt "Are you going to buy groceries today!?" My wife yells at the top of her voice. I look in the direction of the cool splashes and see her moving her lips while using her fingers to keep her hair out of her mouth. "No I'm not going anywhere near Surrey today!" I holler back cupping my hands to form a megaphone around my mouth.
I get off the couch to go toward the kitchen and feel, this time, three shots of water. This must be important. The wife is now coming this way, but her hair is ahead of her and then to the left of her as she moves from one seemingly magnetic force field to the next. Again words rise above the constant wwwwwwwwhhhhhrrrrrr of the room but again I respond negatively to any Surrey destinations.
She points me to the cone of silence, the bathroom, and I do as directed. Now with the door closed all the rooms power down as independent motion detectors detect no life forms.
"Are you going to get groceries?" She asks while fixing her hair in the mirror.
"In Surrey? No I thought I'd go to the Value Save- On Market around the corner." I say.
"Surrey?" She questions my reflection. "Who said,....never mind! Just pick up some plastic wrap for the sandwiches were making for the church social this afternoon. O K?"
"Okay! Message received" I salute her in the mirror, click my heels together and then clap both hands together at the right side of my head, which commands a collection of rooms throughout the house to power up fans that I've hooked up to The Clapper.
 I have many fans. My wife not being one of them right now. But not that kind of fan. I mean I have the air blowing and air sucking, 2000 rpm, pedestal, table top, ceiling, 10 inch, 14 inch, 24 inch, 36 inch, finger removing blurry bladed fans! All used in my effort to stay cool, and drive my wife nuts.
I don't mean to drive her nuts and lord knows this isn't my first attempt nor will it be my last attempt to inadvertently do so.
She attains this level of mental instability due in part to the fact that each conversation during this heat wave has to start with a well aimed squirt from the mister bottle. This, because verbal language skills cannot rise above the whirring drone of dozens of fans.
It's the large use of fans that keep me cool during this current heat wave. And it's because of this, spoken word is now substituted with lip reading. And to what level of intensity emitted from the nozzle of a spray bottle sets the tone of the conversing.
A floating mist carefully placed on a whispering wave of air, delivered to the cheek of your spouse is one of passion. Where as a direct couple squirts to the face commands that you must pay attention, now, and is also more likely.
Not only is annoying conversation with a spouse done away with, because of multiple fans, but so also is any clue as to having a kitchen full of fruit flies. With four and sometimes five fans in the kitchen fruit flies are a thing of the past. Oh they're probably there in your handsome kitchen recycling bucket, but the minute that lid is lifted,  they are blown to,...? Don't care! It's all good my house of many fans. That is until they become silent.
She,..the wife, made me shut them off!
It was while we were wrapping up all the sandwiches for the church social with the 2500 ft. box of food film I had bought earlier that day that she,..the wife, pulled the plug. And I guess, in her defense she was right to do so. It seems, I, attempting to wrap the first plate of stinky egg salad finger sandwiches had used up half the box of food film trying to get a flat sheet with four, no five fans blowing. The food film kept folding up on itself! And I confess that I had said words that dear Sister Lofstrom, head of the Sunday School, would not of been proud of. And so it was decided to stop all the fans.
And then it was decided that I would now exercise my right to a clothing optional house (since all the kids moved out) and continue this chore in my tighty whitey's with a coffee stain on the crotch (don't ask).
Egg salad, cucumber, chicken salad and smoked salmon sandwich plates, one after the other all wrapped with expert precision whilst donning my official 'no fans no clothes food film wrapping uniform'. Working naked (almost) to help out at the church.
Things were going swimmingly,..until I went to place food scraps in the kitchen's recycling fruit fly container. A cloud, a black cloud of Biblical proportions (appropriate) rose as if angry ,and now with no wind to to hinder their annoying-ness took full advantage of getting in my face. And I, naked and vulnerable to their annoying-ness started squishing them by clapping my hands together.
All five,..no four fans in the kitchen were hooked up to The Clapper. On then off, then on again and then off again my blurry bladed fans met my unrealistic commands. My wife with her back to the situation also let Sister Lofstrom  down in her verbal barrage of questions as to just what I was doing. Food film was flapping as waves of warm fast moving air tugged at its corners. Corners were lifted and removed as the on again off again onslaught continued. Fruit flys peppered mayonnaise laden finger sandwiches and stuck like a wet sneeze to a screen door. All is lost.     Well not really.
Treating each infected sandwich as if it were a birthday cake we blew out most of the mayo imprisoned little black flies. The rest looked like pepper we thought, (not able to locate our glasses at the time).
And so it was, five dozen tiny sandwiches all made their way to the church social wrapped in about 2000 ft. of food film. All fans were now permanently banned from food preparation areas in our house. The fruit fly box was moved away from the kitchen and dear Sister Lofstrom expressed some unbecoming words upon trying one of our egg salad finger sandwiches down at the church social.
First the kitchen, and now the church,...I'm running out of fans.

Bob Niles

Fwd: The Value of Information

                                          The Value of Information

The rain pelted across the old Volkswagen windshield as if it had been sprayed on by a garden hose. The tired wipers complained with a stuttered  uh-uh-uh as they tried to keep ahead of the horizontal liquid barrage of all things blurry through every window.
To say it was dark would be an understatement. Because this dark suffered from black ink that blew sideways trying to knock the little car off the dirt road. Headlights?...Bill remembered he had them before the rain started but was now unable to confirm their existence.
Bill and Tammy were taking,....well,..Buddy home. They didn't know the poor guys name. They were doing a Good Samaritan / Designated Driver thing. They had found him slumped between two cars in the parking lot at the pub they had visited after the hockey game.
Bill had tried to get him back on his feet, but as soon as he had righted him, Buddy folded himself back up like a city map. His folds and creases just didn't look right.
"We've got to take him home Bill." Tammy insisted while Bill was trying to stop the bleeding. Seems Buddy had kissed the side view mirror in his effort to regain his original horizontal format.
It was after two more attempts at verbally insisting and physically attempting to vertically right Buddy that Bill gave in. Buddy was getting pretty beat up by they car they kept trying to stand him beside. A bleeding lip, a bloody nose, and a serious looking scratch which made him look a little like Al Pachino in the movie Scarface.
He gave no name but seemed happy with the temporary title of Buddy. And in his extreme state of inebriation in public Bill could relate as to why he might want to keep his name in question.
"Can you tell us where you live Buddy? Do you know where your house is? Is there someone we can phone? Are you here alone? We'll drive you....."
"45,..3? No 454,..5 Spp pruucee Lane." He sprayed, as he interrupted Tammy. Each number four he pronounced had about fifteen 'Fs' in it and probably about as many 'Fs' again in the fives. At least he cut back on the 'Ps' Tammy thankfully noted.
The rain now started to accompany the already annoying wind as Bill folded Buddy into the back of his space challenger. That is to say his vintage Volkswagen was limited in seating area.
Tammy, now wishing she hadn't worn a short tight skirt,  crawled  in the back with Buddy, holding a now bloody compress against his nose. Bill started the car checked his gas and smiled at Tammy in in rear view mirror as they started into the night.
Bill checked his watch as he turned left on to Spruce Lane. Chinese dentist time he smiled remembering his grandpa had always called 2:30 Chinese dentist time.
Slowly he followed the address to 4541, 4543 and 4545, destination achieved. Bill stopped the car on the road and pulled up on the hand brake. Tammy woke up Buddy with a cheery, almost excited "We're here! We got you home Buddy. Let's get you out."
Bill leaned the drivers seat forward as Tammy poured more than pushed Buddy out of the back seat. Bill wrapped Buddy's right arm around his shoulder and with Tammy manning the left side they made their way through a gate, along a walk, up a ramp and to the front door. Tammy pressed the door bell which started a dog barking in the back of the house, and with each bark it seemed another light turned on. Both Bill and Tammy sensing their job was done, and Buddy was home safe to face the music,  turned to leave before the door could open. Buddy, seeming to admit defeat to a vertical lifestyle again folded himself back down to his city map style just as the door opened.
Both Tammy and,...? Mrs Buddy, let out a little scream which deadened the sound of Buddy's head connecting with the door. Buddy, now much more awake began using and slurring words his former Sunday School Teacher would not have approved of.
Buddy ran out into the front yard. Peed on three trees and back into the house. Apparently Buddy was the dogs name as well. "Good boy Buddy!" Mrs. Buddy said.
No introductions were made as Bill and Tammy were now wet and wind blown and wanted nothing more than to get in the car and head home. Mrs. Buddy stopped them with a heartfelt thank you and wished there were more people like them. She then asked if he had been beat up and robbed. Both looked at each other and feigned ignorance as to his condition and assured her that he probably hadn't been.
"Well thank you again for bringing him home." Mrs. Buddy yelled over the wind as she cradled his head. "He sometimes gets like this when,...? Ya have to love them right? For better our worse."
She stood up gave them both a hug as they turned to go.  Bill had just opened the gate for Tammy when Mrs. Buddy yelled through the weather "Do you happen to have his wheelchair?"

Bob Niles

Fwd: Who Were You Before Father's Day?

                                  Who Were You Before Father's Day?

My Dad never got the chance to say good bye to me. I had so many more questions about his life before he became 'Lame'. His brain cancer had mercifully taken him quickly with little pain. One day he was my not so old Dad and then the next day he was a guy that looked like my Dad but in a hospital bed. An unresponsive memory with just a blank stare.  He was that guy for just a few days, and then he left our lives forever.
It was five days before Christmas 1996. A day in history I'll never forget.
I know many of us share that day. The last day and memory we will ever have of a parent. No more new memories to build or old ones to discover. We now just have to rely on the old dusty ones backed up by black and white and poorly coloured out of focus photos in old photo albums. Awkward poses, frozen in time on Kodak Kodachrome film. The not so, but at times all too distant memories that leak from the corners of our eyes. We are the lucky ones who have had that Mom or Dad that will be greatly missed, because of who they were.
We were lucky enough to have a parent live long enough to see their grandkids. One that stuck it through all the teenage crap we could throw at them, and have them love us through it. We were the fortunate to have a parent that sacrificed what they wanted to do, to drive us to ball practice. Parents that cried with pride at our wining trophies. Moms and dads that treasured the ashtrays (and neither smoked) we made them at school for Mother's and Father's Day. For all the races won, 'B's on report cards, graduations, weddings and new births, all of life's big and small victories either a mom or dad were  there to celebrate with us.
They were that mom, and or, dad that gave up everything they wanted to do so that we might have a better life. And we would show our thanks by constantly referring  to them as 'Lame' and real 'Buzzkills'!
We for years (from age12-22 yrs. for many) were embarrassed by our slack jawed, khaki wearing, mini van driving source of paternal care givers. The very people who gave up their cute little sports car and motorcycle to buy that minivan, because it was safer and more practical  for my siblings and me. They, who moved from their warehouse loft in the city to the suburbs, so we could have a house with a yard. And who then fought traffic every day back to a now second choice job in the city.
We, by birth made them lame! Mom was going to fight big corporations! But got a less glamourous job, or quit work altogether so she could have more time with her kids. Dad gave up his cool job and had to stop wearing jeans and rock-n-roll tee shirts in exchange for his so uncool khakis in an unfulfilling job to feed and put a roof over, his all to many times, ungrateful kids.
The very couple that use to stay up late, talk over big issues and eat weird food in exotic restaurants. The two starry eyed lovers who went to art galleries and plays and walk the city till the wee hours in the morning. Your future source of embarrassment who went camping, toured Europe and made big plans. Your parents.
 But big plans were put on hold. You and your siblings changed your mom and dads lives. A change where they chose to become lame, and one that they were willing to make. But it was never suppose to become permanent. But dad died before he got a chance to write that novel, and mom, she never got to act on the stage.
Moms and dads choose to become lame for the sake of their family. They want to set rules by example and display good common sense so that they in the first 20 years of your life will set you up for the next 60.
And how do we thank them? Well, in our early years we mostly don't. We make them feel sad for the lives they lost, and take every opportunity to YELL them so. But, if lives persist and kids and parents don't kill each other we have a Mother's and Father's Day once a year on the calendar. It's a sad notion that they would be worthy of only one day of our gratitude. It's sad because we are now parents ourselves and now realize our lives are 'Lame'. We are now the 'Buzzkills' to our kids and now appreciate what a sacrifice it took to get here!
So this Sunday, Father's Day take a moment and high five, bump fists, shake hands, hug or just phone him up, let him know how cool he was to turn lame for you. It's not common in the animal world for the males to hang around after conception but you appreciate him for not killing you so that Mom would naturally want to replace you with your younger brother Dale. Maybe if you ask him he'll tell you about what life was like before he became lame. What the war in Korea was like. His Sit Ins, demonstrations and peace marches. His and your Moms cross country trip to Woodstock. Maybe he'll show you some cracks and wrinkles in his life that you'll both laugh at.
Find out who was the man, and what he changed and gave up to raise you. I think you'd be surprised of how lame he's not. But do it while he still can. You never know with old people. They have a habit of disappearing.

Bob Niles

Fwd: Save Water Shower With....

          Save Water, Shower With..........

'Save water shower with a friend' read the bumper sticker of every teenaged boy's custom, bedroom on wheels, van in the 1970s. It's not that we were short on water it was just a weak invite to help the environment  and fulfill some pubescent boys dream.
Today,.. here, and especially in other parts of North America it's almost a plea. We need to conserve water.
"Shower with a friend?" my wife repeated, wrinkling her forehead and nose like she smelled something bad at my request. "Have you looked in the mirror big boy? You come out of the little shower downstairs with an H and a C on your butt cheeks even when you're alone. We both get in there the water would just start filling up around our middles and we'd drown!"
And so it was with a harsh dose of reality I went outside and removed 'that' bumper sticker from the mini-vans bumper. Maybe now the principal at my grandkids elementary school will stop giving me the evil eye every time I pick them up.
But it's getting dry people! Not California dry, but,.....it's so dry

- Rivers are starting to squeak going around the bends.
- You can now fold your clothes right out of the washer.
- Baptists are now converting to Catholicism.
- Fishing is now done from lawn chairs with slingshots.
- North and South arm of the Fraser River run on alternate days.
- Dogs are marking their territory with chalk.
- The city has closed down two swimming lanes at every pool.
- Crooks are siphoning from radiators not gas tanks.
- Kids water parks are shut down and are now modern art exhibits.
- RCMP are looking into the Senates misuse of bottled water.
- Local government has announced a water pistol buy back scheme.

Bob Niles

Fwd: My Blue Box is Better Than Your Blue Box! Until...

                        My Blue Box is Better Than Your Blue Box!
                                                  Until...

Mom! The neighbour took my Blue Box! .....Mom?
She's not answering. And why should she, I'm a grown man. But last time I had this type of, he took my lunch (blue) box, problem I was in the schoolyard. I'd talk to the guy about it, but conversations in the past have proven fruitless. It's like we're talking two different languages. And we are. I asked friends what I should do and they just laugh at me. Nobody understands! They all think I'm nuts, which gives great pleasure to my wife and validity to her analysis as to my mental state of mind.
"Just steal his!" They say. Problem solved! I have his! I want mine! Mine's new, it's the only nice thing that I was proud of carrying to the curb. My garbage cans are,...well garbage! I've been trying to throw one of them away for the past eleven years! Do you know how hard it is to throw away a garbage can? My green bin (on permanent loan from the city) needs an oil change. Oh it has oil, but I'd like a change. It looks like a greasy, oily backyard smoothie is all stuck to the sides after every garbage day. And the smell! Not my proudest moment wheeling that baby to and from the curb. But my Blue Box was new!
I had gone to the city works yard to look for cool stuff to bring home when bright blue boxes caught my eye. 'I use to have one of those!' I joked to a guy in an orange safety vest, 'but I ran over it on the lawn several years ago'. He questioned my driving ability  and then told me to get a new Blue Box from the pile. And since he had a safety vest, and since I thought he worked there, and with some position, I took one. And, a new yellow plastic bag for paper as well.
Back home I show the wife my new Blue Box, yellow bag and the paint I picked up to paint the north side of the house. All for less than 30 bucks from the works yard I bragged. And here don't blow my good thing! She thinks that every time I go to the city works yard it costs money to drop off stuff and steal, I mean take stuff back home. It frees up a lot of weekends her thinking this, and gives me an extra allowance to spend on Monday Night Football at Boston Pizza (which she has been mislead to believe goes year round).
She give me the 'Aw Huh' in a dropping breathy tone that any married man takes for 'Good job Honey! I'm really proud of you! You get an extra pork chop tonight!'  And so it was that I, spurred on with her positive affirmation, and in my best handwriting, wrote my address on two sides of the Blue Box with a giant black Magic Marker. It is now MY Blue Box, branded forever, or until the black ink fades away.
'So how did it wind up next door?' you ask. Well, every week it's a race between my neighbour and myself to bring in each others curb side trash canister arrangements after pick up (because we're both 12yrs. old). And he cheats! Sometimes he's waiting outside for the trucks. I think it's only fair that shoes can't go on till the truck has the material on board, and then you can go outside. But he doesn't understand English rules, and I think takes great delight in beating me to the curb. It's only when the trucks catch him on the toilet or he's out of the country that I win. And it was at a time when he was away, out of the country, and my defenses down that he obtained my Blue Box.
His kid took it!
I go out for the Blue Boxes and ones gone. Mine! His old sorry, cracked, faded box is there upside down with my new yellow bag under it but mine is nowhere to be seen. It shows up next week next to his old sorry one that I now have. So now, I have to be the adult about this and handle it properly, says the wife.
Now to be fair his kid probably made an honest mistake, he was just helping out mom while dad was away. He didn't see my fine penmanship of my current address and just took the best looking box. Honest mistake, because everything next door looks better than anything I have this door. Oh maybe my driveway would look better if I swept it everyday like they do. Or if I had a gardener prune my possies periodically. Or if my house was 50 yrs. newer or if I had a complete driveway made up from just one material, my house and yard would equal his in beauty. But, it is what it is. Home crap home.
I'll just wait till both boxes are emptied next week and then do the old switch-aroo. But guess who came back from China? Speedy Gonzales! And he makes the same mistake as junior! 'Oh look my boy got me a new Blue Box!' he must of thought,.. but in a different language.
"Okay next week, I'll get it next week." I comfort myself. I mean it's just a Blue Box, I don't really own it. I didn't pay for it, but it was the one thing I had over him. I had the better Blue Box. Two more weeks pass and my Blue Box still resides one door down. I make light of it to the wife and pretend its just a silly Blue Box. But it's more. It's something with my address on it. Its my brand!
If and when I ever get my Blue Box back, in an adult fashion, I'll never take it to the curb again. I'll just make 39 trips to the curb from then on, knowing that in my house I have a better Blue Box than him.

Bob Niles
(grade 6 mentality and apparently holding)