I have a stack of magazines on the living room coffee table. Right where some people would keep their coffee table book about coffee tables. I don't keep the magazines there for reading material. They have already been read. I put them there about a month ago, and told Farmer H to burn them. No use clogging up our trash dumpster that the waste management people see fit to dump one or two weeks a month as they feel like it, the snow or rain in the forecast leading them to cancel at the drop of a pleated clear plastic rain hat in a little flat pouch.
Farmer H walks past those magazines several times a day. Yet they remain. So when he instructed The Pony to harvest the cardboard from around the Mansion so he could burn it, I again pointed out my magazines. "I can't burn them, Val. They won't burn."
Indeed. So sayeth the arsonist who burns a dead goat on a funeral pyre of sorts, and is partial to a phrase about rich people that goes: He has enough money to burn a wet mule. Yet magazines, made of paper, will not burn on his burn pile. Go figure. Maybe we should coat infant and toddler jammies with magazine pages, so very flame resistant are they. And when a fire breaks out in a restaurant kitchen, the grillmaster can shout, "Quick! Toss me a magazine so I can smother the flames!" Perhaps doctors' offices could donate their magazines so that helicopters can drop them on forest fires.
Yeah. That's how ridiculous Farmer H is about doing something he doesn't want to do. Of course the magazines won't burn if you drop the stack onto the fire. You have to set them up on end, or lean them over, with their pages ruffled.