David and the Dumpster of Death
“SON OF A…”
“MOTHER-$@*%&$!”
We had a dumpster delivered Monday morning. We’re down to the crunch before the move. What hasn’t been sold or donated by the moving date ends up in the steel depths of the most dangerous dumpster in Southern Ontario.
Before the dumpster was deposited on our driveway, we had snow. And then rain. And then more snow and more rain. At this point in the winter, our driveway is the Skating Rink from Purgatory. There’ve been a couple of nights when it’s taken me a good ten minutes to walk the 50 feet from the garage to the front of our house.
On his way to the garage, hands full of a box of used hazardous materials, David tried to skirt by the newly placed dumpster… in the dark. The dumpster is so wide that it leaves only 6-8 inches on either side of the driveway. These 6-8 inches slope up to our lawn and, what with the accumulated winter precipitation, are now sheer ice. Every step David took culminated in language that would make a dock worker blush, as his ankles repeatedly slammed against the steel of the dumpster.
Step.
“JESUS -*&$^#@ CHRIST!”
Step.
“C#&$-sucking RHINO!”
Step.
“You $*#^@!$# – #&*#@^! – #$@% – #&@^&! – #%!*&ING – #&*@^!*!!!! I hope that your @#%&! – #*&^!$ and your #&@^%!# ends up with a #@&$^#%!!”
He showed me his bruised ankles upon his return.
“So what you’re saying is that you injured yourself by walking with hazardous waste?”
“Yes.”
“Lives up to its name, don’t it?” Then I ran, because I wasn’t injured.
