The End of the Day
As the sun began to set on the gritty streets of Tinseltown, I decided that I
have adequately experienced the trashcan lifestyle. I began disassembling the
N.O.V.A.S.C.O.T.I.A., and when I finished, Galen made a startling discovery: we
were on the wrong star! It seems Galen and I set our experiment atop the TOM
Conway star, instead of the TIM Conway star, which resides at 6740 Hollywood
Boulevard. For the life of me, I have no idea who Tom Conway is. This setback
put a damper on the whole day.
We loaded the N.O.V.A.S.C.O.T.I.A. and the trash bags into the car, and then we
drove to the beach and dumped trash into the
ocean. We shook hands, then I sucker-punched Galen, and we parted company,
Galen back to the Inland Empire that he calls home and I to my computer, to
report on the day in a life of a trashcan.
Being a trashcan is monotonous and thankless and definitely not a job I would
want; luckily for me, my guidance counselor in high school didn't mention it as a
possible career choice. Then again, she didn't mention software tester either,
and I spent four years of my life in that profession.
I learned a little about human nature during my day. I learned that people would
rather talk to a human trashcan than use it. In fact, most people are downright
distrustful of human trashcans, which strikes me as odd, but then again, I guess
a human trashcan strikes others as odd. Diff'rent strokes for diff'rent folks,
eh, Mr. Drummond? Anyway, I also learned that people throw away recyclables like
bottles and cans without a second thought, and yet these same people don't throw
away their cigarette butts, which are trash in its purest form. Oh, and the most
important lesson of all: I need to learn the difference between Tim and Tom.
Viva the Trashcan!